Page 66 of Broken Bayou
I steer off Main onto the road to Shadow Bluff. The oak-lined path feels more like a rabbit hole. One that’s swallowing me up. The lack of sleep recently isn’t helping, but it’s more than that. It’s a sadness for the young girls and women murdered and dumped in the bayou. For their loved ones who have suffered through the constant news coverage along with their grief. A sadness that is finally settling in after days of being distracted with my own problems. And then there’s Walter Delaroux. The police obviously had enough evidence to arrest him, but what if they’re wrong? Someone left that license plate for me, and it certainly wasn’t Walter Delaroux. Rita may be able to shed some light on that. Not that she’s the overwhelming expert, but she may have the answers I need. And in return, I’ll give her the answers she needs. The first step toward unburdening myself.
Bright patches of sunlight dot the oystershell drive. My head feels as full of shadows as the front yard. My heart feels dark. My body aches from the inside out. Memories of Mabry and Mama float through my mind like dandelion seeds, and I let them glide by without grabbing on to any. Even the sweet ones. I’m too fragile for them at the moment.
At some point, I’ll tie this all up and go back to the life I left in Fort Worth. But what is that life going to look like? Me coiffed and smiling and ready to dole out advice to the masses? I can’t see it. And of all the frightening things I’ve encountered over the last few days, this one frightens me the most. For years, decades, I pictured it. I saw myself climbing the ranks. I saw myself being my own boss and helping as many people as possible. Being successful and in complete control. But those visions are starting to drain of all color and clarity. Success at this point would be getting out of this town without being arrested.
I park in front of the house, and Rita follows me up the front-porch steps. Inside, I direct her to the right. She finds a seat on the sofa in the front room.
In the kitchen, I start a pot of coffee and study Eddie’s metal dolls on the counter. Something dances on the edge of my memory, but I can’t quite grasp it. Something about that house, about the shoebox clutched in Eddie’s massive hands, about Doyle in the doorway, telling me to be careful.
I pour two cups and take them with me to the front of the house. I settle in next to Rita and set our coffees on the table. The room is warm and full of light, but I still feel a chill. She’s looking at me with eyes that know more than they should.
“Thanks for letting me in,” she says. “Again.” She smiles.
Rita is a mixed bag for me. Some salty, some sweet. I need to be careful with her, but something feels genuine about her. I hear it in her voice. “I figured if I didn’t, you’d just be back tomorrow.”
“And the next day,” she adds with a smile.
We sit for a minute in silence; then I say, “Look, I don’t know where to start.”
Rita crosses her legs and leans forward. She takes her phone from her bag and sets it on the coffee table. “I know where to start.” She glances at the recorder on her phone, then to me. I nod.
“I like you, Dr. Watters,” she says. “I like your podcast. I like your book. I don’t want to hurt your career in any way whatsoever. I only want to cover this bayou story. And even though you’re not the whole story, you’re part of it.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Let’s start with why you’re part of it, and then, after, I’d like to talk about something else. Something that may be a lot more uncomfortable for you.”
I’m not surprised. I know what she really wants to talk about. I’ve been questioned about it before. I can do this. Ineedto do this. I swallow the knot forming in my throat. “I’m ready.”
Rita straightens her shoulders. “I know you spoke with the lead investigator yesterday. Had that lawyer with you.”
“News travels fast here.”
She tilts her head. “I make sure of that.”
I remember her saying she had a source at the police station, and a vision of the woman at the front desk pops into my head. Margie. “Margie makes sure of that,” I say.
Rita shrugs. “I know you dumped that first car in the bayou a couple of decades ago. But I don’t believe you dumped it with a body in the trunk. I’ve spent my entire career talking to guilty people. You’re not guilty of that. But you are hiding something.”
“Aren’t we all,” I say, brushing aside the image of the videotape.
“Will you tell me about the car?”
I sip my coffee. I’ve already told the police. Telling Rita is second fiddle now. The words I spoke to my mother circle back to me:Start at the beginning.
I rewind the clock to that summer and replay the same story I told the investigator. Rita listens intently, without interrupting. I finish with the license plate left on my porch steps. She looks off a minute, then says, “Do you have any idea who left it on your porch?”
“I have an idea.”
“Interesting. Someone is either trying to scare you or send you some type of message, and I doubt it’s the man they have in jail. He’s not the type of guy to have connections on the outside to do dirty work for him. The cops have had a hard time tying Walter to your car. Knowing it was dumped on his land will help, but the license plate showing up here creates a problem connecting him to the teacher’s car.”
“I thought the investigator said the teacher’s death was an accident. At the press conference by the bayou.”
Rita’s eyes brighten. “No way she’s a coincidence. She could have had an accident, sure. But something about it doesn’t sit right with me. And it doesn’t sit right with the police either. They’re just not ready to say why.”
“What do you know about Walter Delaroux?”
Rita shifts on the sofa. “Who’s interviewing who here?”
