EIGHTEEN
The photo was returned to the sofa. Both offices got locked up. The key was thrown back into its hidden box.
It’s as if I were never there.
And when everyone finds the damage in Hall’s office, that’s the story I’ll stick to, for everybody but Aaron. Him? I have to tell him what happened and hope he doesn’t think I’ve lost my mind.
The car stops at the concert hall. I stumble in my heels as I make my way to the entrance, royal palms waving overhead. My bare legs catch a cool breeze that I couldn’t feel back when I still had a full gown. The fire got me good.
Inside, the lobby’s devoid of anyone but venue staff. Music floats through the closed auditorium doors; everyone’s in the theater. I stick close to the walls. With my clothes ruined, I need to text Aaron so he’ll meet me out here instead. I pull my phone from my purse. Now now now—
“Miss Carter.”
“Dante—Mr. Hall—hi.”
Of course he shows up while I’m looking completely deranged. That’s like his thing.
“Are you feeling sick again?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You weren’t with Luis and Jada, so I watched them until performances began. Figured you’d run to the restroom.”
Sure. “Absolutely, yes, thank you for that. My apologies for leaving my post, sir.”
“It would turn my stomach too if I had to observe… that.” He grimaces at the theater. I peer through the panes in the doors and straight to the stage. There’s Ian, hands wrapped around a microphone, doing a little two-step. He’s become honorary lead vocal for one of the bands. The audience claps and hollers; they are feasting on this weirdness.
“He seems… jolly.”
“That’s one word for it,” Dante mutters. He finally takes a good look at me—the smudged eye makeup I tried to fix in the car, the faded lipstick. He notices my dress. Very crispy.
“Right when we arrived, my train caught on one of the torches outside,” I quickly lie. “The flame burned it right up. Scared me sick, actually.”
Dante raises an eyebrow. If a pit could open beneath me right now, that’d be great. He says, “Well, you can’t go into the theater like that.”
“I didn’t bring a spare dress, unfortunately.”
Dante hums. “You still don’t know my mother, do you?” He nods toward a simple side door, painted black. I follow him down several gray fluorescently lit hallways that snake backstage.
Finally, we reach one of the greenrooms.
It’s lightly decorated with some sofas, refreshments, and lots of curtains to change behind. But most impressive, more than the beautiful porcelain-white vanity on one wall, is the rack of dresses on the other side. I immediately browse the outfits. The tags are loud.
Dior. Chanel. Versace.
“These were my mother’s other options for tonight,” Dante explains. “Most are new. Help yourself.”
Just when I think the wealth of the Hall family has lost its sheen, I’m stunned again. I haven’t seen this much designer shit since…
Since I was at Joy’s place.
I freeze, gripping the length of an orchid-purple gown. She might not be the duppy, but she’ll still find a way to haunt me. “I can’t wear these.”
“And why not?”
“I don’t just take other people’s things.”
He gapes at me like I’m stupid. “I’m sorry. Miss Carter, let me see if I understand. You intend to walk into that auditorium—full capacity, by the way—with your hair undone and your dress singed?”
Okay, maybe I am stupid.
“What is my parents’ money for if not making problems disappear?” Dante asks. “My mother will toss these in storage tomorrow. She only splurges to remind my father that he has to allow it. Happy wife, happy life.” He sniffs, disgusted.
The image of the Halls in front of the mango tree, Mrs. Hall claiming they were thrilled to be in love… I know Ian’s a piece of work, that his fondness for his wife is questionable at best. But I at least believed Mrs. Hall adored her husband, blissfully gave passes for his nonsense because she loved being with him more than being alone. I figured she thought they were more powerful together, however imperfectly.
Might be wrong about that too.
I reach for another dress, this one dyed a deep burgundy with small glass beads woven throughout. This gown is not mine, and I don’t want to take it. So much of my past was take take take. But I have things to do, important things. So this is what has to happen.
“Thank you. For the dress, and for keeping the kids.”
Dante makes his way to the door, stops. “You know, the torches outside?”
“Yes, sir?”
“They’re electric.”
A beat passes.
Oh.
He knows I didn’t burn my dress out there.
It wasn’t possible.
Dante smirks. “You’re not as good a liar as you think.”
By the time I’ve changed into the new gown and done something with my braids, the audience has trickled back into the lobby. It’s intermission, and everyone’s mingling. I blend into the crowd, let everyone loop around me as I search for Jada and Luis.
The concert doesn’t feel remarkable anymore.
This could have been any fancy event in the States. Mostly non-Black attendees, most snobby and bored at the same time. Burdened by more wealth than anyone knows what to do with and spending more on tonight’s outfit than regular folks can afford to put toward food in a week. So much money for people who don’t need it, people who could help many more by giving rather than keeping.
And the Halls are fighting to stay relevant here. They’ve tried to fit into a space that was never meant to include them. A space I wanted to be part of too. Favor bought at any cost. Like Solomon from the Blackbead legend.
Was I wrong? Speeding to a country I didn’t fully understand, assuming it’d be so different from the one I left because I thought it should be? Because that’s what I wanted to believe. I wanted to believe that this world would be so much nicer than the one I left.
Of course I was wrong. I’ve been looking at Jamaica through a pinhole and fooling myself into thinking I saw the whole picture. I saw only what I wanted. What I hoped for.
Just an hour ago, I learned a young woman died in this country, her name lost to almost everyone but the man paid to pretend girls like her didn’t exist. And the guy who might have been the cause of her death? He’s cheating on his wife and trying to become prime minister on a platform of “service and honor.” Is any of that so different from how things usually go back home?
At the fundraising banquet, Ian said that he worried Jamaica was losing its identity. Focusing on individualism over community, on status over mutual respect. He said Jamaica was becoming too much like America.
He was wrong. I don’t think Jamaica’s becoming like America. But if Ian and Patrick are any indication—if Kelly’s death is any indication—then there are clearly people in both countries who are sick with something I’m not sure is curable.
And I don’t want any part of it.
The kids sit at a special table designated for the Hall family. Luis and Jada are passed out on the gold tablecloth in front of plates of half-eaten hummingbird cake. Not even the sugar rush or the adrenaline of getting to stay up late could keep them awake. Mrs. Hall hovers near them. She deigns to grab a napkin and wipe the drool from Luis’s mouth. She looks like a mom. A dedicated, loving mother.
It doesn’t fit the reality I’ve seen. The one where she comforts her pissed-off, unfaithful husband but not her children. The one where she tolerates a man who screams around two kids who can’t defend themselves or talk back.
But now’s not the time to start a fight with her. She’s a victim too, in her own way.
I approach the table, head bowed. I’ll apologize for being away, for wearing her dress without permission. I pray she won’t discipline me too badly for ditching the children if I find the right lie to keep her calm. Could I get away with playing the “I’m unwell” card again? “Mrs. Hall, I’m so sorry. I had to—”
“It’s okay, dear. Take the night off. Enjoy the concert, will you?”
“But ma’am…”
“I insist.” She gives a wink. “The children are safe with me.”
Not sure about that.
But I take the out and rejoin the mob. My head’s spinning. Didn’t get yelled at by Dante, didn’t get told off by Mrs. Hall—who didn’t even seem to recognize the gown. This is the luckiest I’ve been in a while. And now, I have time.
I need to find Aaron.
I check my phone. No texts, no calls. Where is he? Still in the auditorium? I march in that direction, seeking Aaron’s usual pulled-back bun.
And I spot Simone instead.
She’s standing by the double doors to the theater. No dress. She’s in a uniform like the rest of the venue staff, black pants and white shirt. Is she working the event? Even though she was invited as a guest? Why?
Her eyes remain steady on the stage, where Ian dallies, chatting with the upcoming act. She doesn’t seem to feel me staring.
Simone waiting by Ian’s office in the middle of the night.
His deep voice echoing in the hallway, calling for her.
Someone gently touches my waist. I jerk around.
“It is you,” Aaron says. “When did you change? And your dress is…”
It’s not white. He’s never seen me in any other color.
“I’ll explain later.” We beeline to an empty corner of the lobby. Aaron presses his hand into the small of my back, guiding me.
“Was lookin’ everywhere for you,” he murmurs.
Me too. Me too.
“First thing: talked to that friend of mine, the cop. Met me here.” Aaron checks the room, then leans in. “Found some stuff on Kelly.”
Now I’m sweeping the area, a bundle of nerves about how what Aaron knows links with what I do. Nobody’s looking at us.
Except Ora.
She stands in the center of the lobby, decked out in a short sunflower-yellow dress that sticks out amongst all the dark floor-length gowns. Josh is next to her, shirt half tucked, chatting her ear off. Their arms are twined. But they don’t remotely read as a couple; there’s too much space between them, a subtle leaning away from each other. Ora’s gorgeous, as always. Her facial expression isn’t one I’m used to, though. It’s solemn, a little wooden. My heart drops, and I run through all the possibilities. Maybe she feels out of place. Maybe she had a rough day before the benefit.
Or maybe she saw Aaron and me talking. Standing so close.
And here I am… crossing the line. Hurting her.
All I do is repeat the past. But I want to change.
Aaron’s voice brings me back to the matter at hand. Focus. “Clarke did not lie. Kelly work with the Halls for a long, long time. Then about fifteen years past, she disappear.”
“Just… gone?”
“Her family file a report, say she missin’. Nothing turn up.”
So she vanished and didn’t tell anyone she was going anywhere? “Did the police talk to the Halls at all?”
“Questioned them, yeah. They said they heard Kelly move abroad. Said that’s all they know.”
“A woman went missing, the Halls were probably the last ones to see her, and the cops just… believed them when they said she moved?”
“Friend said it seem like the police investigate a little bit… but then it stop. Case closed.” I must look frustrated, disappointed, or both, based on how Aaron’s own face twists seeing mine. “He think some money might have change hands. Because that’s what the wealthy do, you know? Make problems go away.”
Only the ones they created themselves.
What is my parents’ money for if not making problems disappear?
“You okay?” Aaron asks. No. “No color in your face. What happen back at Blackbead?”
I tell him everything. The pointless search through Thomas’s archives. The lights leading the way to the key for Ian’s office.
“You sure you don’t just think you see something funny with the lights?”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
I mention finding a woman’s weathered photo, a bone flute necklace dangling from her neck. Reading Mr. Hall’s pleading apology note to Kelly Rowe.
“And then that duppy lit the office on fire.” I gesture to my new dress. “I had to change.”
“A fire, for real? You hurt?” He tries to inspect me for wounds. But I brush him off, attempt to tell him I’m fine, attempt to keep the conversation on Kelly, on Ian, on this fucked-up hell house we’re living in.
Aaron catches my hand.
There’s a burn on the inside of my forearm. Where just last night, his thumb circled the delicate skin. Where his lips left their mark.
Didn’t see the damage before. Didn’t feel it.
The burn is in the shape of a bull.
Aaron traces its outline, makes sure not to touch. “Duppy really try to hurt you.” And I deserve it. Because why did I even think the duppy and I could understand each other or be on the same side? It tried to kill me tonight. It tried so hard, it nearly burned down Blackbead, and I’m surprised it didn’t.
Then I remember what Mother Maud said.
Duppy not rest while Blackbead stands.
So you will do what it wants.
But what it cannot.
You did bring a seed of destruction with you…
The irrepairable au pair suite. The fallen lights. Ian’s burnt office. I shiver. Maybe tearing down Blackbead is exactly what the duppy wants me to do.
Aaron’s touch distracts me. Soothes me. And I can’t have it. Not anymore. I gently pull my arm back, cradle it near my chest. Can’t think about what happened, what could have happened, what might still happen.
Across the lobby, Wesley sees us and waves. I don’t want anyone to notice the burn and ask questions; I have no easy-to-believe answers. So Aaron fake smiles and points to the auditorium as if to say we’ll meet him there. Wesley heads into the theater, and I can breathe again.
“So, Kelly’s the duppy then?” I question.
Aaron takes off his jacket and throws it around me so I can hide the mark. “How it seem.”
“And Kelly and Ian were having an affair before she disappeared.”
“Very likely.”
“So what if…” The words stick in my throat. I don’t want to believe what I’m going to say. I don’t want to even consider it. Because for all his faults, it’s still hard to think Ian would cross this line. The Halls were supposed to be respectable people.
That might have been a trick.
“What if Ian killed Kelly?”
Aaron takes his time responding. When he does, his tone is grave. “Hope you wrong.”
I close my eyes, slow the overwhelm for a few moments. I just need to think.
Kelly is the duppy. She must be. She practically told me herself.
But what she won’t tell me is what she wants me to do with this information. Where do I go? How do I help, besides torching Ian’s mansion to the ground?
Why me?
When I open my eyes, the lobby has thinned. Most have paraded back into the auditorium for the next performance. Aaron and I stroll toward the open doors. Ian is still onstage, joking with the audience.
I almost fail to spot the young woman standing inside the door.
Simone. Watching the show with full attention. As if Ian were a sun she orbited. Her long braids sway behind her.
Braids splayed against the rocks…
A vision made of haze and ember.
A woman with her skull fractured, crumpled at the bottom of a cliff.
What if I was wrong? What if the woman wasn’t me?
Similar hair, similar height… another Young Bird at risk of flying straight into peril and breaking herself.
Simone finally sees me. Unreadable.
Maybe what I saw at the jerk pit wasn’t a threat. It could have been a warning.
And just like that, it clicks. It makes sense, what Kelly has been trying to do, what she wants me to do.
She wasn’t trying to kill me. She wanted me to understand how dangerous this is. That we are dealing with life and death, a situation that killed Kelly herself years ago.
Simone walks past Aaron and me, exits the theater. But I can’t stop following her.
I ran to Jamaica to start over, to be better. Now Kelly’s asking me to keep another girl from repeating the mistakes we’ve both made. I know what it’s like to fuck up. I know how much it hurts, how wrong choices can kill. Somehow, Kelly figured me out. And she chose me to do what she can’t.
Simone disappears through a side door. She never looked back, not once. She’s in her own world. If she’s not careful, that world could crumble.
I have to stop Simone.
And it has to be me. Because I am the one who understands.
The audience claps for Ian, for the band, for this night of patting one another on the back for being a “have” rather than a “have-not.”
When I arrived in Jamaica, I told myself that I’d do almost anything for a second chance. Maybe what drew Kelly to me is what drew me to Jamaica.
Redemption.
This is how I earn it.