Month: September 2023

It was the first night I’d spent away from Lillian since the end of November. That night, she’d come to Kyla’s, scared of Ray after learning he had a powerful motive to kill the two of us.

It was also the first night I’d stayed alone at Lillian’s cabin on Cox Gap Road. There were two reasons I had awakened this Sunday morning at her house, in her tiny bedroom, on her squeaky king-size mattress. The first was Lillian’s decision to go to Gatlinburg, and the second was yesterday’s frustration at Kyla’s nosy intrusion into mine and Lillian’s business.

I activated my iPhone. It was 6:00 AM. I eased out of bed and peeked through the window blinds. The sky was gray, but at least it wasn’t raining. I slipped into the jeans and sweatshirt I’d worn yesterday. After a pit stop at the bathroom, I walked to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and succumbed to the temptation to go back to bed. At the last moment, I changed my mind and took Lillian’s advice. Before she and Stella had left for Gatlinburg, my dearest had declared, “if you want to stop missing me so much you should go to my house and grab Grisham’s latest novel, A Time for Mercy. It will keep you mesmerized and intrigued. It’s lying on my desk, next to the bookcase lined with every novel he’s ever written.”

I needed something to occupy my mind. I walked inside the spare bedroom she’d converted to an office and instantly saw the book where she said it would be. Instead of grabbing it and heading to the pier as I’d intended, I sat in her over-sized chair and turned to Chapter 1. The scene was intense, ending with sixteen-year-old Drew shooting his wife-beating stepfather. Interesting as it was, I wasn’t in the mood. I sat the book aside and pondered calling Lillian. It was nearly 7:30 in Gatlinburg. Surely, she was up, or at least awake. Finally, I dialed, needing desperately to hear her voice. But her phone went straight to voicemail. I continued to sit, gazed left to right at the clutter, and recalled she’d said her mind was more organized than her scribbled meanderings.

After Friday’s groundbreaking ceremony, Jane and Stella had asked Lillian to join them on their annual trip to the Smoky Mountains. They somehow persuaded Lillian she needed a respite from her stressful life. The planned departure time was early yesterday morning, but a bug Jane blamed on Taylor’s Tacos had delayed the trio. Why Lillian had agreed to go without Jane and with Stella had everything to do with her crime reporter brother. “Baby, you know I’d rather stay here with you, but this might be our best chance to learn what Nick knows.” Lillian had said this to me in a whisper before she and the ICU nurse departed in Lillian’s Aviator.

As to the second reason I was alone at the small but rustically appealing cabin just off Cox Gap Road, my dear sister had spent every opportunity yesterday advising me to marry Lillian as soon as her divorce was final. Kyla’s chief argument was that an honest beauty like Lillian didn’t come along every day, especially one with a half-billion dollars. By twilight, with the goats fed and my impatience firing, I’d packed a bag and headed to Lillian’s vacant oasis.

I made a round-trip to the kitchen to top-off my coffee. When I returned, my iPhone vibrated. It was a text from Lillian: “Glad I came. Stella is opening up. Nick says another search warrant is in the works for Ray’s properties, including his office. Will call later tonight, hopefully with the smoking gun! Oh, BTW, Jane wasn’t sick at all. What’s up with that?”

It was refreshing to hear the news about the search warrant. Maybe Ray wasn’t Teflon Man after all. Lillian’s last statement confirmed I was on the right track. Jane was playing both sides to the middle, as the old saying goes. I activated my iPhone, and the Spytech APP. Jane’s Equinox was sitting in her driveway. It hadn’t moved since late Friday afternoon after the ground-breaking ceremony. I wondered what made Lillian conclude Jane hadn’t been sick. I’d be sure and ask her tonight when we talked.

Hearing Lillian’s voice, although written, made me miss her that much more. I wish I had gone with her and Stella. I stood and started stacking the scattered papers on her desk, hoping this would somehow bring me closer to the one who had transformed my heart.

After sorting the household bills and bank statements, I stacked two dozen letter-size sheets, all containing Lillian’s scribblings. I noted each was a half-page quote from one of Grisham’s books. Lillian had simply rewritten his words. I guessed she liked the language and hoped that someday she could return to college and learn to write as well.

To the right of her closed laptop was a wooden stacker containing four shelves. Lillian’s custom stationery and envelopes filled the bottom two. The next-to-the-top contained several monthly statements for an account at Wells Fargo Bank. The balance on the most recent one was $158,768.43, a small sum for a woman who was about to receive half-a-billion dollars. The top shelf contained two legal documents: a deed and Lillian’s Last Will and Testament, both prepared by Micaden Tanner. I couldn’t resist reading, although I should have. If Lillian had wanted me to know the details, she would have told me.

It was a simple Will with me named as executor and primary beneficiary. Kyla was the second in line for both positions. This was shocking. For two reasons. What had compelled Lillian to prepare a new Will, now? Why hadn’t she waited until the court issued the divorce decree? Or after we moved to New Haven and married?

The deed was also a surprise. On the same day she’d signed her new Will, Ray conveyed to Lillian the house I was sitting in, including the surrounding ten acres. I pondered the date of both documents, January 6th. That was two days after Lillian and Micaden had traveled to Huntsville for the quasi-mediation session with Ray and his attorney. Apparently, Micaden had used his experience and skills to persuade Ray it was in his best interest to show good faith even before Lillian’s deadline for accepting or rejecting his offer. Shrewd indeed.

I slid the legal documents back inside the stacker’s top shelf and walked to the kitchen. My iPhone rang while I poured a bowl of cereal. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello.”

“Lee, this is Randy, Randy Kern, your brother-in-law.” I knew his voice.

“I know who you are. How are you? What’s going on?” I tried to remember the last time I’d spoken to Rachel’s brother. I recalled how disappointed Rob had seemed when he and I, and Rosa, had breakfast at Bella’s last November.

“Mother wanted me to call and ask you to come see her.” I felt guilty. It had been over a month since I’d paid her a visit, although I had called once a week. And I still needed to return her book, The Cost of Discipleship.

“Okay, I’ll go this morning.”

“She’s on the third floor, Room 323.” Third floor? There wasn’t even a second floor at Bridgewood Gardens, much less a third. Plus, I remembered the numbers 188 on the sign at the top left of her door.

“Uh?”

“She’s in the hospital, Marshall Medical Center South. They admitted her Friday night. Celia and I arrived this morning, maybe an hour ago.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Double pneumonia. A nurse just started her on the last antibiotic available. If this doesn’t beat the infection, well, you know.”

“Oh boy. Your dad and now your mom. I can’t believe this is happening.” While Randy and I talked, I returned to the bedroom and remembered I didn’t have any decent clothes. I’d have to swing by Kyla’s before heading to the hospital.

“That’s life. The good thing is they both lived a long and happy life. Well, mostly.” I felt Randy was meaning more than his words were conveying. I figured he was referring to Rachel and her suicide. Either way, he seemed a little too nonchalant.

“Will I see you there?”

“No, if you’re coming right on. Mother wants to talk to you alone, so Celia and I will eat breakfast and hang out at The Shack. I’ve wanted to try it since Dad’s funeral.”

“Okay, I should be there in thirty or forty minutes. Take care.”

I thought the call ended, but Randy semi-yelled, “Lee, you there?”

“Yeah.”

“I almost forgot. Mom wants you to bring the book. She said you’d know which one.”

***

It was 9:00 AM when I walked inside Room 323. What I saw shocked me. Rosa was lying on her back with an oxygen mask across her face. Her gray hair was all disheveled, something I’d never seen. Her face was gaunt and almost as pale as the closed curtains on the far wall. I walked to her bedside and stood staring. She was asleep and labored to breathe.

As I retreated to a nearby chair, Rosa pulled off her mask and announced, “I’m glad you came.” Her eyes were sunken and dark. Foreboding was my first impression.

I stood and held her right hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier.”

“Raise my bed.” She untangled our hands and fumbled for the controller.

“Here, let me do that.”

“Thanks.” Rosa smiled and her eyes froze on Bonhoeffer’s book I’d laid on the mobile food counter at the foot of her bed. “I see you finally returned my book.”

She nodded when I situated the bed like she wanted. “All I can say is I’m sorry. I don’t have a good excuse.”

“You’re not the only one who is sorry, but mine is for good reason.” Rosa motioned toward the book. “Hand it here. Please. And hand me my glasses.” She nodded her head towards the table beside her bed.

I did as instructed. She used her stiff and twisted fingers to put on her glasses. She struggled to turn the pages. “You want me to find something for you?” I figured she was looking for a favorite passage or two.

“That would help.” She handed me the book. “Turn to Chapter 11, the last page.” I took the book and turned to the Table of Contents. Chapter 11, “Truthfulness,” Chapter 12 was “Revenge.” I turned to the latter and backwards one page to 155.

“Okay, I have it.” She or Rachel had highlighted several lines. There were also two notes in the margins.

Before I could read them, Rosa said, “read the highlighted sentences. Out loud. Just the first one to start.”

It was in the third paragraph from the end, “‘Complete truthfulness is only possible where sin has been uncovered and forgiven by Jesus.’”

“Stop there. Lee, I wasn’t exactly truthful with you when you visited me a month ago.” Rosa glanced at me but didn’t continue. Instead, she looked down at her folded hands, then closed her eyes. “My sin, and Rob’s, goes back half-a-century. We’ve been living a lie, and now Rob’s dead. And my time is fast approaching.”

Rosa’s breathing looked difficult. She needed to lie back and relax. “Mom, you don’t have to do this. Let me help you put your oxygen mask back on.” I reached for it, but she softly slapped my hand.

“Please, this may be my last chance at complete truthfulness. Now listen and do what I say.”

“Okay, I will.” I concluded Rosa needed to get something off her chest, something more painful than the lack of oxygen.

“Let me have it.” She reached both hands upwards for the book. When I let go, it fell in her lap, but she quickly saved the place. “‘There is no truth towards Jesus without truth towards man.’” Rosa took two deep breaths and continued. “Here, Rob and I failed. We should have gone to the police and told the truth. All I can do now is tell you. It’s too late for Rob.” I wondered why she hadn’t summoned the DA or some other law enforcement person if she’d wanted to confess. Of course, I really did not know what Rosa was about to say. I might not relate it to what I thought it was. She paused for quite a spell, like she was fighting the temptation to remain untruthful as opposed to what Bonhoeffer was advising.

Finally, I said, “has this got something to do with Rachel?”

Rosa nodded but returned her gaze to page 155. “We cannot follow Christ unless we live in revealed truth before God and man.”

“You’re feeling the need to confess something, something you’ve concealed, as you say, for half-a-century? And, that truth that you failed to tell me at your apartment?” I felt Rosa needed some nudging.

“Yes.” I wasn’t expecting her next words. “Ray Archer didn’t kill Kyle Bennett. Rob did. With Rachel’s help.” I thought I was going to faint. With both hands, I grabbed the metal railing on Rosa’s bed. I closed my eyes to gain balance and composure.

“Mom, I’m confused. There have been too many trails since reading Rachel’s journal entries, all attempting to describe that awful night.” A question popped into my head. Could I trust Rosa? I was just about to ask whether I could believe her, even now at what could be the last time we would ever talk. But I kept quiet.

She handed me the book. “Read the two notes.”

The first one, scrawled in an upward direction along the left side of the page, read: “I guess I’ll have to take my chances.”

As though she knew which one I was reading, Rosa said, “That one’s by Rachel. She knew she could never reveal the truth because it would destroy her daddy.”

I nodded and then read the second note, the one on the right edge with a faint pencil line connecting it back to Rachel’s note. It read, “I hope you are wrong Mr. Bonhoeffer.”

“The one on the right is mine. I wrote it many years before Rachel wrote hers. I’m sure you could say I haven’t been a true disciple, a loyal follower of Christ, since I’ve kept this horrible sin buried.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I asked a question instead. “Mom, please tell me exactly what happened to Kyle.”

Rosa talked for several minutes until a nurse came in and checked her temperature and pulse. After the grossly overweight woman left, Rosa summarized: “In a nutshell, after Rachel returned home that night, she shared what her and Ray and Jane had been up to and that they couldn’t go through with it. That’s when Rachel and her father left the Hunt House. Several hours later, they returned. When Rob and I finally went to bed, probably three or four AM, he said, ‘It’s done. Rachel’s safe. So is Ray. Kyle won’t ever say a word or ever be discovered.’”

I don’t know how long I would have stood there in silence if Randy and Celia hadn’t walked in. For me, it was the worst timing ever. There was much more Rosa knew, answers to questions I had on the tip of my tongue. Things like: What was Rachel’s motive? (Although I guessed it had something to do with her pregnancy, Sharon’s death, and clearly, Kyle’s knowledge); How did Rob kill Kyle? (Shot him with Roland’s 38 caliber pistol?); How did Rachel help Rob kill Kyle? And on and on.

After exchanging pleasantries, I made the mistake of asking Randy how life was out on the road. This triggered the retelling of a frightening experience when he and Celia were in Hackberry, Louisiana last August. Five minutes later, his too-long story about Hurricane Laura was still gaining steam. Contrary to my usual style, I faked an iPhone notification, announced I had to run, kissed Rosa goodbye, and exited Room 323. Randy had never been my favorite brother-in-law, albeit my only brother-in-law, thanks to Kyla’s celibacy.

To my amazement, before reaching the elevator, I received a call from Attorney Tanner.

“Hello.”

“This is Tanner, can you talk?”

“I can listen for now. I’m leaving the hospital.”

“Sorry about Rosa. I wish the Macrolides had worked.” Micaden not only knew my mother-in-law was in the hospital but that the antibiotics of choice weren’t effective in treating her pneumonia. Obviously, the man has eagle eyes and bat ears.

“Thanks.” I eased to the rear of the elevator behind two older women. They, too, were headed to the ground floor.

“I wanted to give you an update. Connor spoke with Orin Russell after he caught a DUI. He, Ford, is pretty sure Orin has defected, but he unintentionally divulged a good tip.” I’d heard Orin liked the bottle.

“What would that be?” I allowed the two women to exit, then followed at a distance, all three of us headed to the main entrance.

“Your friend Barry Clausen.”

“I’m not following.” Other than him being married to a woman Ray had often bedded, it seemed, according to Jane, he was the one who’d traveled to New Haven, ransacked my home, and stolen Rachel’s diaries.

“The deputy who stopped and arrested Orin said he had delivered a Rylan’s leasing packet to Barry and had stayed long enough to consume two beers. That caught Connor’s attention. It made little sense. The kid must have been delivering something else.” Lillian had said Barry was retired but spent his time managing his investments. Maybe he was interested in retail.

I exited the hospital and walked to my Hyundai while Micaden was semi-whispering with Tina, his assistant. “I can talk now. So, Connor payed Barry a visit?” I said, speculating but believing that’s where our conversation was leading.

“He did, and it was fruitful, potentially a motherlode. Connor can be persuasive. Clausen folded, or so it seems.”

“How so?”

“After a call to the DA and her strong indication she would cut Barry a break, he revealed his relationship to what he referred to as the ‘Grease monkeys.’ That’s a slang term for a burglar with entry skills, someone with a slight build. Apparently, they don’t hold tightly to the size characteristic.”

“Interesting. I guess that makes sense given Barry and my home burglary.”

“You’ll find this interesting. Clausen said there were three main grease monkeys, the others were underlings. Buddy and Billy have obviously cleaned up, sorry for the dark humor, which leaves a preacher named Alex Mandy as the head greaser. He’s the James brother’s nephew.”

“Dang, it’s a small world. If it’s the same man, he recently preached a revival at Gadsden First Baptist Church. Jane and Lillian attended the Friday night service.”

“Two other things Connor learned before I have to go.” I wondered why Micaden, and Tina were working on a Sunday.

“The underling monkeys are Eric Snyder and his brother Ethan.” Micaden paused. I heard him rustle some paper. When he restarted, I could tell he’d eaten something. “Of course, you know Eric died in the Hunt House fire. Oh, are you sitting down?”

“I am, please don’t give me any bad news.”

“I’d say it is possibly good news, for where it can lead.”

“Okay.” I backed out of my parking spot and headed for the exit.

“Jackie Frasier. He’s known amongst his Grease Monkey friends as ‘the tag thief.’”

“Oh, my gosh. You are talking about the hundred-and four-year-old that everyone-loves?”

“The same. That might explain his new garden home.” Micaden said, continuing to munch on something.

“This is unbelievable. I’m now thinking it might be why Ray didn’t eliminate Jade Frasier, instead of paying for her silence.”

Micaden paused and rustled some papers. “I agree, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. All we know is Ray paid her $25,000, if we believe the photos Jane took of Ray’s ledger. The twenty-five grand might be a donation for Jade to have correctional surgery.”

“I doubt that.”

Micaden interrupted before I could continue. “There’s one other thing before I have to go. Derrick Hart and your Walmart attack. You know, the ‘God4USA’ tag.”

“Yeah, the case that got lost. The one I’ve been calling about for nearly eight weeks.”

“The tag was stolen. Most likely, by Jackie, but I’m speculating who stole it.”

I quickly posed a question. “Do you have any idea how Jackie got entangled with Ray Archer?” The connection seemed impossible. Jackie, Jack, as he was known, had a stellar reputation. Everyone loved him. His story was inspiring. For decades, the man had worked three jobs. Why did he need a fourth?

“We don’t know for sure. Might just be that Jackie loves money. But that’s a guess. One thing seems certain, according to Conner, is the connection between Ray and Alex Mandy, the preacher.”

“Don’t tell me it’s their love for the Lord Jesus.” Micaden belted out a thunderous laugh.

“That’s close, but not like you’re thinking. It’s a woman named Becky Brownfield from Albertville. Apparently, she was both men’s plaything. At some point, she recommended Mandy to Ray. You can figure out the rest.”

What Micaden told me was refreshing, hopefully helpful, but I had that nagging feeling it wouldn’t amount to much. Ray had too much Teflon in his blood. He was slippery as an eel. He would somehow wiggle out of all his crimes. I turned left on Bruce Road. “I hope you’re right that Connor found the motherlode, but I kind of doubt it.”

“Keep the faith, my friend. It ain’t over till the skinny girl jumps.”

“Uh?”

“See you later. The fish are biting.”

Our call ended. I couldn’t help but envy Micaden. Hopefully, someday, he and I will become good friends. I’d love to hear his story.

The fallout triggered by Lillian and Ray’s quasi-mediation session wasted over a week.

To her surprise, he had offered to settle: Lillian would receive half a billion dollars in cash plus 49% ownership in Rylan’s Boaz location, with quarterly dividend distributions expected, but not guaranteed.

I had to admit, the offer was generous, except for two conditions Ray claimed were non-negotiable. The first required Lillian’s best ‘stand-by-her-man’ performance at today’s groundbreaking ceremony for the Rylan’s development on Thomas Avenue. This was distasteful to say the least. The second condition was wholly despicable and revealed Ray’s guilt and fear. It mandated that Lillian, and thus me, cease all efforts to implicate him in a crime.

 Oddly, the second condition was a deal breaker from the beginning, but it had consumed virtually every waking hour since Lillian and Micaden had returned from Huntsville eleven days ago.

There was one other issue with Ray’s offer. At the end of their session, Ray’s attorney had told Micaden in private that the offer had to be accepted by 5:00 PM January the 15th. That’s today. And, the closing of the transaction, including transfer of a $500,000,000 cashier’s check, would take place Friday, January 29th at 2:00 PM in Huntsville. No doubt Ray had learned of mine and Lillian’s plans to return to New Haven that very afternoon. Micaden had protested, but attorney Selvidge had said two weeks was the minimum Ray needed to raise that much cash, since he didn’t intend to start the asset juggling and swapping until Lillian accepted his offer. In writing.

It was 1:00 PM when Kyla and I exited her house and walked to her Silverado. I’d asked if I could borrow it late afternoon for an errand I had to run. Lillian had driven her Lincoln Aviator an hour ago and was now rehearsing the ceremony with Ray, Mayor Ted King, and the five city councilmen.

 It was four hours until Ray’s settlement offer would evaporate, unless Lillian hand-delivered her written acceptance. I knew the two of us had prepared two letters, one accepting Ray’s offer, and the other a counter, the details of which he likely would find repulsive. For many reasons, I was nervous, even anxious about today’s event. Much could happen in four hours. The only thing that gave me consolation was that the ceremony was out in the open with an expected standing-room-only crowd.

“Stop at the mailbox, I’m expecting a package.” Kyla said as soon as I buckled my seatbelt.

Although Lillian and I had invested considerable time in Ray’s offer and brainstormed a zillion potential responses, this didn’t mean the investigation had ceased. P.I. Connor Ford had pursued Darrell Clements from Jane’s photo of the note Ray had tucked inside his cash disbursements ledger. The bottom line was that he had paid Clements $7,500 to vouch for a cleverly concocted story about Buddy’s truck. In the fictional narrative, Buddy had sold Clements the blue Chevrolet pickup and Ray had delivered it to his HorsePens 40 campsite. Impressive as they were, Ford had determined the transaction documents—Bill of Sale and Title—were forgeries. Shocking as this discovery was, it paled, considering what had occurred in the Sharon Teague case.

Nick Pearson, current General Manager and CEO of MUB Electric in Albertville, and pastor at Skirum Creek Methodist Church in Crossville, was arrested last Wednesday night a week ago during midweek prayer time. Supposedly, Pearson was standing at the pulpit petitioning God to heal Christine Dalrymple’s varicose veins when four Marshall County deputies entered the church and handcuffed the sixty-seven-year-old bi-vocational preacher.

After seeing Pearson’s arrest in the Sand Mountain Reporter’s Crime Blotter, I almost called District Attorney Pam Garrison to tell her she’d made a grave mistake. But I’d resisted the temptation. I knew her to be competent and extremely detailed. Through Micaden and Connor, I’d learned what had led to this surprising event.

An anonymous tip had prompted DA investigator Avery Proctor to pay a friendly at-first visit to Pearson at his MUB office. Neither Micaden nor Connor knew the details of the tip but had learned Pearson was adamant he had nothing to do with the disappearance of Sharon Teague over half-a-century ago. In fact, he was so confident he volunteered to take a lie-detector test, and suggested, even encouraged, law enforcement to search his home in Albertville Country Club Estates.

Proctor had acted promptly. After accepting Pearson’s offer and having him sign a written consent form, the veteran investigator had requested three deputies meet him at MUB. Less than an hour later, Deputy Jared Lang found Sharon Teague’s 1970s dog tag and her Albertville High School class ring in a shoe box on the top shelf of Pearson’s closet. This find prompted Proctor to secure a search warrant for 683 East Mann Avenue, Pearson’s childhood home where his ninety-year-old parents still lived. There, in a bedroom virtually unchanged since their only son had left for college in the fall of 1972, deputies found three bones, a human’s left femur, right tibia, and left fibula, tucked inside an Albertville High School gym bag filled with hundreds of unbound baseball cards. That was nine days ago, and the bones have already made a round-trip to and from the Department of Forensic Sciences in Birmingham. With the help (including DNA contribution) of Susan Vick, the victim’s sister, the Department positively identified the bones as those of Sharon Elizabeth Teague.

As Kyla and I waited for the red light at Highway 431, I was more confident than ever that Ray Archer or a crony had planted the evidence and made the anonymous call. How he had stolen Sharon Teague’s dog tag from Dorothy Bennett’s jewelry box, and how he had hidden the bones inside the elderly Pearson’s home was shocking and scary. I was sick by the thought the Teflon man was, once again, going to escape prosecution. I made a mental note to ask Connor or Micaden what the DA’s theory was, and what Nick Pearson’s motive was to kill Sharon Teague.

***

I made the mistake of turning right on Darnell Street and left on East Mann Avenue thinking I would find a spot next to Old Mill Park like I did at Kyle’s memorial. That area was overflowing, so I continued to Highway 205 and turned right. I eased through the red light at Thomas and into a gravel and chert area once occupied by Cox Chevrolet directly west of Rylan’s. It was the city block the mayor and council had recently purchased to resolve Ray’s concern his development would be doomed if customers didn’t have a nearby parking lot. So far, all the city had accomplished was razing the one residence and four dilapidated commercial buildings, and doing a little land prep.

By the time Kyla and I exited her Silverado, another vehicle pulled beside us, and two younger couples nodded as they hurried east on Thomas. I semi-yelled, “what’s the rush?” earning a ‘you can be an obnoxious dumb ass’ look from Kyla.

“Free food.” I didn’t figure out Kyla’s response until we reached the Brown Street intersection. Beginning there, parked along Thomas Avenue and facing future development, were a dozen or more food trucks offering anything from BBQ sandwiches, pizza, and tacos to snow cones and cotton candy.

“Not your typical groundbreaking ceremony.” I said, glancing toward the row of garden homes behind all the food trucks.

 “Food is a good way to draw a crowd.” Kyla added as we headed to the makeshift platform the city had built where Julia Street Methodist Church once stood for a hundred years. There were several hundred metal chairs set up in a semicircle around the stage. Thankfully, half the folks in attendance were more interested in food than boring speeches, leaving at least a third of the seats empty. We grabbed two in the center section underneath the outstretched limbs of an aging oak. Oddly, it was the only tree that survived the month-long demolition.

From our vantage point sixty feet from the stage, I could see, all seated, the mayor, five councilmen, Dan Brasher, and of course, the photogenic couple who’d spawned the Rylan’s idea. Lillian was smiling, but it wasn’t genuine. I could hear her thinking, “oh shit, what have I gotten into?” It was like she was directing her thoughts at Jane, seated in the front row between Stella Newsome and Nick Lancaster.

We hadn’t been seated for five minutes when the mayor walked to the podium. He welcomed everyone and promised today would be a new beginning for Boaz. He then launched into a rather long and overly detailed explanation of the Hunt House fire and the death of Eric Snyder, ending with a short moment of silence for the dead man, followed by an excited declaration as he turned and stared at the slippery eel sitting beside the woman I loved. “Ray, my friend, I’ve always known you had nothing to do with any of that, but you know how rumors ignite. I’m proud to announce they have completely exonerated you.” Mayor Ted said the last sentence after he’d returned his gaze to the crowd.

This was my queue to leave, for at least two reasons. I hated lies and the smarminess of Ray’s protector, and I needed to find Jane Fordham’s Equinox.

***

I patted Kyla’s knee and exited the semi-circle of metal chairs. I’d wasted enough time grading papers and batting Ray’s settlement offer back and forth with Lillian. It was time to shake the tree.

I weaved my way to Thomas, keeping my head down. I continued west to Taylor’s Taco truck and waited in line. After ordering a burrito and leaving a $5.00 tip, I mingled with the crowd for a few minutes before easing my way between Taylor’s and a pizza rig to the sidewalk in front of the garden homes. I walked eastward and reached Whitman Street before finishing the overly spiced burrito.

Jane’s Equinox was parked next to Lillian’s Aviator, just like she’d promised. It was the exact spot I’d used while attending Kyle’s memorial service. I did a slow 360-degree turn and scan before unlocking the Aviator. I opened the passenger door and leaned forward like I was grabbing something from the console. As far as I could tell, no one was paying any attention. I semi-stood before squatting. I reached inside my jacket pocket and removed a metal, magnetic case. Inside was an inch thick GPS tracker. I opened the case and flipped the ‘ON’ switch. A green light appeared in the lower right corner. I lay on my back and slid a half-foot underneath Jane’s SUV and found a spot on the frame to attach the magnetic case. Online reviewers touted the GL300 as the best on the market. I bought it, along with the case, from Spytec. Lillian and I tested it, along with its accompanying real time iPhone App, yesterday afternoon.

For several reasons, I didn’t trust Jane. I rooted my primary reason in how quickly Ray had emptied his safe. If Jane had told Lillian, Kyla, and me the truth, she would have left things exactly like she’d found them. Jane had shown us the photos she’d taken, both before and after removing the contents. To me, Ray would have no reason to suspect Jane had been inside his safe. Sure, given the mess we had made in the snow, he might have suspected her, but he knew Jane didn’t have the safe’s combination. Again, if we believed Jane. At least, that’s what she had said. I doubted the empty safe was simply a coincidence.

***

I retraced my steps along Whitman and the sidewalk in front of the garden homes. After I edged my way between Taylor’s Taco and Perfect Pizza, I noticed the food junkie crowd had disappeared. They had migrated to the semicircle and filled every metal seat I could see. I had to slide sideways across a dozen knees before I reached my spot beside Kyla.

She gave me a questioning look. I nodded affirmatively. “What’d I miss?”

She leaned toward my left ear and whispered, “nothing.” I knew I hadn’t been gone long, but something had to have happened. “Five councilmen, all boring, repetitive. Thank goodness their ‘Boaz is on the upswing’ speeches were short.”

Next up was Dan Brasher, the graying, middle-aged man who likely fought a daily weight battle. He clearly was losing. Since I’d seen him last November, he’d gained at least ten to fifteen pounds. His soft-spoken and careful articulation had remained, subjectively conveying his goodness.

“Thank you, Mayor, for giving me the honor of speaking today. Let me first say that God is good.” I heard a chorus of scattered voices respond in virtual unison, “all the time.” I closed my eyes in befuddlement and concluded Dan was also going to be boring.

“I want to brag about my city. Somehow, our wise leaders realized it was time our community entered the promised land. Thank you, Mayor King and councilmen, for your foresight and bravery.” I was about to dose off when a loud and cracking voice to my left boomed disagreement.

“Debt feeds the devil. Don’t you know that?” Apparently, everyone in the crowd didn’t agree with Dan, or the ‘wisdom’ of the city fathers.

Not to be deterred, Dan outstretched his hands as though commanding the sea to calm. “My church, Julia Street Methodist, stood on this very spot for over a hundred years. It was dying in more ways than one. Our sanctuary was teetering on collapse. Now, our new facilities are about to sprout-to-life on three beautiful acres across from The Shack. To God be the glory, great things He has done, and is doing. This is good news for everyone.”

I tried to relax and grade Dan’s talk so far on the shallowest of curves. I started brainstorming reasons Mayor King and Ray would have asked Dan to be the event’s keynote speaker. The most logical was that Dan, as pastor and spokesperson for the development’s largest former-occupant, was the best choice to dedicate Rylan’s to future success. And God’s glory. I was a stranger in a strange place.

Dan spent the next few minutes similarly praising the other nine landowners who had ultimately seen the light. He then launched into a detailed description of how the city had, without obligation at all, gifted an extra $10,000 each for living expenses while they constructed a new home or otherwise dealt with the transition. Kyla whispered the city was priming the pump for the next project on the horizon. Rumor had it the city was interested in using its eminent domain power to convert the residential block to the south of the new Marshall-Dekalb Electric Coop building into a commercial zone.

Finally, Dan caught my attention, but not until he had praised Ray Archer, and Rob and Rosa Kern. His words continued their generic and bland flavor. “In closing, I want you to know the city cares about each of its citizens, not just those owning properties situated inside the progressive wave.” That was an odd way to put it. Dan continued as he walked down the platform’s make-shift steps and approached an elderly gentleman in the front row that I hadn’t noticed before. “Please stand,” Dan said, reaching out his hand to assist. “Folks, this is Jackie Frasier, Boaz’s oldest citizen. Yesterday was his birthday. He’s now one hundred- and four-years young. Doesn’t he look good?”

Jackie rose, and Dan gently manipulated the ancient relic toward the crowd. “Folks, Jackie has a new home, actually two.” Dan paused and leaned into whisper something to the man I recalled as the high school custodian, tall, slender, confident. Now, he seemed a half-foot shorter, almost gaunt. Dan pointed toward the sky. “Yesterday, over cake and ice-cream, I had the honor and pleasure of leading my newest friend to the Lord. He now has a home in Heaven.” Dan turned and looked across the platform behind him and pointed again. “And, while his journey in this life continues, Jackie has a new home on Elm Street. Our wonderful city has gifted him one of Randall Pankey’s new garden homes across from the library.” Jackie looked tired, but he managed a weak wave and a fake smile. Or that’s what it seemed to me. “Folks, Jackie has lived west of Boaz on King Street for over eighty years. My fellow citizens, take note, the city takes care of its own.”

The same craggy voice we’d heard earlier spewed forth a volley of questions: “Is that legal? How much did that cost? Is the city going to buy my parents a new home? Like Jackie, they live in a mobile home dump.” It took a police officer to shut down the bearded man in an Earnhardt racing cap.

“Give Jackie a round of applause to show your support to a man who’s weathered many a storm.” I clapped, as did most of the crowd. You must respect those who’ve beaten life’s odds.

As the applause settled, I captured a scene that highlighted the red flag that had appeared in my mind when Dan introduced the City’s oldest citizen. I saw Mayor King and Ray exchange a rather long look. I couldn’t help but believe the two had conspired to figuratively put duct tape over Jackie’s mouth. If gut feelings could talk, mine would declare the longtime occupant of 275 King Street knew some things the two criminals didn’t want revealed.

Finished. Finally. It had taken two weeks to grade the one-hundred and five exams, including a thirty-one-hour marathon over the three-day New Year’s Day weekend. Overall, I was disappointed. Only nineteen students earned an A. Unsurprising, Jodie Allison’s brilliance garnered her an A+ and the top spot among all three of my classes.

Other than helping Lillian and Kyla rescue a stranded Jane the day after Christmas, I had done little else, including nothing to assist my friends and colleagues in finding justice for Kyle and Ray Archer’s other victims. That had to change since there were only twenty-five days until my return flight to New Haven on the 29th. I didn’t doubt the competence of DA Pam’s team, along with Connor Ford and Micaden Tanner, to continue the mission after I left town, but I subconsciously knew these next few weeks would likely be my last chance to discover what really happened to Kyle, and why Rachel committed suicide.

I wanted to go back to sleep, but Lillian’s clanking in the kitchen dissipated all hope. She was tired of Kyla’s dominance at Hardy Hillside, especially her unwillingness to share the cooking department. Lillian’s desire for her own pancakes was one reason we’d opted for a little sabbatical. I crawled out of bed and slipped on a pair of sweatpants and tee-shirt. At 9:30 last night, after uploading my grades to the Yale Law School teacher portal, the two of us had come to Lillian’s house for our first overnight stay since someone (Ray or Ray’s goon) had riddled Lillian’s bed and bedroom with what Etowah County investigators said were 45 caliber hollow points. I understood their explanation to mean that when the projectile impacts a soft target (the bed and wooden wall), it would expand the surface area of the projectile, increasing the kinetic energy transferred to the soft target.

I walked to the bathroom to pee and wash my face. Now that I was free from essay grading, my mind couldn’t resist regurgitating the ice and snow scene at Ray’s lodge. It had been a close call for the four of us. If he had shown up a minute earlier, our safe escape would have been impossible.

After Jane had called and announced her predicament, Lillian, Kyla, and I raced to Skyhaven Estates in her truck. Before leaving Harding Hillside, I’d grabbed a long chain from the barn and hoped Kyla’s four-wheel drive would find sufficient traction to extricate Jane’s Equinox. It had, but only after repositioning the Silverado three times. I was wet and freezing by the time the four of us exited Ray’s driveway. Halfway down Skyhaven Drive, we met Ray’s Suburban, sending us all into heart attack territory. Thankfully, he was preoccupied in thought and unfamiliar with Jane’s exchange of vehicles. Either way, he didn’t stop, or turn and follow. Regardless, one thing was certain, Ray would see the mess we’d left in his driveway and along the south side of the detached garage: the snow and ice, the footprints and tire marks.

***

I eased into the kitchen and paused. The smell of cheese-eggs and sausage triggered my hunger. Lillian was doing something at the far counter, facing away from me. I couldn’t help but notice her figure. How could a sixty-six-year-old woman be so, well, shapely? Although her house seemed a little cool, she was wearing a pair of red running shorts and a gray Nike sports bra. She must have changed clothes since donning the bulky Alabama Crimson Tide tee-shirt when she’d crawled out of bed forty-minutes ago. No doubt, kitchen work is a hot job.

Lillian’s body looked younger, tighter, and stronger. It could be the walking and slow jogging she’d done at Kyla’s the past two weeks while I was immersed in schoolwork. Whatever it was, I liked it.

Lillian had pinned her silky hair to the back of her head, exposing her neck and back. I explored every inch of exposed skin resting my eyes on her especially tight thighs. Her skin tone had always been a light caramel color, but now it seemed she’d spent a month at the beach.

“I know you’re staring.” She said without turning toward me. I smiled, amazed at my own amazement over the transformation Lillian Archer, soon-once-again-to-be Lillian Bryant, had brought into my life.

“Caught me. What’s my punishment?” Although I was still recovering from last night’s romp, I would endure a short and figurative whipping to balance the scales of justice. I shook my head sideways. I was losing it.

Lillian turned with a platter full of buttered pancakes, smiled, and answered my question: “Sing that song. Right now.”

“Uh?” Then it registered. Saturday night, when Lillian headed to bed and I was focused on essay grading, she’d placed a yellow sticky on Kyla’s table beside my laptop. In elementary print was, “listen to this song before coming to bed. ‘She’s Everything to Me.’”

At midnight, I’d found it on YouTube. Written by Brad Paisley, it was redneck country. Not my favorite, but intimately meaningful. My favorite line, one I dared not share, “She’s the giver I wish I could be and the stealer of the covers.”

I couldn’t resist and belted out with my oh so terrible voice, “She’s a soft place to land.” My second favorite line.

Lillian set the pancakes on the table. That’s when I noticed she’d prepared a feast. She motioned me to sit and gave me a pardon. “Let’s eat before it gets cold. You can hum it to me tonight.” Relieved, I obeyed.

While she poured coffee, I noted the spread before me. Besides pancakes, Lillian’s table hosted scrambled cheese-eggs, bacon, sausage links, blueberries, banana slices, and both maple and strawberry syrup. This woman offered way more than a shapely body, including domestic skills that would rival my sister.

***

We ate in silence for the next ten minutes, other than a few “Mmm mmm good” declarations from me. When I forked a banana slice to sop my remaining syrup, Lillian walked to the counter and returned with the coffeepot and a plain #10 envelope. She laid the latter halfway between my plate and hers while filling our cups. After re-nesting the pot in the coffeemaker, she turned and leaned against the sink. The slightly upward cock of her head made me believe she had shed some of the sadness she’d worn since before her accident. I wondered if it had anything to do with her recently revived exercise program.

“Open says-a-me.” Lillian’s eyes glanced at the blank envelope.

“Is that the bill for this wonderful breakfast? If so, I’ll gladly pay.” I glanced from the envelope to the beauty standing at the sink. I considered offering a tip of the non-cash type but declined.

“Look first. The amount might be more than you can handle.” I tried to imagine what little game Lillian was playing. She normally wasn’t as mysterious. Again, I did as instructed, and was pleased by what I found inside the envelope. It was a Delta airline ticket, a one-way flight on January 29th from Birmingham to New Haven. I chose a smart-ass response.

“I don’t need another ticket. Remember, I already bought one.” Lillian rolled her eyes and walked to me. She took my hands in hers and gently had me reposition my chair. As she knelt on one knee beside me, I noticed she wasn’t wearing any makeup. The slow crawling of crow’s feet away from both her eyes reminded me we were two individuals on a fast track to the big 70.

“Lee, that’s my ticket.” She released my right hand and placed her left on my cheek. “I’ve changed my mind. If you will have me, I’m yours forever.” Although she didn’t mention the marriage word, that’s where my mind went. It didn’t matter. This was Lillian’s way of proposing, accepting my earlier invitation, she return to New Haven with me at the end of the month.

I semi-stood, scooted my chair backwards, and joined Lillian on one knee. I smiled, nodding affirmatively and pulled her close. “Thank you,” I said, hugging her tightly. “I love you baby and am ecstatic over your decision.”

“Are you sure?” Lillian asked as we untangled and stood. Her smile evaporated and she creased her eyebrows as she stared into my eyes—that always means she’s serious. “You better be because once we touch down in New Haven, I’m never leaving.”

“I’m sure. Surer than you can imagine, or I can express. That’s what I mean when I say I love you.” I meant exactly what I said, but this didn’t imply I wasn’t dumbfounded over what had happened since I’d arrived in Alabama shortly before Thanksgiving.

“And I love you more Lee Harding.”

Lillian insisted we sit. Over our second cup of coffee, she brought us down from the clouds and encouraged me to share my vision of our future life together in New Haven. When I’d finished sketching a picture of me as professor and her as household manager, she took out a figurative eraser. “Old boy, you’re in for a rude awakening. I’m ready to live and learn. I’ve been dreaming of going back to school for a creative writing degree. We’ll share household duties. On weekends, I want to explore all New England.” And on and on Lillian painted the landscape of our upcoming weeks, months, and years.

At 7:45, I interrupted. “What time do you have to be at Micaden’s?” Even though it had only been eighteen days since he’d filed Lillian’s divorce complaint, the case had launched like a rocket. This afternoon, Lillian and Micaden were traveling to Huntsville to meet with Ray and his attorney for a quasi-mediation session (absent the professional mediator). Such settlement attempts normally followed months of pretrial proceedings, including in-court motion arguments and several rounds of out-of-court discovery.

“He wants to leave at 11:00. The meeting is at 1:00.” Lillian stood and transferred our plates and coffee cups to the counter next to the sink. She probably was regretting her earlier decision not to install a dishwasher given the pile of dirty dishes scattered about.

 I had an idea. “That means you have a couple of hours before getting ready. Let’s take a walk or go sit on the pier. I promise I’ll cleanup this mess.” Lillian gave me a frown. I took it to mean, ‘let’s see if you can do any better when it’s your turn to cook a breakfast feast.’

Instead, she stopped running water in the sink and said, “Sounds good, but first let me put on a sweatsuit.” That was a good idea, given the forty-degree weather.

 After feeding the fish, Lillian and I settled into the two Adirondack chairs at the end of the pier. I wished I’d grabbed a thicker jacket.

“Today is going to be a total waste.” Lillian said, crossing her arms in frustration. I nodded in support, but she was staring across the pond at the homesteading geese making their way from an adventure on the other side of Cox Gap Road. “He’ll be such an ass.”

“Because he feels emboldened?” This was the umpteenth time since New Year’s Day Lillian had raised this subject. She wasn’t the only one frustrated. One of my chief pet peeves is plowing the same ground over and over. Two times was usually my outside limit but given the subject’s importance (not to mention my feelings toward Lillian), I made an exception.

“Ray’s like Teflon.” Again, I nodded. I had no basis for disagreement. In fact, Lillian was spot on. Last Friday, the Marshall County District Attorney’s office had directed the execution of a search warrant at Ray’s lodge. To everyone’s surprise—other than Ray—the hidden safe was empty.

The DA had spent the better part of two weeks evaluating the photos Jane had given to Micaden Tanner, her attorney. He’d performed admirably as usual and had extracted a conditional immunity agreement for her in exchange for illegal discoveries inside Ray’s home (conditional on Jane not being involved with the murder of Kyle Bennett, Sharon Teague, or anyone else).

The leading explanation among the DA’s office, Micaden, Connor Ford, and the four horsemen (a label I’d adopted for Lillian, Kyla, Jane and myself) for Ray’s decision to empty his safe, was the mess he had found in his driveway and yard the afternoon of Jane’s burglary. The DA had reasoned that Ray’s empty safe gave defense counsel an almost unbeatable argument: the whole thing was a setup; Jane had fabricated the whole scenario. The missing evidence also meant the DA had insufficient evidence to pursue murder charges against Ray for the deaths of Sharon Teague, Kyle Bennett and Billy and Buddy James.

And, if an empty safe wasn’t good enough to assure Ray’s Teflon status, yesterday afternoon’s news would do the job. Apparently, Judge Broadside worked weekends, including holiday weekends. At least sometimes. Micaden had called a few minutes before 5:00 pm and read me the two-sentence Order that had just been posted to AlaCourt. “This Court grants Defendant Archer’s motion to suppress evidence. An agent of law enforcement illegally discovered it.”

Although he didn’t know for sure, Micaden speculated that Judge Broadside had based his decision on Ray’s Brief in support of his motion. To me, it was too tenuous a connection. Attorney Morton Selvidge had argued that Lillian and I were acting as agents of the District Attorney when we’d recorded Ray meeting Buddy James at Ted King’s cabin.

Unbelievable. I had called P.I. Connor Ford to ask him to perform the task, but he had been in Gatlinburg. What I didn’t know until I’d read Selvidge’s Brief was that after I called Ford, he had called Avery Proctor, the DA’s investigator, who had admitted saying, “that’s a good idea.”

There was no way an appeals court would uphold Judge Broadside’s Order, but the Alabama Court of Criminal Appeals could take weeks to consider and rule. In the meantime, the DA’s office would have to keep searching for credible evidence in order to proceed with the Hunt House arson case.

For sure, Ray was the Teflon man.

***

“There’s Jane.” Lillian said, snatching me back from an intensifying nightmare. I looked to my left and saw the blue Equinox pulling to a stop beside the pasture gate.

“Are you expecting her?” I figured Lillian would have told me, but it could have slipped her mind.

“No.” She walked the pier halfway. “Hey, we’re out here.” Jane apparently had not seen us and was headed to the back porch. “Grab a chair.” Lillian pointed to the small gazebo where several were stored.

I tried to read Jane’s face as she and Lillian approached. My conclusion was mixed. Other than a quick exchange of hellos between Jane and me, the first thing she said was, “I’ve got to get something off my chest.”

“Okay.” Lillian said, giving Jane’s arm a soft touch. “But first, let me give you some good news. I’m moving to New Haven with Lee.” I couldn’t have been more surprised. First, Lillian had butted in just as Jane had an urgent need to confess something. Second, although I knew Lillian was excited about our move, but now didn’t seem the time to make such an announcement. Mainly because I still had this nagging feeling about Jane, that she was still playing chess.

“That’s great, I needed some good news.” Jane said, glancing my way. “When are you guys leaving?” I thought she knew my plans, but she could assume Lillian and I had bumped-up our departure date.

“End of the month, now, back to you. Sorry I interrupted.” I sometimes wished Lillian was a little more careful about sharing.

“No problem.” Jane twisted in her chair, probably because it wasn’t comfortable, being it was metal with no cushion or padding. “This is going to be shocking, and that’s one reason I haven’t told either of you, but it’s time.”

Lillian activated her iPhone to check the time. “Just tell us, you know I’m on a schedule today.”

Jane sat straighter and said, “I betrayed Elita and received a reward for disclosing her whereabouts.” At first, my mind locked. It couldn’t decide the time frame.

I quickly said, “explain, please.” Before she responded, I concluded she was referring to something that happened thirty-five years ago.

“The flier. Clipped to a newspaper article. At your house.” Lillian’s mind was working faster than mine.

“Yes. Let me give you the full story.” Jane looked straight at me. “It was late fall 1985, around Thanksgiving. You and Rachel were living in Washington, DC. You were working for a law firm and…”

“White and Case.” I added.

“Rachel was teaching.” 

“At Hardy Middle School.” Lillian gave me her cocked head with creased eyebrows look. “Hardy, not Harding.”

Jane continued. “Somehow Elita had found Rachel. The fifteen-year-old was pregnant. Elita’s adoptive parents, the Packer’s, had recently shared the truth, which included that her biological mother had got pregnant when she was fifteen. Elita and Rachel bonded almost instantly, but she knew she was ill-equipped to deal with a teenager and an infant, not to mention the shock this would be to you.” Again, Jane poured her piercing green eyes into mine. “Plus, Elita had shared that her parents were good people determined to find their daughter. They had already hired an investigative team and had posted a reward offer.”

“Take a breath and let me project.” Jane waved me away, but Lillian came to my rescue, insisting it would be best. Jane agreed. “You and Rachel were close and the two of you concocted a plan. Rachel was a mothering figure to you. So, she suggested you notify the Packers of Elita’s whereabouts and receive the reward. Right?” If true, this was wrong on so many levels.

“Pretty close, but there was an intermediary. A guy she taught with. The Packer’s never knew about me.” Lillian stood and eased past me to the end of the pier. I wondered if she was going for a swim. If she did, I’d join her in the frigid water. Anything to get away from this sordid tale.

“Cut to the chase. I’m about to have to get ready.” Lillian was angry, probably because she knew how personal this was to me. Rachel, my wife, had never breathed a word of this to me. I wondered where Elita had stayed the few days she was in DC, certainly not at our townhouse.

“A pair of investigators came and escorted Elita back to Sydney and her adoptive parents.” Jane paused and Lillian returned to my side, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Sit, this is the sad part.”

Lillian did as instructed. “Go ahead.”

“Six months later, Elita was dead, complications during the delivery.”

“What about the baby?” Lillian’s question was instant.

Jane paused, stood, glanced at the geese swimming by, and answered. “It was a little girl. Although born a few weeks premature, it lived. After a few weeks of intensive care in the hospital, they placed the baby in foster care.”

“What?” I said. Something was wrong with Jane’s story. The Packer’s would never have allowed that.

“It gets sadder. Shortly before the baby was born, Elita had run away again. This time to Hong Kong. Before you ask, yes, she and Rachel had kept in touch. By this time, Elita knew every detail about Rachel’s teenage pregnancy, including the hospital where she had given birth. Elita apparently wanted her baby to be born in the same place, maybe in the same hospital room, as she was sixteen years earlier.”

Lillian stood again. “Why didn’t the Packer’s keep the little girl? Quickly, please.”

“They didn’t know. Somehow Elita had concealed her identity, and the baby went into foster care until it was adopted almost two years later.”

“Who? Who adopted Elita’s baby?” I couldn’t help but sense, strangely, a connection between the little girl and myself. It was almost like she was my responsibility.

“I don’t know. Neither did Rachel, but it was a couple here in the states.”

“You two can talk as long as you want. I have thirty minutes to shower and drive to Micaden’s.” Lillian blew me a kiss and headed to the cabin.