Page 49 of Broken Bayou
“One thing at a time,” she says.
“I’ll probably need to call Christopher at some point.” It’s been years since we talked. It’s a miracle we separated as amicably as we did, given the fact he admitted to not only falling out of love with me but also falling in love with someone else ... a much younger and completely enamored version of myself. My admiration for Christopher had worn off when I came to finally understand I didn’t want him to take care of me. I wanted to take care of myself. I figured his affair was the bad thing that finally showed up, and it was almost a relief. No kids. I’d kept my maiden name, my own bank account. Nice and tidy, like I like it.
At the top of the porch steps, I stop. A small metal object is propped against the door.
Things aren’t so nice and tidy anymore.
I bend down and retrieve it. Definitely one of Eddie’s. It looks like a tiny metal voodoo doll. But this one, instead of somewhat normal-looking arms and legs, has small knives shooting off a round body and a misshapen head welded to the top. It’s rudimentary and certainly creepy but still quite well made. I look around the front drive and the trees flanking the house. I’m alone.
“Amy,” I say, glancing at the newest doll Eddie has left me. “Tell me this is all going to work out.”
“This is all going to work out.” A pause. “Come home, Willa.”
“There’s something else,” I say as I take the doll inside to the kitchen.
“Oh God, what?”
“Rita Meade is here. And she wants to talk to me.” I add the doll to the collection on the kitchen counter, by my thermos and the license plate. Quite the menagerie.
“The national-news-reporter Rita Meade?”
“The one and only.”
“Damn. You did go viral. Stay away from her. No comment.”
“I know.”
“No comment, Willa,” Amy repeats.
“Got it.” But as I stare at the odd collection of items, I wonder. As much as Rita and her knowledge about the car frighten me, there’s something about her that intrigues me as well. Good or bad, she’s honest. “Amy, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”
I hang up before she can protest and sink into a kitchen chair. The car, the tape, the barrels, my mother’s lies drown out the other issues I need to be focusing on. The ones that pertain to my future, not my past. But my past is where I live now, like it or not.
Chapter Fifteen
I lie in bed wide awake the next morning. I’m not sure how long I’ve been awake. Long enough to watch the sky lighten. My body and my mind ache for sleep, but neither get their wish. Every time I close my eyes, I see that tape playing over and over again.
I sent Charles a text before falling asleep, and he responded he could meet me at the police station today, this afternoon, after the sheriff’s news conference at the bayou. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or terrified. And those feelings continue to fight each other as I scan the other messages waiting for me. Three are from Rita, and the last one says she’s on her way over. It was sent twenty minutes ago.
I trudge to the bathroom and splash water on my face. What the mirror shows is not kind. Dark circles float under both eyes, which are red and puffy. My hair is wild and tangled, and the long T-shirt I chose is starting to stink. I realize I haven’t done any laundry since I’ve been here. Which is how long? I count backward. Five days? Six? A week? I glance in the mirror again. It looks like I’ve been here for years.
A loud knock sounds downstairs, followed by an even louder voice. “Dr. Watters? Hello? Is anyone home?”
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, Rita knocks again. “Dr. Watters, are you home? I want to visit for a minute. I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”
I weigh my options. The smartest would be to stay quiet and let her move on. But I have a sinking suspicion she’ll be back. Rita doesn’tstrike me as the type of woman who will tolerate being ignored. Besides, I’ve already toyed with the idea of talking to her. But I wanted it to be on my terms, not hers. Maybe I can keep this on my terms. Control the narrative. Maybe Rita, as frightening as it is to offer myself up to her, might be able to help me.Information flows both ways.And this woman is full of information.
Another knock, and I open the front door to a sticky morning and a wide-eyed Rita Meade. She is glossy to the point of reflecting light. Her face looks airbrushed. Her hair blown into silk. Her smile blinding. A few days ago, I would have been jealous. I can’t imagine what she’s thinking of me.
As she studies my face, she says, “You didn’t get my messages.”
It’s a statement, not a question. I smile the best I can and shake my head.
“I told you I was stopping by.” She smiles her full-wattage smile. “Thought I’d take a chance.” She’s wearing all black today. She must be sweltering. As if she’s read my mind, she glances over my shoulder and adds, “Do you think we could talk? Inside?”
It’s not too late. I can say no and shut the door. Tell her I’m not interested and to leave me alone. But a part of me is interested, or maybeintriguedis a better word. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve reached the point where all I can think to say isfuck it.
I shrug and leave the door open as I walk back to the kitchen. I hear Rita’s heels behind me.
