Page 2 of Ten Years Later
In the kitchen, Keaton had already poured his coffee and put a Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwich in the microwave. It smelled like delicious grease and cheese. His stomach growled.
“Fine, whatever.” Zane moved into the kitchen, putting his disgusting green juice bottle in the recycling bin. “I’ll see you at nine. You’ve got the address?”
“Yep.”
“Also, you going to the funeral?”
“Nope.” The microwave dinged. Carefully, Keaton peeled back a corner of the plastic wrapper, releasing steam.
“It’s Cora’s mother.”
“So?”
Zane sighed. “You’re too old to be eating shit like that.”
“We’re thirty-two.”
“Yeah, and Dad died at forty from a heart attack.”
“My cholesterol is fine.” Keaton had no idea about his cholesterol. He peeled the sandwich apart and squirted mustard. “Tell you what, you stop drinking whiskey and crashing on my couch and I’ll stop eating shit like this.”
“Blah. Blah. Blah.” Zane grabbed a questionable banana from the sparse fruit bowl and was out the door.
Keaton stood alone in the kitchen eating his sandwich laden with sodium and chasing it with heavily creamed coffee.
On the counter, his past due statements glared.
In his truck, Keaton plugged the worksite address into his phone. Situated forty miles up the coast from St. Augustine, the sprawling estate carried the upscale Ponte Vedra zip code.
As he pulled away from the two bedroom/two bath home where he once made a life with Cora and Vivian, his phone rang. He notedMomon the caller ID and sent it to voicemail.
He turned the radio to a country station, hand cranked the window down, and slid on sunglasses. Hot and humid August air moved around him. He never much minded the oppressive summers of Florida.
He drove the long way, cutting through the historical downtown area, and taking the bridge over to the coast where Highway A1A stretched endlessly. Keaton took his time, enjoying his coffee, soaking in the Atlantic’s vibrant hues, and idly watching seagulls float on the breeze.
Traffic moved slowly with commuters and school back in session.
Eventually, the two-lane coastal highway opened to four lanes. Desolate beach transitioned to lavish and thick magnolias. Carts and players dotted the many golf courses. Gated communities sheltered lush lawns and ocean views. Traffic was littered with Mercedes and BMWs, Rolls-Royces and Jaguars. The air scent shifted from salty sea to fresh-cut grass.
Keaton double-checked his GPS. Not far now.
Up ahead, a school bus signaled. Vehicles stopped. Teenagers dressed in khaki pants or skirts and burgundy short sleeve tops stood in a clump. They began to board. In the distance, a girl sprinted down the sidewalk, waving and yelling. Her crossbody bag bounced. Long, dark curly hair whipped out behind her. She leaped onto the bus just before its door closed. The bus pulled away.
Vehicles resumed their journey, but Keaton didn’t move. His heart raced. His body grew numb.It couldn’t be.
Behind him, someone honked.
Keaton pulled forward, slow at first, then fast. He jerked the truck into the next lane, got another honk, swerved back, and followed the bus.
It turned off the main four-lane thoroughfare, trailing a long road, stopping several times at other neighborhoods.
For twenty minutes, Keaton stayed close, his gaze peeled to the bus until it pulled onto the campus of Campbell School, a private high school. Dozens of other teenagers dressed in the same school uniform crossed the grounds, climbed from cars, and stepped from buses. Keaton veered off into the student lot, barely parked his truck, and was running toward the school before he realized it.
The dark-haired girl hopped from the bus. Keaton pushed through a pack of kids. The girl waved to a friend holding an art kit. Breathing heavily, Keaton came up behind the girl.
The friend said, “Thanks for letting me borrow all of this.”
“Any luck?” the dark-haired girl asked.
