Cold Waters (Normal, Alabama Book 1) Page 10

  There is no sound, which should be a comfort. But the air seems to compress around me. I want to shrink into the hot night, dissolve into a thousand tiny black particles that would render me invisible.

  No one walks out of the woods. “We’re safe,” I whisper.

  But I don’t believe it.

  Chapter 14

  VIOLET

  Present day

  A staccato machine-gun percussion exploded between my ears, and a blinding whiteness seared me like an angelic beam.

  Or an annihilating nuclear blast.

  Hard to tell with dreams. And it was just a dream. The veins in my temples pounded hard, as if they wanted to splinter through my flesh. I massaged them, hoping to ease the pain enough so I could return to sleep. But it was no use. Disoriented, I stretched, and my feet hit against the arm of the couch. Moonlight beamed through the den’s windowpanes. Remembrance flooded—the awful news at the bank, Delaney’s anger, and my shame.

  I was unsure which was worse—the day’s reality or the evening’s nightmares. It had been one dream after another, and they’d all been about Ainsley. Thirst and an overwhelming need to down a couple of aspirins drove me to my feet, and I walked to the kitchen. Was the rest of the household asleep? I poured tap water into a glass, shook out a couple of pills, and shuffled into the dining room as I downed the medicine.

  Something shifted in the shadows outside the window, and I squinted, trying to make out what moved in the night.

  Dad was bent over at the waist, digging with the shovel. I set my glass on the table and hurried out the back door. His obsession was unhealthy, and I was shocked at how deep it ran.

  “Dad! What are you doing?” I cried as my feet flew along the dew-covered grass. I drew up next to him, panting. Newly planted roses and tomatoes lay uprooted in Delaney’s neatly lined garden, and I gasped at the damage. “Oh, Dad. Delaney’s going to be epically pissed.”

  He looked up at me, his wrinkled face and midnight-blue eyes as lucid as I’d seen since returning home.

  “Maybe this is a payback. She’s always mad about something and yelling at me. Might as well do what I want.”

  Unexpected laughter tumbled out my throat. “I can’t argue with that.”

  He continued with his work, and I watched, unwilling to interrupt. As long as he seemed in his right mind—well, as sane as you could be digging up a garden in the moonlight—I wanted to take advantage of it.

  “What are you trying to find?” Delaney and I assumed it was alcohol, but maybe it was something altogether different.

  “Confederate money.”

  Blow me over with a feather. “What makes you think there’s any buried in our backyard?”

  “Old Henderson family legend.”

  I stifled the bubble of laughter that threatened to spill from my chest. Every old southern family claimed there was buried treasure hidden in their property, but it seemed highly unlikely to me. I felt compelled to reason with him while he was in this coherent state.

  “Any old paper money or stocks that were buried will be worthless or rotten,” I warned. “Doubt you’d get much cash for them, even as a historical artifact.”

  “Ain’t looking for paper. My great-granddaddy claimed there were gold bars and valuable coins. Had to hide them from the damn Yankees.”

  “Even if that were true, I’m sure it’s long gone by now,” I said gently. “There might be a few scattered coins, but you can’t dig up every inch of this land, you know.”

  He mumbled something incoherent, and I feared I might be losing my one shot at a real conversation. “You do know who I am, right?” I asked quickly.

  He stopped and stared at me again. “You’re Violet. My baby girl.”

  My heart pinched, and an unaccustomed tenderness for my father overwhelmed me. “I’m going to get a job, Dad. Soon as I can, I’ll buy you a metal detector.”

  “I’m tired.” He ran a dirty hand through his gray hair, and his lips trembled.

  I took his shovel and placed my hand by his elbow. “Time for you to get some rest. Let’s go inside.”

  Slowly, we picked our way through the yard. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement by an upstairs window. The lace curtain in Delaney’s room rippled softly, as though recently brushed back by an invisible hand.

  Dad laughed, for no apparent reason. And I wondered—who was the crazy one here? Perhaps we both were. I glanced up at the dark window of my sister’s bedroom. And if that were the case, I’d have to diagnose Delaney as suffering a similar condition.

  From afar, I sensed that she watched us, as silent and hidden as the stealthiest of crows. The night air had helped clear my fuzzy head, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she had put a little something extra in my drink. I’d been on psychotropic medications way too long not to notice that today’s sudden sleepiness and strange dreams had a chemical root.

  But why would Delaney do that?

  I puzzled over the question as I ushered Dad inside, turned on the lights, and guided him toward his small bedroom. It seemed that the discussion of money had shaken Delaney. Had she somehow guessed that I’d been to the bank before I confronted her? And had she decided to drug me to try and keep me from asking where my money had gone? But if we were broke, there was nothing she need fear any longer—she’d already admitted the painful truth.

  Unless . . . she was lying again.

  “Wash your hands and go to bed,” I urged Dad.

  He turned, hand on the bedroom doorknob, and regarded me with sharp, flashing eyes. “Don’t drink the tea again. Ever.”

  I blinked, and he was gone, softly shutting the door behind him. Fireworks sizzled my mind, little seizures of ahas. I flipped off the light switch and started up the stairs, only to gasp and halt abruptly.

  Delaney stood above me near the top of the staircase. The night-light in the hallway illuminated her silhouette, clad in a pink satin nightgown, and backlit her long blonde hair like a halo. But the expression in her narrowed eyes and the hard set of her jaw were far from angelic.

  My hand flew to my neck, and I gave a weak laugh. “Delaney, you scared me.”

  “What were you and Dad talking about? Why did he dig up my roses?” Her voice slashed at me like a knife, triggering childhood memories, the bad kind. It was the same spiteful voice that used to taunt me the moment my parents had left the room and we were alone.

  Mom and Dad hate you.

  You’re ugly. Stupid.

  You’re not one of us.

  We wish you were dead.

  Slaps and pinches would ensue, followed by threats of more dire punishment if I tattled. Dad always believed his little princess. I think Mom knew—she rarely left us alone together.

  But I was no longer a child. I shrugged and answered her question. “We weren’t talking about anything in particular. I happened to see him outside, brought him in, and told him to wash up and go to bed.”

  I took a deep breath, summoning bravado, and continued up the stairs. Delaney didn’t budge from her spot, blocking me from continuing. “Move,” I ordered, using the same cold, flat tone she used with me.

  She arched a brow. “Say please.”

  “I don’t have time for your games. Get out of my way.”

  She stepped to the side and broadly swept an arm upward, a queen bestowing permission. “Go.”

  I made my way around her, breathing in the scent of lilies. God, how I hated that smell. My legs practically melted with relief as I passed her, and I grabbed the railing for support. The immediate danger had passed.

  “Do you remember what really happened that night?” she asked softly.

  The whispered words hurt like a gut punch, but I instinctively knew better than to show weakness. Slowly, I turned and faced her. “No.”

  “Well, I remember. Everything. I heard you sneak out of the house to meet Ainsley. I knew y’all were up to no good.”

  She’s just guessing. Flinging implications and lies to see what stuck.
I kept my face impassive. “You don’t know shit.”

  Delaney gave a tinkling laugh that doused my skin like ice water. “And you were angry with Ainsley that night, weren’t you?”

  I ground my teeth together to stifle my shock. “What’s your point?” I snapped.

  “And I remember afterward. When Mom and that detective brought you home, all wild eyed and dirty, claiming you were lost and had no memory of what happened.”

  “I didn’t remember. And still don’t.”

  Delaney hiked up one step and leaned into me, her face inches from my own. “Dissociative fugue, my ass. Of course you remember. Later, after everyone else had fallen asleep, I climbed into bed with you, and you told me what really happened to Ainsley.”

  My lungs squeezed tight, and I couldn’t breathe. Lying. She had to be lying.

  My sister’s mouth twisted into a mocking smile. “Remember now?”

  I shook my head. No.

  “It’s okay, little sis.” She gently ran the tips of her fingernails down my arm, which still clutched the railing like a lifeline, and I shivered. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  I backed away from Delaney as though she were a rattlesnake coiled to bite. “No. I never told you anything because I don’t know what happened to Ainsley. You’re lying.”

  “Am I?”

  The question hung in the air. I didn’t have the means to answer it, and Delaney was well aware of my predicament. That night was a void, and at times like this, I preferred to keep it that way. What was done couldn’t be undone. Ainsley was forever gone.

  Chapter 15

  VIOLET

  March 2009

  Cottonwood Specialized Care Facility, a.k.a. State of Alabama Institution for the Mentally Ill, a.k.a. the Nuthouse

  I hated it here. Hated every friggin’ detail of this place. The ugly concrete walls and institutional green paint, the metal cots spaced so close together I could reach out an arm on either side and touch the thin mattresses of my cellmates. Yes, I said cellmate. Patient is a euphemism.

  And don’t even get me going about the food here, or the monotonous daily schedule of working the laundry room, watching a small noncable TV in the cafeteria/rec center, and attending the occasional group therapy sessions.

  The quarterly team psychiatric meeting I’d just attended had been chaired by an old bald man in a rumpled suit and a bored female who had taken notes and avoided eye contact. I’d glanced at the nameplate on his desk—DR. LESLIE CARRINGTON—as he’d read over my paperwork from Pine Ridge Treatment Clinic, the private center that my dad, apparently, could no longer afford. Mom would never have agreed to this transfer if she were alive.

  “You’ll find Cottonwood quite different from your previous digs,” the doctor had commented with a thin smile.

  Digs? I pegged him as an aged hippie. Had he once sported long, flowing hair and tie-dyed T-shirts? He’d prescribed more sedatives to help with this “transitional phase” as I adjusted to my new existence. I wasn’t ungrateful for that mercy. He’d quickly dismissed me, and as I’d headed out the door, I’d overheard him remark to the woman whose name and function I was never informed about, “Dissociative fugue? Sounds more like selective amnesia, if you ask my opinion.”

  They’d both snickered.

  Bastards.

  I walked the long hallway back to Dorm E West Wing, taking my sweet time. It was fairly deserted and quiet in the large dorm rooms. Most everyone was busy with their “corrective care work therapy.” In my case, that meant four hours a day in the sweltering heat of the laundry room. I figured I could waste another twenty minutes before the laundry supervisor sounded an alarm to round me up.

  At the last room on the right, I entered my dorm and paused, surprised to find two women hovering by my bed. One of them reached into my nightstand and pulled out an object, holding it up to the fluorescent overhead light.

  The broken Christmas ornament glimmered, an ovoid length of pink-and-white glass etched in a snowflake pattern, clinging to a metal filament and bulb. One of my sacred crow gifts.

  Anger scalded my veins, and I ran at them. “Put it back!”

  Startled, the woman dropped the ornament, and it splintered on the concrete floor in a tinny splat. I stared at the ruined shards, my temples pounding.

  “It was broken anyway,” the thief’s companion said with a shrug. “What’s the big deal?”

  I grabbed the collar of her shirt. “It was mine. Mine! Don’t you ever go near my stuff again. Got it?”

  Her eyes widened, and her gaze shifted past my shoulders. Too late, I heard the footsteps from behind.

  “Let go of her shirt,” a deep voice boomed.

  I did, but my nails raked into her exposed collarbone as I stepped back, breathing hard.

  “What’s going on here?”

  I recognized the voice—a Cottonwood employee, Luanne Smithers, watcher of loonies.

  I bent down, picking up the ornament base and tiny slivers of pink glass. Blood oozed from my fingertips, and the sharp slices of pain interrupted my rage. I surreptitiously swiped at the tears running down my face. I wouldn’t give those women the satisfaction of seeing they’d gotten to me.

  “She’s gone off about nothin’,” one of them said. “Crazy lady.”

  “Look a-here. She scratched me.”

  “That’s what you get for taking somethin’ that don’t belong to you,” Luanne said. “Now both of you git back to work afore I call a counselor to write up an incident report.”

  Tweedledee and Tweedledum left without another word.

  “Here ya go, honey.” A tissue was tucked into my hand. “Leave that mess alone. I’ll sweep it up.”

  I arose on shaky feet and sank onto my bed, staring numbly at my bloody fingers. “They had no right to go through my things.”

  “’Course not.”

  Luanne sat beside me, and the cot creaked under her considerable girth. I’d seen her around. She was some sort of assistant counselor. Which meant that she was an omniscient presence in this wing, overseeing patients and keeping the peace.

  “Was that somethin’ special they broke?”

  “Yes. It’s from a collection.” I didn’t elaborate on the details.

  “There’s more in your nightstand?”

  I nodded. By the time I got out of here, every last piece would be stolen or broken. None of the crow gifts were worth anything, but they’d be pilfered out of pure meanness—because they meant something to me, and now those women knew it.

  “Let me take a look.”

  I opened a drawer, and Luanne took a quick peek. I expected her to laugh at the menagerie of worthless trinkets, but she didn’t.

  “Put them in a bag and follow me. I’ll stow them in safekeeping for ya.”

  I blinked at the unexpected kindness. “You will?”

  “You bet. Come to my office, and I’ll clean those cuts, too, while we’re at it.”

  What do you know? One of the lowest-paid employees here seemed more concerned about me than that stupid doctor. Quickly, I wrapped my collection in a spare pillowcase, also throwing in sprigs of dried magnolia leaves and blossoms that retained a trace of the sweet scent that always reminded me of my mother. Seemed every time I went into the hospital yard, they appeared nearby. Maybe it was crazy—maybe I was crazy—but it felt like Mom was still with me, watching over me from afar.

  I followed Luanne to her office in the common area. Inside the spare, minimally furnished room, she locked up my goods in a metal cabinet and then withdrew a cotton pad soaked in alcohol. Like a child, I laid my hands on her desk, palms up, as she gently swiped away the blood.

  “When you get angry, honey, take three deep breaths and think. Don’t do nothin’ stupid. In a few years you’ll either be released, or you can transfer to a halfway house.”

  I blinked, wondering what all she knew about me. “What makes you say that?”

  Luanne bandaged my cut fingertips. “I read the case files. Helps to kno
w everything about the girls under my care.”

  Her care. My eyes watered again, but not from anger. I cleared my throat. “So you read about . . . why I’m here.”

  “Uh-huh.” She returned the bandage box to the first aid kit and placed the kit in a desk drawer.

  My entire body tightened, bracing for the inevitable snide remark over my convenient memory loss. Folks back home were plenty upset I’d been “let off the hook” in a legal arrangement my attorney had arranged with the DA. Once I turned twenty-one, I was free to walk out the door, providing the psych doctor signed off that I was normal.

  “Those girls give you any more trouble, you come to me, and I’ll take care of it.”

  “You will?” My eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Because no one deserves to be mistreated.” Luanne rose from her seat. “Anytime you want to check on yer stuff, let me know, and I’ll unlock the cabinet.”

  “Thanks. Really, thank you.”

  A gentle smile tugged the corners of her thick lips, and she patted my arm. “Everything’s going to be all right, darlin’. Just hang in there. I’ll help you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I jumped to my feet. “Guess I better get back to the laundry room.”

  Luanne glanced at her watch. “No need. Your shift ends in thirty minutes anyway. Just chill, and I’ll cover for you.”

  Hope unfurled in my chest, a tiny seedling grasping for light. Thirty minutes to myself before group therapy. I’d go out for a walk in the yard and enjoy the sunshine. With a lighter heart, I left the office.

  A guy walked out of Dr. Leslie Carrington’s office, a scowl distorting his features. There was no employee name badge clipped to his T-shirt. He was one of us, but I’d known that the moment I’d laid eyes on him. Something about the disheveled hair and slump in his shoulders.

  Normally, I kept to myself, but today—bolstered by Luanne’s unexpected kindness—I spoke.

  “I saw the doc today too. Man’s a real downer, isn’t he?”

  The scowl melted from his face, and he grinned. His features were well defined and strong, his green eyes bright and lit with amusement.