Page 65 of Broken Bayou
It’s like I can hear her nodding. In a sad whisper, she says, “Okay, sweet girl, you do that.”
She hangs up. I immediately punch in her doctor’s number. He’s given me his cell, the saint of a man. I leave him a message and then back out and head toward Main. Nan’s catches my eye, and my stomach growls.
The patrons inside Nan’s all look shell shocked. I fit in nicely. I find a table in the back corner and settle in. A waitress arrives and turns over my coffee mug and pours coffee.
“Know what you want?” she says in a tired voice.
“Something greasy.”
“Well, you come to the right place.” She points to the plastic menu. “Special this morning is buttermilk biscuits with crawfish gravy and a side egg with hollandaise. Sound greasy enough?”
I can almost hear my arteries clogging. I hand the menu back to her. “Sounds perfect.”
I study the room. Everyone has their heads down. Some are whispering as they look at their phone screens. I think about Travis and what he said yesterday about us not being so different. He’s right. We’d been on parallel paths. Then the bayou spits up its carnage, and I come to town, and our paths collide again. I foolishly thought I could bury something and keep it buried. What a joke. Travis and I had both been so naive. He probably more so than me. I knew who I was dealing with. My mother. I understood, somewhere in the back of my mind, I shouldn’t have helped her. Travis trusted me. And now his job is in jeopardy. And miraculously, mine isn’t.
Broken Bayou has surpassed my on-air tirade. To the rest of the world, my moment in the social media glare is gone. Just like that. The notifications have slowed. The voicemails have stopped. Yet here I am involved in something much worse than viral videos.
I pull out my phone and type “Emily Arceneaux, Broken Bayou, death” into the search engine. The waitress tops off my coffee on her way to another table. I stare at my screen. Several hits come up, most for social media accounts. I scroll until I find an old newspaper article that grabs my attention. But it’s not about Emily. It’s about a man who drowned. I click on it. A picture of Travis’s father pops up. As I read, I discover he’d been fishing with Doyle the day he died. Doyle said his father was drunk and slipped on the dock, hit his head, and slid into the water. Doyle jumped in after him, but it was too late. The drowning was ruled an accident.
Seems the sticky web surrounding this small town has another thread, and Doyle has my full attention. What if he knew I dumped that car years ago? Travis could have told him, or more likely, Eddie could have followed us and told him. But then what? Why would Doyle go to a half-sunk car in the middle of the night? I sit up straight and clank my coffee mug onto the table. To hide something.
In college when I worked with the sex offenders’ group, I’d briefly studied forensic psychology. I knew enough to know serial killers get better with each kill. The first one is usually messy. Then they learn. I glance down at my phone. Emily was found in the woods. By Doyle. Their father died in the water. Doyle was there. Now, bodies, long buried, are coming out of that same water.
Someone clears their throat above me, and I jump and look up to see Charles LaSalle II. He’s exchanged his bow tie for a purple-and-gold necktie today. He grins down at me.
“I saw you come in and wanted to say hello. How are you?”
I clear my throat, refocus on where I am. “Pretty good, I guess.”
“I’m glad I was able to help you yesterday.”
I’m not sure I’d call what he did helpful, but at least I had an ally. I nod.
“Listen, I really just wanted to come over and thank you.”
“For what?”
“For little Charlie. What you said about him stayed with me. I called his pediatrician and got a recommendation for a testing center in Baton Rouge. We go next week.” His pink cheeks grow even pinker.
I smile a real smile for the first time in days; then I frown. “Oh, Charles, I told you I’d help you with that. I’m sorry. I’ve been ...”
“Busy,” he says for me. “It’s okay. We got it handled.”
“I’m so glad. For you and for Charlie.”
“Me too.” He looks around, then back at me with sad eyes. “You know, my wife is talking about moving. Says little Charlie can’t grow up in a town like this. I just ... can’t believe this is happening ... here.” He points to the floor. “I grew up here. My parents grew up here. My grandparents grew up here. Small-town living is in my blood. It’s safe. You form relationships; you raise your children in a world where they can ride their bikes to the store without you thinking they got kidnapped. And now this.” He looks around at the throngs of people crammed around us. “Makes me sick to my stomach.”
“I understand. It’s a lot to absorb.”
He rubs his hands together. “Well, I didn’t mean to go on and on and interrupt your breakfast. I just wanted to say thanks, and be sure to call me if you need any more legal help. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you as well, Charles. For reposting that video.”
He smiles. “That’s the least I could do.”
I finish what I can of my breakfast, and as I exit Nan’s, I freeze. A car is parked in the spot next to mine, the engine still running. Rita Meade sits behind the wheel, staring at me through the windshield. She smiles and waves. As if she’s been waiting for me.
I let Rita follow me back to Shadow Bluff. I’ve seen the tape. I’ve talked to the police. Talking to Rita again pales in comparison. Besides, the last time we visited, she gave me more information than I gave her. Maybe she’ll keep sharing.
