Not Quite Clear Page 6

  “No one’s judging you for having a life before we met. Phoebe’s freaking hot, but she’s also a stone-cold bitch, so I can see why you would hook up with her but not date her.” I shrug. “We’ve all had those mornings.”

  “You’re a very interesting woman, Gracie Anne.” He winks.

  I stand in the bathroom door and glare. “You’d better watch yourself. Maybe you’re not as cute as you think you are.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I slam the bathroom door, giving away the fact that he is, in fact, that adorable. The warm shower water sluices over me, trying to do its best trick—wash away the worries of the world—but failing.

  Beau joins me halfway through, rubbing a loofah full of scented bubbles across my back before resting his chin on my shoulder. “Is Amelia ready for the deposition today?”

  My muscles go tight at the question. We’re due at the Draytons’ firm for the inquisition at nine this morning. Mr. Freedman agreed to watch the front of the library until noon, which is quite the concession. It not only means he has to be there on time this morning but he might have to speak to actual people. He’s doing it because he loves Amelia, and everyone knows what hell she’s been through. To lose baby Jack, too… It wouldn’t be fair.

  It’s not only the past six months of my own troubles that have taught me life isn’t fair. Studying history and archives, tracing the heartbreaking lives of my ghosts, there’s not a single thing that would lead me to believe life owes us anything. Least of all fairness.

  I spin in his arms, taking the loofah and working it over his chest and shoulders. “She’s as ready as she’ll ever be, I guess. I don’t suppose you’ve got any hints as far as what he’s going to ask?”

  “No. We haven’t discussed the case at all, for obvious reasons. I’ve only seen him at Mother’s during dreaded tea.” Beau steps around me and into the water, rinsing off. It’s impossible not to stare, not to gloat a little that I get to touch him whenever I want. “If it were me on the opposite side of that courtroom, I’d go after her mental competence. Phoebe knows that will definitely be a focus.”

  “Don’t you find it ironic that Brick’s going to use someone else’s mental health against them as a weapon after everything he’s been through?”

  “I guarantee he doesn’t like it, no matter how he comes off. But being a lawyer isn’t that fun sometimes, Gracie Anne. You have to compartmentalize your emotions away from what needs to be done. The law is the law. The right thing to do is often something else entirely. It’s one of the reasons I had no interest in practicing. Still don’t.”

  “Because you have a soul,” I tease, then feel badly. The last ghostly case I solved seemed to suggest that even Brick Drayton could have a soul, and a tortured one at that. “I’m sorry. I know your brother has had a tough time.”

  Beau kisses my nose, then gives me the water. “He has. But that does not excuse the way he treats the woman I love.”

  He steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel off the rack. I stay under the spray a few more minutes, letting the conditioner work and my heart enjoy these moments of pure happiness. Who knows how many more we have left?

  Everything about the Draytons’ law office makes me uncomfortable. They likely designed it that way, at least the conference rooms, since that’s where they meet with the majority of their non-clients.

  This particular room is a study in grays. The table, the carpet, the chairs, the paint—all gray. No windows, no A/V equipment. Just two attorneys, four clients, a bunch of file folders, and a digital voice recorder in the center of the table.

  We’ve been here the better part of an hour but the questions go on and on and on. Amelia spent several of those minutes detailing exactly why she believed the Middletons would not be good guardians for her child. Her cold, monotone recounting of the abuse she suffered at the hands of their son did nothing to move either of her in-laws, who looked as though they were barely paying attention.

  They did appear to be wondering, as was I, why their attorney would give my cousin so much time and leeway to share her side of the story.

  When last we spoke, Brick had insinuated that he knew his clients were terrible people who didn’t deserve their own child, never mind anyone else’s, but the idea that he might be going out on any kind of a limb in order to help us felt absurd. Like Beau said, being a defense attorney meant doing the right thing for your clients no matter what, and Brick was, by all accounts, a very good attorney.

  Phoebe hadn’t even had much reason to speak, never mind object, but this deposition was for Amelia, not the Middletons. Theirs would be later.

  “Would you please detail for us the mental health services you’ve been utilizing since the death of your husband?” Brick lobs the question like a softball, one he’s sorry to be pitching.

  I frown.

  Amelia nods, folding her hands primly on the table. Pride swells in my chest. She’s so strong, so much better now that the nightmares have stopped and she can rest. How much better would it get—will it get—once Mama Lottie helps us get rid of the curse for good?

  “What the devil are you talking about, mental health services?” Mr. Middleton hisses, his ruddy cheeks filled with burst capillaries that scream alcoholic. “Ask her if she’s seeing a goddamned third-class shrink!”

  That makes my cousin bristle, her posture changing as she sits forward. Phoebe puts out a hand and rests it on Amelia’s arm, squeezing lightly, and it does the trick. Like they’ve been communicating in silence for years.

  Maybe I should be more worried about the gorgeous lawyer stealing Millie than Beau.

  “And what sort of medications he’s got her on to unscramble her murderous, fucked-up head,” Mrs. Middleton mutters, so quiet it’s possible I didn’t really hear it.

  I wish I didn’t hear it. No one can be that stupid. Or maybe drunk.

  I peer at her more closely. Her pupils are dilated, and I note an impressive lack of focus on any object or person. It could be drugs and not alcohol, but girlfriend is on something.

  This deposition is filling up my mental list of things to check on, none of which include asking Melanie to dig into their financial records illegally.

  The expression on Brick’s face, one of barely restrained rage, tickles me with glee—and suspicion. He rearranges it quickly, and maybe a person who didn’t know him might not have caught it. Too bad for him that pretty much everyone in the room is acquainted.

  “Thank you. I’ve got this.” He looks back toward my cousin, who has composed herself again. “Please answer the question, Ms. Cooper.”

  “I was seeing a licensed psychologist two days a week.”

  “You have his contact information,” Phoebe interrupts. “The contents of their sessions are covered by doctor-patient confidentiality, of course.”

  “I’m sorry, you’re no longer seeing him?” Brick clarifies.

  “No. He and I both agreed that I have things under control.”

  Brick makes a note while Mr. Middleton glowers across the table and his wife stares at the wall like there’s a Warhol hanging there.

  Brick asks a few more questions trying to get Millie to reveal exactly what she was being treated for, flinching during a half-hearted attempt to get her to admit if he’d prescribed any drugs. Mr. Middleton appears to be ready to explode by the time we’re done, though it’s hard to say why.

  Amelia had to admit, on tape, that she’d been caught sleepwalking. That she’d been hospitalized during her pregnancy three times, twice because of circumstances that were suspicious. One visit resulted in a pysch hold. She’d been to therapy. She’d committed manslaughter, resulting in the death of the plaintiffs’ son.

  Despite the fact that this deposition has gone awful for my cousin, I can’t deny the sneaking, uncomfortable feeling that Brick has pulled punches. I glance at Mr. Middleton, who stares daggers at his lawyer, and actually worry for Brick’s safety.

  If his clients’ reactions are any indica
tion, my instinct is right.

  We don’t get a chance to find out any more as the session ends in a flurry of activity. The Middletons stomp out, making not-so-subtle angry promises to be in touch with Brick later in the day. Amelia asks where the restroom is and leaves through the heavy wooden doors as Brick packs up folders and turns off his recording device.

  Phoebe pulls me aside in the hallway, her French-manicured nails snagging my sleeve. “You see what I mean, right? That went as well as we could have expected, given the circumstances, and there’s enough reasonable doubt to choke a horse.”

  “That really doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Graciela, I know about your…extracurricular interests. We’ve got to get something. Anything I can use to fight back.” She lets go of me, folding her arms over her chest. “I’m in this thing all the way, and I do not like to lose.”

  “Noted.”

  She nods, giving me another of those appraising, head-to-toe looks before striding back toward the lobby and out of this godforsaken building. There’s nothing I want more than to follow suit, but my cousin is nowhere to be seen.

  The thick carpets mute the sound of my footsteps as I follow the directions Brick gave her to the restrooms, but when I turn the corner, I see him talking to Amelia by the water cooler. Their voices are quiet but they carry, and I slink back to try to overhear.

  “I’ve been where you are, Amelia, that’s all I’m saying. People in our delicate sort of situations still need someone to talk to, we just need to be discreet.” He pulls something out of his pocket, a business card maybe, and slips it into her handbag. “Don’t ignore your gut. Your life is worth more than a court case, and you can’t fight for your baby if you’re not whole. Or alive. Trust me.”

  Amelia stares at him for a long moment, as though trying to decide what to say. Finally, she nods and reaches out to squeeze his hands. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, Brick, but thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’m not a good person, but I do know what it’s like to have nowhere to turn when you need help.”

  He brushes past her, headed toward his office, and my cousin takes a deep breath, pulling the card out of her purse and studying it as though it might save her life. Then she tucks it away, smooths her hair, and heads toward me.

  She doesn’t mention the conversation. I don’t tell her I witnessed it. The whole way home, I wonder what this means, what he’s up to, and why the entire, terrible day has left me with a strange, hesitant sense of relief.

  Chapter Seven

  My cousin seems buoyed by her brief conversation with Brick by the water cooler even if she doesn’t want to discuss how the rest of the deposition went. The library has been empty for most of the afternoon, but she’s been avoiding me, dragging a ladder and the feather duster around to the topmost shelves.

  I find her in the back of a nonfiction section full of reference materials that probably haven’t been touched since the library opened back in the eighteen hundreds.

  “You’re going to great lengths to avoid discussing the deposition this morning,” I observe, squinting up into the sun until the swirling dust knocks loose a sneeze.

  “There’s nothing to discuss. It sucked. I’m a crazy, murderous, unfit mother.” She doesn’t sound upset, only matter-of-fact. “We knew that. Phoebe said we’d need more.”

  “Do you have any ideas on how we’re supposed to find out what?”

  The arm holding the feather duster pauses, then resumes. She doesn’t look down at me. “I don’t know, Grace. Maybe my parents would pay to hire a private detective.”

  That’s a possibility I hadn’t considered. They probably would spring for it, but there’s no guarantee the PI would be any good, or that they wouldn’t get busted and then Brick and the Middletons would use that against her, too.

  Then again, there’s no guarantee I won’t get busted, but my track record, combined with the fact that I’m not a hired professional, might give poor Millie plausible deniability. Everyone in town knows she wishes that I would cool it with the ghosts and the sleuthing.

  The dinging sound that announces visitors coming through the front door interrupts this scintillating conversation, and I sigh, trudging back up front to earn my paycheck—however measly.

  The sight of William Gayle, first-love extraordinaire, in police blues stops me in my tracks for a couple of reasons. First, he looks dead handsome, triggering a million memories and latent physical reactions and habits that have been relegated to the back of my mind but have not disappeared. Second, his appearance is unexpected and, therefore, makes me wary.

  “Gracie.” He’s holding his hat in front of his chest, having taken it off at the door like the Southern gentleman he is, but I prefer the Will who could be talked into breaking the rules.

  But that was before grown-up lives with grown-up consequences like losing jobs and struggling to feed his kid had invaded our carefree lives.

  “Will.” A smile stretches my lips nonetheless. I miss him. We haven’t seen each other nearly enough these past few weeks. “You look mighty fine in that uniform.”

  His ears turn bright red. “Mel says the same thing, but I say you’re both biased. Or possibly going blind.”

  “Whatever.” The thing is, his humility is genuine. Like Heron Creek, Will often seems like a relic from another time. “Whatcha doing here, Officer?”

  “I came to talk to you, actually.” He glances around, hesitating. “We alone?”

  “Millie’s in the back dusting shelves. Other than that, yes.”

  He nods, coming closer to the front desk. “Is there somewhere we can talk that has a door?”

  “Sure.” I lead him to the archives, locking the door behind us. We’re greeted by the smell of cracked glue and Pledge, the scent of a thousand family histories murmuring from between pressed pages.

  My body can’t decide whether to be more curious or more concerned, resulting in a knotted stomach and a quickened heartbeat—two things not unheard of around Will, but this is different than sixteen-year-old hormones on fire.

  “Well?” I look him in the eye, letting him know I’m ready.

  Will sits at the large, square wooden table in the center of the room, elbows propping up his chin. He’s relaxed. His countenance calms me enough to sit across from him, definitely more curious now. With a side of impatience.

  “I’ve been thinking about your…predicament as far as the Middletons.” He raises his eyebrows, maybe waiting for me to complain about Mel spilling the details of our lunch conversation the other day, but he gets nothing. Married people have their own rules. “Thank you for telling Mel not to get involved. She’s passionate, and loyal, and I know you love that about her as much as I do, but the truth is that we need her job.”

  “I know. I would never ask her to do something illegal. You guys have done enough.”

  “There’s no enough when it comes to family.” He smiles, but it’s distracted. “I also heard that you turned the department onto Clete as a potential suspect in the breakins.”

  “I didn’t have much of a choice. I had to give Travis something, and the truth is, we could all use a little leverage over Clete instead of the other way around. He’s out to get Travis.”

  “I know. He’s been looking for an in for months.” Will taps a finger on the table, glancing out the window for a beat. “I expect it won’t take him long to come knocking on my door.”

  “I figured. What are you going to do?”

  “Haven’t decided. Guess it depends on what he wants, but if we can figure out how to get him arrested cleanly before then, so much the better. But that’s not exactly why I’m here.”

  “I figured. You always were a fan of taking the long way.”

  Will gives me a wry smile. “And you always were one to get right to the point. Well, here it is: I know for a fact that the moonshiners have contacts all over the state, in all kinds of offices—including government ones in Charleston. I think you shou
ld ask Clete for help getting your proof that the Middletons are scum who don’t deserve Jack. Or any kid.”

  I stare at him for a moment, my mouth hanging open, then shake my head. “Ask Clete? The guy we were just talking about putting in jail so he can stop bothering us?”

  “Yes. Think about it, Gracie. He’s a criminal and he’s a pain in the ass, but he can get things done. Right now, he’s exactly the kind of guy we need on our team. If you can get him to help, then we get someone else to do the dirty work.”

  “Right, but he’s going to expect something in return. You can’t get something for nothing, and Clete, in particular, likes to collect.” I think for a second. “He’s going to want my help getting rid of Travis. Or at the very least, getting him some dirt of his own.”

  “Travis isn’t one of us, Gracie,” Will utters softly, as though he regrets having to say the words aloud but not the sentiment behind them. It’s like Mel said on the street the other day—we’re family.

  I like Travis, most of the time. He’s been good to Amelia, and he’s been patient with me when maybe some other cops wouldn’t have been, but he’s not one of us. If we have to throw him under the bus—not all the way, maybe just far enough to trap him—then Will’s suggesting that’s a sacrifice we should be willing to make. And maybe he’s right.

  “He’s your boss, Will. If Mel’s job is so important, then so is yours.”

  “It is. I think I’m going to be good at it, too, and maybe even like reporting to work every day. Won’t that be a novel thing?”

  He does look happy. Kind of like that uniform has been waiting for him to shrug into it all this time. If Will, Master of Following the Rules, thinks this is the best thing to try, then we have to at least consider it. There might be a way to get Clete what he wants, which is control over Travis, I think, without rocking the boat too hard in Heron Creek.

  If it gets Amelia solid proof that her in-laws are assholes, it will be worth it. We’ll have to figure out what that means for the investigation into the breakins once the dust settles.

  “I have to say, I forgot how rewarding loving your job can be until I got the chance to publish in a journal.”