Daisy
That’s not the version I told the police, of course. Just that first part, where Liam confronted me, drunk and horny, and I walked away. They didn’t press further. No “Are you sure you didn’t discuss anything else?” or “Did he follow you?” Somehow, even knowing it wouldn’t stand up in court, my conscience feels clean. I didn’t lie. I just omitted facts.
The part that has my gut twisting is that I lied about my identity. Again, that seems ridiculous. I’ve been lying about it since I arrived. Now, though, I have given my false identity to the police. No actual ID—the young deputy didn’t ask for that. If they do, I’ll be screwed. I don’t have fake ID, and the real one is in a safety deposit box in Tampa—I’d been paranoid about someone finding it and realizing who I am.
I’m freaked out for the same reason I’m not carrying fake ID. When my suburban friends shoplifted lip gloss and candy bars, they made me stay outside. Even though I wasn’t lifting anything myself, the guilty look on my face would have given everyone away. I don’t jaywalk. I don’t drive after a single beer. I once lost a good job because I refused to use stained poplar when a client paid for black walnut.
Maybe my extreme law-abiding is like Tom refusing to drink. Through my veins pumps a hereditary disregard for the distinction between legal and illegal ways to make a living. Yet I don’t judge my father—and grandfather—and great-grandfather—for their choices. They needed to put food on the table. And, yes, in Dad’s case, he needed to feed addictions, but the grocery and rent money still came first.
Perhaps that is where my true aversion to criminal behavior lies. Unlike my ancestors, I don’t have an excuse. As a teen, I could afford the candy bars and lip gloss. My skills pay my bills, and I have no dependents—or dependence—to feed. Whatever the reason, now that I’ve lied to the police, I’m a little freaked out.
A lot freaked out.
Tom said I could come by later and talk to him. I’m resisting that urge. It feels like when we’d come here in the summer, and Gran would fight with Mom. It always happened at night when they thought I was asleep and Dad wasn’t around to run interference.
Mom and Gran hated each other, which was weird because they both wanted the same thing: to get Dad clean and straight. I guess it’s like having two master carpenters working on one house. You’d think they’d be thrilled to find a partner who’d make the job easier, but instead, it becomes a battle of will and ego.
Under the surface, they were as alike as mother and daughter, hard in their love and hard to love. So they fought over who could help Dad and who was dragging him down, and on those nights, after I’d gone to bed, they’d clash like titans of old, the house rocking with their frustration and rage.
I think back on those days, and I wish I’d been old enough to jump between them, hold back the force of their personalities and negotiate peace between the two women whose love for my father still couldn’t save him. Maybe that could have saved us. Or, perhaps, it wouldn’t have mattered how old I was—they’d still only see a child who didn’t understand.
Back then, I only understood that their rage scared me. I’d sneak out, run to Tom’s place and tap on his window. He’d keep me company until I felt safe enough to go home. Tonight, I am that girl again, desperate to run to Tom and wake him up to soothe my fears.
Eventually, I do sneak out. Celeste has gone to bed. We didn’t speak beyond me asking how she was doing and praying she didn’t want someone to talk to. Thankfully, she did not and retreated to her room.
When I first planned this mission, I expected to hate Celeste, even if she didn’t murder my grandmother. This woman stole my identity. She found my grandmother in seriously poor health and took advantage. She insinuated herself into Gran’s life and robbed me of any chance that Gran would, on her deathbed, finally reach out and reconcile. Worse, Gran thought we had reconciled. Her granddaughter had returned, and the past was wiped away. My dearest dream come true . . . except it happened to someone else. Someone who hadn’t loved Gran. Someone who’d only seen her as a mark to be conned.
Then I’d realized that the best way to do this was to just stay cool. Play my role of wandering soul and hope to get information that way. Get access to the house. Find Gran’s diary and the imposter’s ID.
It’s going to take some time to see this woman as Celeste again, and I need to return to that place if I’m going to follow through on my plan.
I slip out of the house and into the yard, heading to Tom’s place. I’ve gone maybe fifty feet past the property when I catch voices on the breeze, and I drop to one knee, extinguishing my flashlight just as a brighter light cuts through the darkness. My heart hammers as two male voices talk, only their tones reaching me, rough and abrupt. I catch Liam’s name and freeze.
What the hell were you mixed up in, Liam?
More than just shady legal work. I know that from our conversation last night.
I wish you weren’t lying dead out here, Liam.
I wish you were still alive so I could sue your ass for everything you’re worth, get you disbarred and see you locked behind bars. I want to see you in a prison cell looking down at a tattoo you didn’t give yourself, marked for life as exactly the sort of person you sneered at with Tom.
I wish that for you, and instead, you are dead, and I’m not satisfied. I only hope that whoever pulled that trigger looked you in the eye when they did it. I hope they were someone you screwed over, and the moment before that bullet hit, you realized every step that brought you to that point was a choice. Your choice.
If I had my phone, I could sneak up and take a picture of the men in case they are Liam’s killers. The thought makes me stifle a laugh. Yeah, no, it’s probably a good thing I don’t have my phone, or I’d end up alligator-chow, all for the sake of a blurry, dark photo.
I should flee. Get the hell out before I’m seen or heard. Yet here is an opportunity I cannot resist. Not a photo, then, but information. A lead. A snippet of conversation.
I stifle another laugh. Okay, maybe hoping for case-breaking information is a bit much. I might hear something, though.
I creep in their direction, following the beacon of their conversation and their movements, lumbering through the swamp. Finally, words come clear.
“You do realize this is a complete waste of time, right? Also dangerous as hell. It’s after dark, and we’re in the swamp.”
“The swamp is over there. This is dry ground.”
“You know what I mean. We shouldn’t be out here.”
“I just—”
“You want to see your first dead body.”
“No, I want to find a man who I’m sure is out here, murdered.”
“You mean he didn’t just abandon his vehicle with the keys on the seat? Isn’t that what you told his girlfriend?”
A grumble that I now realize is the voice of the younger deputy sheriff, Coleman. It’s the police, out looking for Liam’s body.
Shit.
Yes, being found by his killers would be worse, but this is equally dangerous.
I take one step backward. Then another. I’m in the middle of a third step when the flashlight beam swings my way, a voice saying, “Did you see that?”
I crouch there, holding my breath as the beam cuts a swath through the darkness.
“Something moved,” Coleman says.
“Mmm, yeah. See, the thing is, city boy, that this ain’t the city. Whole lotta stuff moves in these swamps, and the only real question is whether you can eat it . . . or it can eat you. Which is—may I repeat—why we shouldn’t be out here. They’ll send dogs in the morning.”
“What if the body isn’t here in the morning? What if an alligator or a wild boar hauls it away?”
The older deputy—Mazur—gives a deep sigh.
“What?” Officer Coleman says. “Didn’t you just remind me there are things out here that eat people?”
As they talk, I creep backward. My shoe slips off a fallen log, thumping into a puddle.
“There!” Coleman says. “You heard that, right?”
“Son, did I mention how many critters live out here? I’m humoring you, because you’re a good kid and I hate to squash your enthusiasm, but we need to get our asses back to the station before they need to send dogs looking for us.”
“I just want to check this out.”
Another sigh, but the older deputy doesn’t stop him. I look around wildly. There’s thick vegetation to my left. I start over there, but with each step, my shoe squelches, and I know I’m leaving a trail. Also, I can’t see. I can only make out dim shapes and—
I stumble over another fallen branch and look down—
The branch has five fingers, curled inward. It’s Liam’s outstretched arm.
My chest seizes, panic burbling, the deputies heading my way as I stand beside Liam’s dead body.
One of them spots me and crashes through the undergrowth. I wheel to run even as my brain screams that this is the worst possible idea. Stand my ground. That’s the best course. The only course. Pretend I just found him now and pray for the best. I didn’t kill Liam, so there’s no reason to run, and I’ll only make things worse.
All that goes through my head . . . as I run. My brain screams instructions, logical instructions, and my legs do their own thing, brain drowned out by instinct. I get three steps before my brain shouts fresh information, information that my body actually hears.
The crashing isn’t coming my way.
“Get the hell back here!” the older deputy bellows.
“He’s running!” the younger one replies.
“Who? The dead guy? Get the hell back—”
A squeal sounds. The squeal of a very angry opossum. The deputies’ voices grow incoherent with distance. I freeze there, waiting to be absolutely certain they’re gone before I—
Mud squelches behind me. I spin, fists going up, but before I see more than a shape, a hand slaps over my mouth. I swing, my fist hitting just as I see Tom’s face, his mouth opening in a hissed, “It’s me.”
Or that’s what I think he was about to say. A fist to the jaw knocks his words away. He staggers and reaches out to steady himself on my arm, but I step away. I stand there, silent, as he recovers and glowers at me.
“You’re welcome,” he mouths.
I arch my brows. He gestures toward the deputies and pantomimes throwing something. In other words, that opossum didn’t just happen to tear out at an opportune moment. Tom had set it running.
I turn my attention toward the deputies. They’re farther in now, the older one snarling because he’s calf-deep in mud.
I catch Tom’s eye, and I don’t apologize. I put a hand to my mouth and shake my head. Understanding sparks in his eyes. However good his intentions, sneaking up on a woman and covering her mouth never says, “I come in peace.”
He considers and then nods, mouthing, “Fair enough” and “Sorry.”
I gesture at his jaw, and I mouth, “We’re even,” and he chuckles under his breath, and I relax. There’d been a moment, seeing him, when his intentions had not been clear, when I wasn’t sure he really did come in peace.
A moment when I doubted. When I wondered what the hell he was doing here. I still do.
He motions for me to follow him. He picks his way through the swamp more expertly than I could, and in the distance, while we can no longer hear the deputies’ voices, it’s obvious from their tone that they’re in retreat.
It’s only when we reach the back of Tom’s lot that he speaks, answering my questions before I can ask them.
“I was coming to see you,” he says. “I couldn’t sleep, and I thought I’d check in on you. I was cutting through when the cops spotted someone, and I sent that possum running, in case it was you.”
He pauses at the back door. “I didn’t mean to spook you.”
“Let’s get inside, and I’ll tell you how it went with the police.”
Celeste
After tossing and turning in bed, I decide to go downstairs. I pause at Daisy’s door. I turn the knob as quietly as I can. The door opens enough for me to peek in and see an empty bed.
I check my watch. It’s past one. Where’s Daisy? I glance up toward the attic, remembering my earlier suspicions, but I already know she wasn’t behind the camera. I still open the attic. It’s dark.
I head downstairs to more darkness and silence.
“Daisy?” I call, but I know I’ll get no answer. If she couldn’t sleep, she’d be reading. I suppose her love of reading suggests I may be wrong about her intellect. Still, it’s not as if she reads high literature. It’s basic airplane material, quick and unchallenging.
Which is also the sort of book I prefer. I’ve been known to roll my eyes at women who brag about only reading “literature,” and yet here I am, insulting Daisy’s reading material when it matches my own.
God, I want to shake myself sometimes.
When there’s no sign of Daisy on the main level, I recall an easy way to check whether she’s in the house. She always puts her shoes at the door, like the nice girl she is.
Daisy’s shoes aren’t at the door. Knowing she’s been distracted, I check both doors and her room. I also check outside in case they’re muddy from being behind the property.
No shoes here, no shoes there, no Daisy-girl shoes are anywhere.
I open the front door and step onto the porch, staring into the blackness.
Snuck out in the night to visit Tom, Daisy?
Huh.
Not what I expected.
Not at all.