Not One of Us

  PRAISE FOR DEBBIE HERBERT

  COLD WATERS

  “A compelling story filled with evocative description, deeply drawn characters, and heart-pounding drama.”

  —Elle James, New York Times bestselling author

  “Herbert’s haunting language, gothic tone, and vivid portrayal of small-town southern life add layers to this intriguing suspense. I was hooked from the first word!”

  —Rita Herron, USA Today bestselling author

  “Herbert delivers a fast-paced mystery where nothing is quite what it seems. Family secrets and a cold-case murder are at the heart of her compelling novel, where the author masterfully paints the canvas of a sedate southern town with intriguing characters and a crafty plot. Readers won’t soon forget the chilling thrill of Cold Waters.”

  —Laura Spinella, bestselling author of the Ghost Gifts novels

  “Small towns hide the darkest secrets, and Normal, Alabama, is anything but in this southern gothic thriller that will keep you turning the pages until the very last. A twisted southern gothic family drama that will stay with you long after you’ve closed the book. A stunning, deftly written journey through the dark corridors of the human heart.”

  —Sara Lunsford, author of Tooth and Nail

  “Cold Waters is an unforgettable suspense story steeped in decaying old houses, dark family secrets, and rumors in a small southern town.”

  —Leslie Tentler, author of the Chasing Evil trilogy

  OTHER TITLES BY DEBBIE HERBERT

  Scorched Grounds

  Cold Waters

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Debbie Herbert

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542024921

  ISBN-10: 1542024927

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  As always, to my husband, Tim, who relentlessly believes in me and supports my dreams.

  His encouragement through the years has kept me going in times when I’ve been stuck or dispirited. Thank you.

  And to my father, J. W. Gainey, who is my biggest cheerleader and sings my praises to anyone who crosses his path for more than a few minutes. Many thanks.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 JORI TRAHERN

  Chapter 2 JORI

  Chapter 3 DEPUTY OFFICER TEGAN BLACKWELL

  Chapter 4 JORI

  Chapter 5 JORI

  Chapter 6 JORI

  Chapter 7 TEGAN

  Chapter 8 JORI

  Chapter 9 TEGAN

  Chapter 10 TEGAN

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12 JORI

  Chapter 13 TEGAN

  Chapter 14 JORI

  Chapter 15 TEGAN

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17 JORI

  Chapter 18 TEGAN

  Chapter 19 JORI

  Chapter 20 JORI

  Chapter 21 TEGAN

  Chapter 22 JORI

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24 TEGAN

  Chapter 25 JORI

  Chapter 26 TEGAN

  Chapter 27 JORI

  Chapter 28 TEGAN

  Chapter 29 JORI

  Chapter 30 TEGAN

  Chapter 31 JORI

  Chapter 32 BUDDY MUNFORD

  Chapter 33 JORI

  Chapter 34 TEGAN

  Chapter 35 JORI

  Chapter 36 TEGAN

  Chapter 37 JORI

  Chapter 38 DEACON CORMIER

  Chapter 39 TEGAN

  Chapter 40 JORI

  Chapter 41 JORI

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  JORI TRAHERN

  May 2006

  Moon glowed through pine and cypress, the tree branches forming gnarled, twisted shapes that cast daggers of black in the silvered darkness. The litany of a million insects triggered a Disney-esque Fantasia light show in my mind.

  My particular form of synesthesia, colored hearing, had its perks. Muted hues of green, blue, and yellow burst onto a black canvas. Mosquito buzzes morphed to pointed-star formations. An occasional long spherical column formed as a frog croaked its guttural song.

  But that night, the delight in my mental smorgasbord of sound and color was interrupted by annoyance. And hurt. Deacon Cormier, my boyfriend of eighteen months, had stood me up, and I was determined to discover why.

  Friday nights were our standing date night at Broussard’s Pavilion, along with many other of our senior classmates from Erie County High School. We both enjoyed the lively zydeco band with its fast tempo featuring an accordion, scrub board, and guitar. All my shyness and reserve melted away when Deacon would pull me onto the wooden deck and we danced. Actually, to say we danced is being generous. More like we stomped around with little grace but lots of enthusiasm.

  I trudged on across the boggy bayou ground, making no effort to hide the noise of my boots breaking twigs and cones beneath my feet. I slapped at the limbs and vines that diligently, maliciously snaked over the cleared trail no matter how often Deacon’s dad hired locals to keep it trimmed back.

  These woods had a wild determination that no man could tame. But not being from around here, Louis Cormier didn’t understand this land or its personality. South Alabama natives like me knew we were the trespassers and the swamp reigned supreme over us mere mortals—not the other way around.

  “Damn it,” I cursed as a wisteria vine scratched against the side of my face and neck. I didn’t bother keeping my voice low. Why should I? All that was on my mind that evening was talking to Deacon.

  At last, lights from the Cormier house appeared, sparkling like a beckoning fairyland promising magic. The large log, rock, and glass structure glowed as though it contained a fallen star within.

  Someone was home that evening.

  Even after dating Deacon all this time, I was still awed by his house. Our parents’ homes might be less than a quarter mile apart, but the white-columned grandness of his house was a stark contrast to our modest old place, so small that Mama and I had to share a bedroom. As a prominent attorney, Mr. Cormier commanded and received a high salary for his services.

  I walked up the wooden stairway of the wide front porch. Once I was halfway up the steps, a wave of unease prickled the nape of my neck. Despite the glow of lights flowing through uncurtained windows, the house was too quiet. No sound of a television or voices, or even pots rattling in the kitchen or footsteps from within. Why leave all the lights blazing if they’d gone out?

  I could practically hear my grandmother’s tsk in my ear. “Such wastefulness,” Mimi would declare. At our home, every light was immediately turned off once a room wasn’t in use. The less we owed on utilities, the more we could spend on luxuries like store-bought clothes.

  I peeked in the living room window, taking in the stack of schoolbooks Deacon had carelessly tossed on an end table. A pillow had dropped to the floor beside the sofa. I glanced to my right, spotting a few dirty glasses and plates strewn on the kitchen island. The slight messiness contrasted with the pristine neatness of the home’s interior, signaling that its occupants were confident there would always be someone else to clear the chao
s.

  That someone happened to be my grandmother. She wasn’t their daily housekeeper, but she came every Friday for the deep-cleaning tasks Clotille Cormier wanted to keep the home sparkling and suited for their many visitors. Their guests seemed impressed with the views of Magnolia Bay, yet whenever they roamed Bayou Enigma, the visitors nervously checked the ground beneath them for gators, snakes, and other unsavory creatures. While they appreciated the primitive beauty of our land, I imagined they were secretly relieved when they returned to Mobile or Montgomery or wherever else they flocked from.

  “Wouldn’t want their designer shoes to slosh through mud,” Mimi would utter about the out-of-town guests. I found her rancorous remarks odd, considering that Uncle Buddy, her brother, was so wealthy. The sporting lodge and private fishing expeditions company he’d opened thirty years ago had prospered beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. Louis Cormier did well as an attorney, but he was not in Uncle Buddy’s league—a fact I had pointed out to Mimi.

  I shook off my meandering thoughts and rapped sharply at the door. Deacon should have been at my house over an hour ago. If he had a good explanation for why he’d ghosted me, we could leave then and still have a couple of hours to dance before I had to hustle home to meet my curfew.

  “Go without him,” Mimi had urged. “Fancy people and their rudeness,” she’d harrumphed under her breath. “Everything’s all about them. Ain’t got no consideration for others.”

  Unfazed, I’d let her comment roll off me. Deacon wasn’t fancy or stuck up, and I liked his parents, too, even if everyone else couldn’t stand them. Louis Cormier was universally despised for supposedly paying low wages to his household and yard crew and for his flamboyant lifestyle. Clotille Cormier was seen as glib and “artsy.”

  Not one of us, the folks in Bayou Enigma whispered through tight-pinched scowls.

  There was no answer to my knock. No rush of footsteps from within or a familiar voice calling out, “I’m coming.”

  My skin tightened with another prickle of unease.

  I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the den. No one roamed inside. It was one of the few weekends they had no planned guests arriving. Mimi had only worked a couple of hours that morning before being dismissed. Naturally, she’d grumbled about the reduced hours, which meant even less money.

  Had all three of the Cormiers decided to travel to their Mobile home for some reason? Perhaps Deacon’s dad had unexpected urgent business in the city and had asked his son and wife to go with him. That had happened on a few occasions since I’d met them.

  But why leave all the lights on?

  Maybe they hadn’t heard my knock. I strode back to the door and rang the doorbell. Its chime echoed forlornly inside. Pressing my nose to the pane of glass by the entrance, I craned my neck from side to side to see if anyone might be in the hallway or kitchen.

  “Hey,” I called out, knocking sharply at the door again. “It’s Jori. Anybody home?”

  No answer.

  Gingerly, I tested the lock, and the knob twisted all the way around with a click. I pushed the heavy door open, and it creaked as loudly as thunder. I stuck my head inside. “Anyone here?” I called out again.

  I pushed my shoulders through the opening, drew a deep breath, and then took a tentative step inside. They knew me; they liked me. It’d be okay.

  The delicious aroma of roasted chicken wafted toward me—they were home, then, or they had been recently. Underlying the scent of dinner was a very faint trace of some kind of disinfectant cleanser. I kept calling out “Hello?” and “Anybody home?” as I stepped cautiously from the foyer to the den.

  Two half-full glasses of iced tea sat on the coffee table, one of them rimmed with Mrs. Cormier’s ruby lip gloss. Nerves on edge, I entered the kitchen and found the table set for three. Bright cherry-red plates on gold chargers, glasses of melted ice, a bowl of salad greens already wilting. A casserole dish of potatoes sat on the granite counter, and I gingerly touched the baking dish. It was cold. I opened the oven and found a slightly overdone roasted chicken; the oven setting had been lowered to “warm.” I turned it completely off, not wanting their dinner to go to ruin. They must have had an emergency call and left the house quickly, expecting to return shortly.

  My annoyance morphed to concern. Had something happened to Deacon’s dad? Had he and his mom rushed to the hospital in Mobile, where he’d been injured or taken ill? But why wasn’t Deacon answering his phone? Had he forgotten to bring it along?

  When would they return? I couldn’t help it—I pictured my prom dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door. A beautiful peach tea-length dress that had cost me an entire week of the wages I’d earned as a cashier at Winn-Dixie. Were we still on for the prom tomorrow night?

  I pulled out my cheap flip phone and called his number. Like before, it went straight to voice mail. His battery must be dead, I decided. I texted him again.

  At ur house. Where are u? Turned off oven. Call me.

  I strode across the polished walnut floors to the bay windows facing the back of the property and driveway. Mrs. Cormier’s Grand Prix was there, as well as Deacon’s black Mustang. A chill slid down my spine. They weren’t here in the house—or were they?

  I punched down the dread churning my gut and slowly walked to the staircase, again calling out and again receiving no answer. The quiet felt ominous, choking and weighing me down. The stairs creaked as I slowly climbed. At the top of the stairs, I checked Deacon’s room—undisturbed. His bed was neatly made, and nothing appeared out of place. I headed out, then paused and slowly turned back around. Something wasn’t quite right. I scanned the room, stopping when I caught sight of his desk. Deacon’s laptop was gone. Had he taken it with him?

  I left his room and then passed by the guest rooms before briefly glancing at the open door of the master bedroom. Nothing out of place there either. I relaxed slightly. What had I been expecting? Bloody corpses? I’d been watching too many true-crime shows. I clomped back down the stairs, rechecking my silent cell phone.

  They had to have gone in Mr. Cormier’s car, then. Maybe after he’d returned home, he’d gotten a call that someone else in their family had fallen ill, and they’d all left in a hurry. Deacon hadn’t notified me because his battery was low. He was horrible at remembering to keep it charged.

  Yes, that had to be the case. By the time the dance was over, Deacon would call and explain what had happened. No big deal.

  And yet . . . it was weird. Creepy. Everything left out on the table like that. Wouldn’t Mrs. Cormier have taken five minutes to put up the food before leaving?

  I’d do my good deed for the day and put up the chicken and casserole. It took a few tries, but I found the plastic wrap and covered the salad and potatoes and stashed them in the fridge. That done, I scanned the kitchen. Was there anything more I could do?

  I strolled back to the den and glanced around. No clues there. I had started to turn when a small flash of something shiny on a coffee table caught my eye. Something I hadn’t noticed earlier. I edged over for a closer look.

  A small cellophane package lay discarded by a stack of magazines. Gingerly, I picked it up, gasping as I recognized what it was. As I peeled back the cellophane, it made a crinkling sound that caused pink notes shaped like stars to dance in my mind. A single peach rose bloomed amid white carnations. Sprigs of baby’s breath poked underneath and around an apricot-colored ribbon. I caressed the rose’s smooth petals before lifting it to my nose and inhaling deeply. The scent momentarily soothed me.

  Deacon had bought me a wrist corsage for the prom. A silly grin split my face for an instant before worry caught up to my spinning thoughts. What was the corsage doing on the table? They should have stored it in the refrigerator to keep it fresh for prom night. My gaze swept the room more thoroughly, searching for anything out of place or different. All was spotless, including the floors. Except . . . a few tiny clusters of white pilled under the sofa. I couldn’t explain what dre
w me, but I got on my hands and knees by the sofa and peered closer.

  A sprig of white baby’s breath dotted with bright-red flecks.

  How did it get there? What were those flecks? I reached out my hand and touched a dot of red with one fingertip. It felt wet, sticky. I drew my hand back and stared at the drop of blood smeared on my finger. Had he accidentally pricked himself with the corsage pin and dropped the bouquet?

  Where the hell was Deacon?

  Chapter 2

  JORI

  Thirteen Years Later

  “There he is,” Dana said, jabbing her elbow into my side. We were jammed into a booth at Broussard’s Pavilion, where the crowd grew more boisterous by the minute. Maybe coming tonight had been a good idea, a welcome change from the stress of returning home last week. The whole place buzzed with cozy conviviality—a shelter from the gathering storm that at the moment was only a whisper of wind rattling the pines and cypress.

  I practically shouted into her ear. “There who is?” I asked.

  She nodded toward a booth on the opposite side of the bar. “Ray Strickland.”

  Through the slight fog of my two bloody marys, I realized the name was familiar, but I couldn’t quite grasp its significance, other than a vague unsettling. It registered that he wasn’t a good person, although the specific details associated with the name remained fuzzy. My forehead drew together from a vodka-befuddled haze, and my friend elaborated.

  “Raymond Strickland,” she said again, enunciating each syllable as though speaking to a daft child. Her voice formed green arrows that fizzed harmlessly against a black backdrop. “You know, the guy who murdered your cousin.”

  Click. There was a blast from the past. Hadn’t heard his name mentioned in ages. “They let him out of prison?”

  “In February.” She shot me an incredulous look. “Your family didn’t tell you?”

  “We never speak of him or the murder. Ancient history.”

  Dana’s eyes held the tiniest trace of reproach. She quickly sipped her beer, trying to cover it up, but we’d been friends since kindergarten, and she could hide nothing from me. Even though we’d drifted apart a bit since I’d left the bayou years ago, we always got together when I visited to catch up.