Cold Waters (Normal, Alabama Book 1) Page 12

  Cora was as nice as she could be, same as her husband. But I couldn’t help the blush that heated my cheeks and neck—couldn’t stop the uncharitable thought Look how far the Hendersons have sunk. Our former cleaning woman, who used to scrub our house every week, was now my boss. It made me uncomfortable, like I had done something wrong. As if I were personally responsible for the collapse of the family name.

  “Everything’s fine,” I answered, keeping my attention on rolling the cart. “My back’s bothering me a little, but I’m sure I’ll eventually get used to it.”

  She gave a booming laugh. “At least you’re young enough that it’s not killing your feet. Walking on concrete all these years has done a number on mine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I stopped abruptly by the kitchen. “Going to turn this in. Excuse me.”

  She laid a warm hand on my shoulder. “Wait. We need to talk.”

  Startled, I searched her suddenly sober eyes, and my heart skittered out of control. A patient or one of their family members must have recognized my name. They were going to ask me to leave. I was an unsuitable employee. A liability. A potential public relations disaster if an irate client complained to the media that a suspected murderess roamed their halls.

  Of course, I’d only been a person of interest in the disappearance of a teenage girl years ago, but I knew what Mr. and Mrs. Dalfred and the Hattie Pilchards of this town thought of me.

  Guilty. Secretive. Dangerous.

  “Follow me,” Cora said, heading to a small room across from the nurses’ station.

  My hands began to shake, and I swallowed hard. I actually liked this job. I felt anonymous. The elderly patients didn’t much notice or give a fig about me. They were involved in their own daily—often painful—struggles just to survive. I was only an employee like any other who came and went during the long years as they lay mostly bedridden within this brick building with its institutional green walls and utilitarian linoleum flooring.

  Cora shut the door and stared at me intently. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you really want to keep this job?”

  “I do.” Time to eat humble pie. “I need the money.”

  “There are other jobs.”

  Was she asking me to quit? I swallowed hard. “Has someone complained about me?”

  “No. You work hard and mind your own business. There have been no complaints.”

  Relief washed over me until her next unexpected announcement.

  “I talked to Delaney yesterday.” Cora hesitated a heartbeat. “She’s concerned about you.”

  “She is? Why?” I’d had no idea the two had kept in contact.

  “Says you have nightmares and suffer from the depression.”

  Not again. “I don’t have that many nightmares,” I assured Cora. “And I’m not depressed.”

  “She also says that you’ve been forgetting things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Little things. Like where you’ve placed belongings and recollecting people’s names and such.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not true. I promise I’m fine. I’ll continue to do a good job.” I drew a deep breath and blinked back the hot, angry tears. Now was no time to collapse into a weepy mess. It would only serve to make Delaney’s claims more believable. And it certainly was no time for pride. “I really do need the money, Cora. Please.”

  She patted my hand. “Okay, honey. But if this work becomes too much for you, I hope you’ll tell me. Your health’s more important than any minimum wage job.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Cora opened the door and left. Alone, I mulled over what she’d revealed. Maybe there was a kernel of truth in my sister’s claims. I had been misplacing stuff—keys, purse, books. But I’d been half-convinced it was because of Delaney’s need to put away whatever was lying about in her obsessive zeal to control everything in her environment.

  But maybe the explanation was darker and deeper. Was I losing it again? Was my mind slowly spiraling into a downward slide, unable to cope with the stress of the outside world?

  Black pinpricks swarmed my vision, and a roaring filled my ears. I gripped a shelf lined with cleaning supplies to keep from falling. Get it together and get out.

  Whispering Oaks, with its institutional smells and contained suffering, wasn’t an ideal working environment. It was too much like that awful state place where I’d lived, a lovely brick building that resembled an antebellum home on the outside. But on the inside, we’d shuffled about like zombies, lining up in the pill line in the morning for our antianxiety meds and again at night for more tranquilizers. Days had become weeks, then months, then years . . . all lost in a monotonous, numbing existence that was only one notch above the pain and fear that lay outside the walls. If it hadn’t been for Luanne and Seth, I would never have made it out of Cottonwood.

  No! I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—go back there and return to an anesthetized subsistence. I’d worked too hard for this chance at freedom—for the right to walk out in the sunshine whenever the mood hit me, to sit with my crows, to make my own food and eat whenever I fancied, to decide how late to stay up at night or sleep in the morning. Whatever happened, my place was in the real world now, and that meant earning a paycheck.

  Drawing my shoulders back, I headed to the lobby to collect my purse.

  Sheila’s Pizza Den was noisy and packed, but it did have the smell of pepperoni and sausage going for it. I searched the crowd for Libby and spotted her in a corner booth, already drinking a beer. She waved at me, and I made my way over, slipping into the booth with its cracked red vinyl seats and a scarred wooden table. Nothing had changed at Sheila’s in my time away. I took a small comfort in that knowledge.

  “You’re late,” Libby said by way of greeting. “I went ahead and ordered a large pizza with all the toppings. That okay?”

  “I’ll eat anything but anchovies.” I pictured Emmeline Upchurch’s dinner tray with its disgusting glob of lime Jell-O. Poor lady. But I’d suffered those institutional meals for years myself, and these days I was determined to enjoy real food.

  “Want a beer?” She signaled to a server.

  I’d never even had a sip of beer. I opened my mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. Why not live a little?

  A tall, slim teenage girl with a blonde ponytail stepped up to the table. “Whatcha need?”

  Libby nodded her head my way. “A beer for my friend.”

  “I’ll need to see your driver’s license,” the girl said.

  “No problem.” I dug out my wallet and opened it. The cellophane slot where my license normally appeared was empty. I frowned and checked the other wallet compartments. What the hell had happened to it? Frantically, I searched the rest of my purse on the off chance it had fallen out.

  “Problem?” Libby asked.

  “I can’t find my license.” Cora’s words swept through me in a panic. Was Delaney right about me? Or was my sister trying to mess with my mind?

  “No alcohol, then,” the server said. “Want something else to drink?”

  “Diet Coke.”

  I threw my purse on the seat beside me. Elbows on table, I rested my head in my hands.

  “It’ll turn up,” Libby said. “Don’t get upset. Happens to me all the time.”

  “Easy for you to say.” I placed my hands in my lap and leaned back in the seat. “I seem to be misplacing everything lately. Or so Delaney says.”

  “So what? Not like you’re used to having to carry around ID and keep up with so much.”

  “True.” Everything had been taken care of for me for years.

  “Even if you can’t find it when you get home, you can get another made at the DMV.”

  Libby made everything seem so simple. No wonder I liked her.

  She drummed her fingers on the wooden table, and her brow creased.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Libby took another sip of beer before answering. “I’d d
ebated bringing this up, but I ran into Delaney yesterday at the drugstore, and we had a chat.”

  “That’s strange.” Delaney didn’t approve of my friend. What could she possibly want to talk with her about? Unless . . .

  “Yep. Bizarre, even. Your sister claims that she’s concerned about you. That you’re under a lot of stress.”

  I groaned, wondering how many people Delaney had contacted with the same song and dance. “She called my boss and said the same. Did she tell you I’ve been depressed, having nightmares, and misplacing stuff?”

  “That pretty much summed up our conversation. I told her to go screw herself.”

  “Bet the word is all over Normal that I’m a nutcase—though they probably all thought that anyway.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t think so. If anyone’s crazy, it’s Delaney. Have you seen that mysterious fiancé of hers yet?”

  “Nope. She says Sawyer’s busy preparing for a big trial in Birmingham next month.”

  “Uh-huh. You even seen a photo of this”—she raised both hands and finger quoted—“Sawyer Harris?”

  “Not yet. But Delaney said they’ll be taking engagement shots soon, and then I can see how handsome he is.”

  “You ever talk to him directly?”

  “He’s called her a few times when I’ve been home, though I haven’t spoken to him.” Delaney had always left the room after his call, a dreamy smile on her face. I’d never questioned that, naturally assuming that she’d want to speak to him in private.

  “Riiiight,” Libby drawled with a smirk.

  With an effort, I put aside embarrassment about my family and Delaney’s lies. This was one of Libby’s rare weekends without Calvin. His father had picked him up after her day shift had ended. She could let loose for a few days, and I wasn’t going to be a downer. “Thanks for inviting me for pizza. Let’s forget about my sister for tonight.”

  “Good idea. How’s the job going?”

  “I like it. Thanks again for providing me a reference.”

  Libby waved off the thanks. “You really like it? Not exactly glamorous or high paying.”

  “Okay. Let’s say I like getting paid, then.”

  The server set my soda on the table, and I raised my glass to Libby’s. “Here’s to earning a paycheck and to relaxing weekends.”

  She laughed and gulped more beer.

  Someone passed close by our booth, and I idly turned to the side. A table full of couples my age stared at us. One of the guys gave me a goofy grin and then placed a hand by the side of his head, twirling his index finger in a circle—the universal sign for crazy.

  All of them erupted in laughter.

  I swung my head back to Libby, and she squinted at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just some jerks. Forget it.”

  “Hell no.” She slammed her glass down and glared at the bullies.

  I kept my eyes lowered and didn’t watch their reactions to her anger, but the guffaws reduced to a few snickers, then stopped. The server slid our pizza on the table.

  “Don’t let those idiots spoil a perfectly good pizza,” Libby said.

  We dug in, and I let the pepperoni goodness do its job in lifting my mood. Halfway through, I remembered one reason why I hadn’t canceled dinner tonight when I’d wanted to. I wiped my hands on a napkin and pulled out my cell phone.

  “Not trying to ruin a good time here, but I need your help with something. Figured with your nursing background, I’d get your medical opinion.” I pulled up my photo gallery and then frowned.

  Dad’s prescription-bottle photos were gone. Every single one.

  Could I have accidentally erased them? I was no tech whiz, but it seemed like if I’d touched a wrong button, it would have deleted all my photos. But my crow pictures remained. There was Tux with his little patch of white, and there were a couple of other pictures I’d shot of crows perched on my balcony railing, waiting for their daily peanut treat. Unease prickled down my spine. Had Delaney managed to guess my password and tamper with my phone? It was the only logical explanation.

  “What’s wrong?” Libby asked.

  I threw my cell phone back in my purse and helped myself to another slice of pizza. I’d take more photos later.

  “Nothing. I’ll ask you about it another time. Was Calvin excited about seeing his dad?”

  As I expected, Libby’s face lit at the mention of her son, and she plunged into a long story about all the cute things Calvin had said about the upcoming visit. It struck me that Libby never mentioned the father’s name or why the two had broken up, but we all had our secrets. I only half listened to my friend, anyway, consumed with the implication of the missing photos.

  Was Delaney overmedicating Dad so that he was easier to control and take care of?

  I couldn’t decide if she was a concerned daughter and caretaker for Dad, or something else entirely.

  Chapter 19

  BOONE

  Present day

  “What we got happening today, boss?”

  Josh Adams strolled to my desk, rubbing his hands together, and I suppressed a sigh. Had I ever been that enthusiastic and green? These days, I welcomed slow periods on the job, using the downtime to file and take care of admin tasks that I’d put off while focused on a case.

  I lifted a stack of papers in my inbox. “Go through these and either file what needs to be kept or toss out what’s already been handled.”

  He snickered as if I were trying to pull a fast one on him. “You’re kidding me, right? I mean, come on, we’re living in the digital age. Who keeps paper?”

  “Old shit-for-brains like me, evidently.”

  I didn’t trust a computer to safekeep important documents or anything I might need to reference in the future. Setting the pile back in my inbox, I mulled how to get Josh off my back. I could offer to let him streamline the admin work, but he’d just annoy me later, pestering me to learn some new process or a new computer operation, and I sure as hell didn’t want that. I’d gotten along perfectly fine in the twenty-plus pre-Josh years of my employment.

  Brilliance struck. The light from my bright idea practically illuminated the gloomy room with its gray walls and small windows covered with grimy old miniblinds. “Fine. You want real detective work; I’ve got it.” I spun around in my chair and opened the tall filing cabinet behind me.

  “If we went paperless, we could get rid of old behemoths like that cabinet,” Josh offered helpfully. “Open up this space more. A new coat of paint on the walls wouldn’t hurt either. Something a little more cheerful. Know what I mean? I’ve been thinking—”

  “Always dangerous.” I grabbed the entire row of hanging files that lined a drawer and plopped them on my desk. “Here you go. Cold case files dating back ten years. Impress me with your newly acquired detective skills.”

  “Glad to.”

  But instead of picking up the files and heading to his own desk, Josh skimmed the tab headings.

  “Looking for something in particular?” I asked curiously.

  “The Dalfred disappearance.”

  The casual mention of that name punched me in the gut. “Dalfred?” I repeated stupidly.

  “Yeah. The one you told me about a few weeks ago when we bumped into that hot chick on Main Street. She was the last person to see the missing teenager alive, right?”

  “As far as we know.” The lie felt heavy even as it slipped off my tongue.

  “Here it is.” Josh pulled the file from the rest of the stack and headed back to his desk, which sat only eight feet away from mine.

  I cleared my workspace and methodically worked my way through the first couple of memos cluttering the inbox, but my pleasure in the routine task of organizing was shot. Some brilliant idea that had turned out to be. Carelessly handing over the Dalfred file was going to bite me in the ass; I just knew it. I found myself sneaking glances at Josh, who had spread out everything in the file on his desk. I might give him grief about his newbie status, but the young man
was sharp. Would he find some incongruence in the photos and statements?

  Stop it. He might be clever, but I’d had years of experience in covering my ass before Ainsley Dalfred had gone missing. Abruptly, I rose and walked to the break room—more a closet than a room, if truth be told. A cup of coffee would be a welcome diversion. I stepped into the room and halted, blinking at the counter where my trusted old coffee machine had once squatted. In its stead was some modern red contraption.

  “How do you like the new Keurig?”

  I practically winced at the sound of Josh right behind me. “The what?”

  “Keurig. It makes individual cups of coffee. Here, I’ll show you.” He pushed his way in front of me and pointed to a stack of tiny containers. “You’ve got a choice: french roasted, decaf, flavored coffees, and even tea. What’s your preference?”

  “For God’s sake, I just wanted black coffee,” I grumbled, returning to my desk. I stared down at an old report, but the printed words didn’t register. Again, I recalled Violet’s wary expression as she’d regarded me on the street. To her, I was nothing but a stranger, one bound up with old, bad memories.

  The familiar what ifs plagued me. Could I have prevented this tragedy if I’d run off with Hyacinth years ago? What if Hyacinth had never called me when she couldn’t find Violet in the woods that night? What if she’d found Violet earlier and had merely ushered her daughter to bed without involving me?

  Nothing had ended well for any of us. Hy was long gone, and Violet had suffered to the point that she might always live a haunted life. As for me, life had lost all its zest and flavor when I’d said goodbye to Hyacinth.

  She may never have believed it after I’d reacted so badly to the news of her pregnancy, but I did love her. Always would. Even though our affair had only lasted less than two years, and despite everything that had happened.

  The scent of vanilla and coffee invaded my rambling mind. A brewed cup steamed beside my elbow. “Here you go, old man. Give it a try.”

  I picked up the mug and sniffed. “What is this fancy-shmancy crap?”

  “French vanilla and cream.”

  I took a cautious sip, and creamy sweetness enveloped my mouth. This might have been the best coffee I’d ever tasted, not that I’d tell Josh.