Page 14 of Debt of My Soul

“My brother,” she says, her head hanging down. “They call it Jackpot around here, but the world knows it as Fentanyl. He’s been addicted for four years now. Worked with Darrin for two.”

“And Darrin’s a dealer?”

She snorts at my question. This feels personal, too personal. But gosh if I don’t want to know what kind of town I’m living in. Call it self-preservation.

“Darrin’s the kingpin. Drug lord. Narcotrafficker. Heart breaker. Bastard incarnate. Whatever you want to call him.According to my brother, he’s one of many in a large distribution network spanning from D.C. to California.”

She sniffs, and a tear drips down her cheek. Possibly pain for her brother and brokenness outline her quivering chin.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”

“It’s fine. I’m used to people around town knowing. What’s one more?” She wipes at her face with the back of her hand and offers me a sad smile.

“Why don’t they just arrest him?”

She shakes her head. “It’s complicated. He’s surrounded and well insulated. Darrin never moves drugs himself. He focuses on the underground casinos and gambling circuit within this town, which is how he has so much control. People need more money for drugs, he loans it out, and then they’re in debt with him. Even the mayor enjoys gambling at his underground establishments. So they aren’t exactly pressed to kick him to the curb. If they ever could.”

“And local law enforcement?”

“Also on Darrin’s payroll. My brother has mentioned seeing our sheriff at several of Darrin’s establishments.” She sighs.

“Someone, somewhere has to have these people on their radar. Don’t they?”

“You’d think so. But honestly, Darrin has roots in this town.” River’s eyes flutter as if she’s trying to bat away memories. “He grew up here but never went to our public school. Never had any friends. He’s wicked smart, though, and it’s serving him.”

I study River and can’t help but guess there’s more she isn’t telling me. She’s already offered more information than anyone else, and I don’t want to push my luck by asking for more.

Her hair flickers in the breeze, and the pained expression on her face makes me want to change the subject I so casually brought up.

“Is Double Lucky’s yours then?” I ask.

Her down curled lips turn up into genuine joy. “Yes. My grandmother willed it to me when she passed. I used to help her in the shop growing up. It was my first real job. It’s how I met Darrin actually …”

And I failed to change the subject …

“He used to come into the shop with his mom once or twice a year. She was a single mother raising two little kids alone. My grandmother gave her a significant discount on any clothes and toys for the boys. She always told me there was no profit worth watching other people struggle. I’ve carried that with me.”

I smile. “Sounds like she was an amazing woman.” Both sets of my grandparents passed before I was seven so unfortunately, I didn’t get to connect with them much. Listening to River recount her grandmother’s vision for the store and her philosophies about giving when you can—it’s refreshing. Is anyone truly selfless anymore these days?

Future pictures of my parents offering sound wisdom and advice to my kids shuffle through my mind. I only hope that someday, despite my brokenness, I can offer the same to my children.

It’s raining as soon as I walk out of the grocery store. I slump, letting the bags hang low as I watch the sheets pour down. When I finished my shift at the bed-and-breakfast, my errand for the day was grocery shopping. Finally, I’m able to fill my fridge with groceries for cooking meals in my farmhouse.

Thunder cracks and the awning I’m huddled under snaps in the storm’s wind. An engine revs and several motorcycles driveby, causing a shiver to distribute between my shoulder blades and down my spine as my thoughts move from my conversation with River to the unfortunate need to get these groceries home.

Dodging the rain is impossible as it pelts down my back, and I pop open my trunk to load everything. That’s the easy part.

The drive home not so much.

Navigating through the rain and the cover of night in a town I barely know is challenging. Slick wet roads pull at my tires. I clutch the steering wheel, knuckles clenched tightly around it.

Bright lights pull close behind me. Too close. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I’m blinded by white spots that speckle my view of the road. My heart races as I slow, pulling over to the side of the road. A large red truck slows down behind me before swerving around my jeep and speeding past.

My shoulders relax, and I pull back on the road to find my way home. My recent conversation with River has made me paranoid.

I turn into my long, curved driveway. Normally a mix of gravel and red dirt, I can almost feel my tires sink an inch or two. The drive is now a mud pit. The jeep sloshes through and fights for traction to the house. Streams of rainwater barrel down the sloped pathway to my farmhouse, making for the road’s culverts.

Warm lights shine from the porch, and I smile, thinking Adam must’ve tackled the outdoor lighting today. I had texted him after being spooked by my lunch break conversation with River and asked him to make outdoor lighting a priority.

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