Page 63 of Broken Bayou
“Eddie, stop!” I yell, trying to pull from his grip.
“Hide. Hide. Hide.”
“No! Stop it.” I manage to twist from his grip as Doyle knocks on the doorframe.
“Hello? Anyone home?” he says with a wicked grin.
Eddie freezes. I rub my arm as I work to steady my breathing.
“What we got here?” Doyle says, his eyes traveling from his brother to me, then to the tote where my hand is now once again on my gun.
“I was just leaving,” I say.
“What’re y’all talking about in here?” He stays in the doorway. He shoots a sideways glance at his brother.
“Emily,” Eddie says.
Doyle turns his attention back to me. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I said I was leaving.” I try to move past him, but he blocks me again. “Doyle, let me leave,” I say slowly. My heart rate is pounding as I think of him on the porch with that knife, as I watch him staring at me like I’m prey. I grip my gun tighter.
“What you got in there?” he asks, looking at my tote.
“You don’t want to find out,” I say.
I see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, works his jaw back and forth. Whatever he was about to say, he keeps to himself. Instead, he moves only enough to let me by, and when I sweep past him, his hot whisper fills my ear. “Be careful.”
I cross the filthy living room. Mrs. Arceneaux is on the front porch, still smoking. The sun is high and the humidity smothering.
Mrs. Arceneaux says, “Find what you were looking for?”
I don’t answer. I make it to my car and fling open the door when the reed of a woman by the front door yells, “If you see Emily, tell her it’s time to come home. You hear?”
I slam my SUV into gear and pull away from the Arceneaux house. Doyle, Eddie, and Mrs. Arceneaux stand by the door, and I watch them in my rearview mirror until they’re nothing but ghosts.
Chapter Eighteen
The smell of the Arceneaux house lingers on my clothes as I park in front of the small police station. Margie looks up when I enter the front door. I called her on my way to let her know I was coming.
“He’s waiting on you,” she says, pointing down the short hall.
Tom Bordelon and Chief Wilson are sitting in the chief’s office when I walk in. I place the security tape on the desk. Tom picks it up, and a part of me wants to grab his hand and stop him. Tell him to be gentle. Mabry’s on there. Sweet, innocent Mabry. A fissure in my chest is starting to reopen.
“Anything else you need to share with us?” Tom asks.
“I’m worried about staying here. Is there any way I can go back to Fort Worth? If you need me, I promise I can get back here quickly.”
Tom Bordelon shakes his head before I can even finish. “We need you to stay put. There’s nothing to be worried about. We have a suspect in custody.”
“What if that’s the wrong suspect?”
“Dr. Watters,” the chief says, disregarding what I said. “Thank you for bringing this tape to our attention. If we need you for anything else, we’ll let you know.”
In other words, shut up and get out.
“I don’t feel safe here,” I say to them.
The men exchange a look that tells me they are tiring of me.
