Page 67 of Poison Wood
“No,” I say, huffing as I extend my arm deeper. “I got it.”
My fingers snag the sandwich bag, and when I pull it out and examine its contents, my body goes numb.
“What the fuck?”
It’s a pregnancy test.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” the valet says.
I shove the baggie into my tote and sling my tote over my shoulder. “Fine,” I say.
I grab the box with the journals and folders, and again the valet is in my face.
“Can I help you with that?”
“No.”
He takes a step back at my tone. This poor kid has no idea how close to danger he is. I feel like a trip wire on a bomb. One wrong tap and boom.
I walk through the sliding glass doors into the Kingston, balancing my precious cargo.
A snappy blonde with sleek, black-framed glasses looks up from her computer behind the front desk.
“How can I help you?” she says.
I eye the long wooden bar to my right. “Just heading to the bar,” I say.
She nods and goes back to her computer.
The bar and sitting area are an eclectic mix of Victorian sofas and chairs and French antiques. It’s dark and moody and perfect for my mood. I find a small table in the corner and set my tote in one of the chairs. The bar is the exact opposite of the one I sat at only a few days ago in Miami, but it still serves the same scotch. I give the bartender, who happens to be the blond front desk attendant, my credit card. “Macallan. Neat. Water back. Keep a tab open.”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” she says with a smile, then hands me the lowball glass with amber liquid and a side water. Excellent.
At the table, I open my laptop and tether it to my cell for Wi-Fi. No public Wi-Fi for me. The scotch is smooth, and I remind myself to only sip for now, even though I want to chug it.
Erin and Carl will be here soon enough. And I need to get my shit together before they arrive.
I pull out my phone and try my father’s cell. It goes straight to voicemail. I try Debby’s next, and the same thing happens.
Think, I tell myself. Work this out.
A package arrived for me from Miami. The only person I have had any contact with in that area was Laura Sanders ... Heather.
I pluck the clear bag from my tote and study its contents through the plastic. The white parts of the test have yellowed. I examine the window with the results. It’s possible there are two faded lines, but it’s hard to say. I flip it over. It doesn’t seem to have any digital components.
Was this something Heather saved from Poison Wood? And why hadn’t she included a—
The thought snaps off. Maybe there had been a note. I’ll need to check the truck’s floorboard again. I drop the bag back in my tote and take another sip of my lunch.
So my father gets the mail on February 12, and the padded envelope is in it. Which means Heather must have mailed it before texting me on the tenth. My father opens it, and something inside literally stops his heart.
I lean back in my chair.
Why would he open it? And why would Heather want me to have that pregnancy test?
Every time an answer comes, another question comes along with it. But that’s the game I know as a reporter. Keep chasing answers until there are no more questions.
If Heather sent a pregnancy test to me, she would have included an explanation. And if she mailed it to me before meeting with me, there’s a chance she thought our meeting may not happen.
