Page 75 of Broken Bayou
“That one’s quite the busy bee. She’s got lots of questions about my old car and you and some little girl named Emily.”
“Holy shit, Mama. What did you say?”
“I told her to get her fancy pants the hell out of my room.”
I smile. “Of course you did.”
“Who is that woman?”
“I’m sorry. She’s ... I’m not sure what she is. We’ve been talking about some things. She’s a reporter.”
“We’ve already had this talk, Willamena. You don’t need to be talking to anyone. This is nothing to do with us. That idiot got out of the car. You said so.” Mama coughs again, and this time, it lasts until she coughs something up. I hear her spit.
“I hate that Rita came up there. She’s digging for her story, that’s all. But she should have told me she wanted to talk to you.”
Mama is talking about Rita in my ear, but I’m not listening. I open my text messages and type one to Rita.
What the hell are you doing?
The response is quick:
Almost back. Will explain. Meet me at Taylor’s in an hour.
I’m at Taylor’s Marketplace, sipping coffee, when Rita walks in. She waves to me as she clips to the back counter. She orders a coffee and sits next to me. She still looks perfect even though she must have driven nonstop to get back to Broken Bayou so quickly.
I face her. “My mother? Really?”
“Sorry. I should have told you.” Her coffee arrives, and she takes a giant sip. “I like your mother. Fiery, that one.”
“Start explaining.”
Rita leans in. Her eyes are bright, pupils dilated. This story is her drug, and despite her smooth hair and shiny lips, I see it’s getting the better of her. Something about her seems off. She’s too put together, too intense. “I had to talk to her. Your mother. I had to talk to the woman who owned that car. I wanted to hear her side of what happened the night she told you to get rid of it. I wanted to see her face when she told me, experience it with her.”
“And how’d that go?”
“Not well. She told me to march my fancy ass to the door.” She laughs.
“I could have saved you the trip.”
Rita sips more coffee even though, judging from her shaking hands, that’s the last thing she needs. “I just want to make sure I look under every stone. This story is a monster. A whale. And I’m reeling it in.”
I study her hands again. “How many hours have you slept in the last few days? Seems to me, the story may be reeling you in.”
She smiles, but the smile looks manic, unhinged. I know the feeling. The last two times I saw my reflection, that’s what looked back at me. This place has a way of doing that to a person.
“Nothing’s reeling me in,” she says with a glazed look. “I’ve had a lot of time in the car, driving. A lot of time to just think. And something’s not sitting right with me.”
I lean in.
“Doyle,” she says.
“What about him?”
“I don’t know. But something’s not right. I keep going over everything the investigator has told me and our talks, and everything points to him. Now, there’s the sand thing.”
“What sand thing?”
She fidgets with a stray hair in her face and tucks it behind her ear. “Some of the barrels, the newer ones, had sand residue in them.”
