TWENTY-ONE

It works out perfectly.

It’s the lull between lunch and dinner. Most nonessential staff has been dismissed because of the approaching storm. Every mirror is covered. The valet said it’s to block any spirits that come with the rain and thunder. The house feels hollow.

Jada is on the edge of a tantrum. Luis has a stomachache. I put them both down for a nap.

I’m alone.

One hour to find some proof for the Gleaner.

I grab the key from the box in the closet and hide it in my bra. The brass is cold against my skin. I tiptoe through the hallways, the gallery, the corridor to Ian’s office.

Ian is home, hiding in his bedroom upstairs, conferring with Thomas about how to handle the media blowback. Mrs. Hall, on the other hand, has retreated to the sitting room. She only just headed in, so she’ll be out of the way for hours, hopefully. Normally, I’d never thumb through their stuff while they were home, but this felt like a necessary risk, considering they hadn’t been leaving the house much since the island started digging into Ian’s many misdeeds.

But Cultural CareScapes must know something’s up. Reporter Lloyd suspects me too. I’m in a bind.

I get myself into the office and lock the door behind me. My memory reloads the spike of adrenaline, the searing heat, a fire ignited by a phantom. The flashbacks nearly stop me in place—as does the leftover damage. But I waste no time.

I push papers, move books around, open file cabinets. I pick through a room I’ve already combed, and—surprise!—there’s nothing new. All I have access to is the photo of Kelly.

Why did the duppy burn Ian’s letter? It was some of the only solid evidence I had that he’d done something potentially criminal.

And if there’s more here, Kelly’s not showing it to me.

“Can’t blow another light bulb or something?” I groan, crawling on the floor around Ian’s desk, searching the darkness for anything strange, for any clue I could be missing.

Wait. Darkness.

The best tool against darkness?

Light.

I whip out my phone and throw on the flashlight. Then I open every desk drawer, checking for something out of place, shiny, weird. This man has too much dirty laundry to not be hiding more stuff. What am I not seeing?

I pull out a middle drawer, extend it to the stop. Full of junk papers and half-filled manila envelopes. Then I point the light at the back. The rear of the drawer is a different color than the sides, a stain that doesn’t quite match. The sides don’t touch the back panel, either. Little gaps sit on its left and right.

There’s something in the back of this desk. I grip the handle.

If I’m wrong, Ian is going to kill me.

I wrench the drawer past the stop.

And there is a small hidden compartment.

With a stack of white and yellowed envelopes tied together with fraying twine. I peep the top of the bundle.

Addressed to Ian.

Kelly Rowe’s name in the top left corner.

No return address.

Jackpot.

I grab the stack, place it on Ian’s desk. Untie the twine. I swipe the first weathered envelope and flip it over. It’s been opened already. I slide out a few pages of paper.

Letters.

February 14, 2011

Ian love,

Miss me?

Miss you.

There is so much to say that I do not know how to say. You are good with words. Not me.

You must be mad. Maybe you do not want to hear from me after everything. I would understand that.

I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry for how I left. It was not easy. Please believe me. I was not sure how I would spend a night without you. But I had to do it. Maybe I can explain someday. Then you will understand why I had to go, and we can make up. For now, just trust me.

I think about you all the time, Ian. I think about everything we had. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it was ours. Maybe we can have it again. I hope so.

One day, you can come visit. Guess where I went? You never will. But I think you would like it here. It’s quiet. You like the quiet. Until then, hold on to this letter. Piece of me with you.

Give me some time. I will write again with better words.

I love you. Always will.

—Kelly

What in the actual hell did I read?

I pick up the next letter.

May 23, 2011

My Ian,

I can’t sleep. So I write.

Remember I said I think about you all the time? It’s true. Loved your warm hands. Loved your deep voice. Loved your beautiful smile.

It is all past, but I feel it now. Do you? Do you still remember me?

Do you remember how I kissed you? You always said I tasted like guava. Have you had guava lately? Did you think of me?

Do you remember how I touched you? Did Ruth ever learn how you like to be touched?

I do not think she has. She never has.

Do you remember the night you took those pictures of me? Do you still look at them? Do you sneak a peek when Ruth is not around? I hope so.

Ian, I will not forget you. Please do not forget me.

I will write again soon so you cannot.

—Kelly

My skin crawls. I need a fucking shower.

I fly through five more. They’re all like this. Simple but romantic. Sentimental. Sometimes filthy. And dated as recently as six months ago.

All written when Kelly is supposedly missing.

I don’t get it.

What the hell does this mean, then? That she isn’t missing? That she isn’t dead? That she left and somebody knows she’s okay?

If Kelly’s in contact with Ian, maybe he doesn’t have anything to do with her disappearance at all. She doesn’t even sound upset. She sounds like she’s still in love. She’s straight-up saying she is. So Kelly could be fine. Maybe she needed a fresh start and ran away to get just that. Like I did by coming to Jamaica.

The tightness in my chest suffocates me. I sink onto Ian’s sofa. I was so sure. I was so sure that I understood what was happening, that I got what the duppy was telling me.

And now?

If Kelly’s alive, then the duppy isn’t her. And the duppy isn’t Joy because there’s no reason why she’d show me that photograph of Kelly, or that vision of Simone at the bottom of the cliff—two people she didn’t even know. And Mother Maud said the duppy isn’t from that Solomon legend. Maybe Simone is Ian’s lover or his daughter, I don’t know. She won’t tell me either way.

I have no leads. I have no evidence. I have no idea what’s going on.

It’s over. It’s over, and I—

Footsteps.

In the hallway. Getting louder.

I throw the letters back into the compartment, close the desk drawers, tidy the desktop. Slide the key back into my bra. Then I fly out the door, closing it as I leave.

And there’s Mrs. Hall. Rounding the corner.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” I force out. What’s she doing out of the sitting room? Did she see me leaving the office?

“Hello, Carina.” There’s a sadness to her today. None of her typical poise and determination. Her complexion seems pale and washed-out, drained.

For the first time since I learned about Ian’s escapades, I think about how Mrs. Hall must feel. Years of her husband’s infidelity. And now, the public embarrassment. Not just from knowing he’s cheated. But from everyone in the country knowing he cheated on her.

Does she know about those letters tucked away in Ian’s office, or about the photos that Kelly teased? Has he ever hit her the way he’s hit Dante?

Is this the life she dreamed she’d have?

“You seem tired, ma’am.”

“I am, I am. Long, uncertain days.”

“Must be dealing with a lot… because of everything in the news.” I half expect her to fall apart at the mere mention of the media circus, because I would. But she doesn’t. She simply sighs.

“Well, it’s why we surround ourselves with people we hope we can trust.” She holds her gaze on my face. Even now, after weeks together, she’s a bit wary. I don’t blame her. But then, she says, “It’s been good to have you, Carina.”

I turn away.

“Were you looking for something?” Mrs. Hall asks. Gently wondering why I’m here. And why I’m here without the kids.

“The children are down for a nap, but, uh, Luis is missing his Superman cape. Again.” I clear my throat, try to knock out the nerves. “He’ll be upset if I don’t have it when he wakes up.”

Mrs. Hall hums to herself. “The children aren’t supposed to play by the offices.” She’s right. It’s one of the few rules Luis actually follows. Most of the time.

I compel myself to laugh, too hard. “I know, right? Can’t relax for a minute.” Mrs. Hall chuckles as well. It’s just as fake as mine. “I’ll keep hunting it down.”

“I’ll leave you to it.” I squeeze past her and pace toward the stairs, ready to get back to the children who should be up soon. My heart slows a little with each step away from the office.

I did it. I didn’t find anything for the reporter, but I didn’t get caught.

I push papers, move books around, open file cabinets.

Halfway up the stairs, I stop.

Did I close the file cabinet?

I shut the desk drawers, cleared off the desk, put the books back. But did I close the file cabinet?

My mouth floods with spit. I don’t think I did.

I know I didn’t.

If either of the Halls goes in that office, I’m in trouble. Mrs. Hall knows I was right outside the room. She’ll know I was snooping.

It’s why we surround ourselves with people we hope we can trust.

She might think I’ve been the one leaking everything to the press. Then it won’t matter if she calls the agency or the police. I’m screwed either way.

I can’t catch my breath. The writing’s on the wall.

Run.

I can’t stay at Blackbead. I crossed a line. Got sloppy. Two mistakes I’ve made before, made again.

I head back downstairs and find Wesley writing up one last grocery list before the storm rolls in. I don’t give him a chance to greet me.

“Could you keep Jada and Luis for the rest of the day?”

Wesley frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Not feeling well.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He knows the protocols for what happens if I’m ill. And calling on him isn’t protocol. But he nods. And he says, “All right. I watch ’em.”

“Thank you so much. For everything.”

“But you come back when you get right, understand?”

Too late.