Page 21 of Blackwood

The computer wasn’t password protected, and I was on the web in seconds. Irritation percolated inside me when I realized I could have had a fully functioning phone via Wi-Fi over the past couple of days.Asshole.

I accessed my university email and ran through the few messages I’d received from friends and professors. Dr. Stallings had written me, demanding I call him as soon as possible. Maybe it was a good thing my cell wasn’t working. After flipping through the national news, I cleared my history and closed out of the browser.

My leg had enjoyed the break, but it was time to get moving. Pushing myself off the couch, I stretched for a moment then took off into the hall that ran along the side of the stairs. I peered into a dining room, the long table dusty and the chandelier dull. Heavy drapes covered the windows, and the dark mahogany walls sucked up what little light shot through the frilled curtain edges.

I kept exploring until I turned right into a large kitchen. Dated appliances and cabinets lined the walls, but they seemed to have been top of the line in their day. A wide butcher’s block took up the center of the room, pots and pans hanging above it on a silver rack. The white fridge had some basics—eggs, milk, butter, and lunch meat. I had an inkling that these items were placed there by Bonnie, especially given Garrett’s lackluster cooking abilities. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were the height of his cuisine. The small pantry had a decent stock of boxed items and a few canned goods.

Slipping back into the hallway, I opened the door under the stairs. Simple wooden steps disappeared into the dark cellar. I felt along the wall for a light switch, but found none. Falling down the gloomy stairs didn’t seem like a good idea, so I closed the door and made a note to investigate once my leg had improved. A backdoor gave a view of the sunny yard, a rusted-out swing set grown over with weeds, and some sort of a gardener’s shed falling to pieces along the tree line. The woods were slowly reclaiming the property. How long before the house melted into the forest right along with its occupant?

Only one door remained. I turned the handle, and a rusty squeak informed me that the door hadn’t been opened in quite some time. Pushing inside, I found a woman’s bedroom. The bed, perfectly made, was covered in even thicker dust than the other rooms in the house.

Along one wall, a pile of trophies sat broken and upended next to a shelf. It looked as if someone had raked them all off with an angry sweep of their arm. I ventured farther inside, inspecting the rose bedspread, then the brushes, makeup, and knickknacks on top of the dresser. Lillian’s room, it had to be.

I’d researched her life. It was such an odd task—cataloging someone else’s achievements, failures, joys, and sorrows. She received a degree in theater from LSU, then worked for a TV station in Columbus. After that, she moved to Los Angeles. She was a ten in Millbrook County, Mississippi, but California had a different scale. I’d read a story in the local paper touting the beauty queen’s homecoming. Her Hollywood misadventure didn’t dim her in the eyes of the community. She returned and took over the local newspaper—her reporting ranging from crop failures to debutante balls.

I knelt and stared at the pile of discarded trophies. Several “Miss Millbrook” and “Miss Mississippi Queen” wins lay bent and broken, the golden angels atop them facing the floor—the fall of Lucifer in miniature. What happened here, and more importantly, why was it left this way?

Rising, I surveyed the rest of the room. Some of the decorations were girlish leftovers from Lillian’s childhood, while others, like the half-used birth control compact, were artifacts from her adult life. I crossed the daisy-shaped rug and flicked on the light to her closet. I stepped inside, the space shallow with clothes hanging on either side. Shelves lined the top with sweaters, jeans, and bags stacked in neat rows.

I ran my hands along the clothes, the empty hangers clicking against each other. Spreading them apart, I hoped to find a false back, a hidden treasure, anything that could point to my father. Nothing. The other side was similarly bare. I spun and leaned against the back wall.

Peering up at the clothes on the shelves, I spied a shoe box resting behind a high stack of sweaters. I had to stand on my tiptoes, my stitches burning, but I managed to snag it and pull it down. I hobbled out of the closet and sank on her bed, sending a plume of dust into the air. The specks floated in the rays of sun, an endless fall of particles painted orange. I flipped the lid off the box, and my breath caught in my lungs.

On the very top of a stack of papers, sat my dad’s Braves cap.

Chapter Twelve

The light had longsince faded as I sat on the bottom step and contemplated how I’d get back up to my room. I needed to process everything I’d found in the shoebox. Putting my father’s hat back inside and replacing the box in the top of the closet was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. But I couldn’t keep it, not without the risk of Garrett knowing. The very fact that it was here in his house meant I couldn’t trust Garrett.

Don’t trust any of them. My mom’s vague warning, delivered on one of her last breaths, didn’t give me much to go on, but I wasn’t going to disregard it. She and Dad had a bright, burning relationship when I’d been conceived. The fire had died down to angry hissing embers by the time I was born.

Mom raised me on her own, with only occasional visits from my father. He provided—the child support paid every month like clockwork—but he was a rolling stone. His visits were infrequent yet all-consuming. I was a daddy’s girl, always desperate to hear his stories of travel and adventure as Mom sighed and shook her head.

“I fell for the same song and dance, so I can’t say I’m surprised.” Her chiding voice in my head was more comforting than anything else. I missed her. Every day, I thought about her. She had been the only reason I hadn’t investigated Dad’s disappearance.

Between her doctor’s appointments, treatments, and my studies, I couldn’t spend time on a father that hadn’t deigned to show up for years. Even so, my gut told me something happened to him. Something bad. Her dying warnings reinforced the feeling. She’d kept me away from Millbrook County, away from anything connected to my father’s disappearance, for a reason. I didn’t know what it was until after she died. That’s when I found my father’s final message in her cell phone.

“Something is wrong here. I can’t trust anyone. Don’t come looking for me. I love you and Elise.”

The message had been delivered two years prior, and Mom had never shown it to me. She knew I’d dig.

I slipped my hand into my pocket and ran my index finger along the small memory card I’d found under my father’s worn cap. Maybe it was nothing, but its placement on the top of the stack hinted at importance. Getting a look at it became imperative, but I’d have to wait until Garrett was out of the way.

“You get your fill of snooping?” His stark voice made me jump.

“I didn’t see you there.” I peered through the gloom to find him leaning in the doorway to the library. I’d been so lost in my thoughts I hadn’t heard him. How long had he been there?

“That’s because you’re sitting in the dark.”

“Good point.” I tried to get to my feet, but my exploring and the shock of seeing my father’s hat seemed to have drained me. I faltered and gripped the banister.

“Let me guess.” He sighed. “You need help getting up the stairs.”

“No.” I refused to accept anything from him, especially not when he was sighing about it. “I just need a few more minutes.”

“Sure you do.” His face was in shadow, but I could feel the smirk turning up the left side of his mouth.

“I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

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