We are stronger together. I imagined hearing the chant we used when facing a common adversary.
Immediately, the pressure on my throat disappeared, leaving me gagging. I sat down hard on the wrought iron bench, and took a deep gulp of my now-cold coffee. I looked up in time to see my father and Jack peering in our direction. My mother followed my gaze and waved at them. They paused for a moment before waving back and resuming placing a roll of fake grass across the cistern.
“What was that?” Thomas asked. He leaned closer, his finger gently touching a spot on my neck. “You’ve got welts like fingers going around your neck.”
I rubbed my throat. “I don’t know. Are you sure Adrienne wasn’t strangled?”
“Positive. I’ve seen the autopsy photos. It was definitely a blow to the head.”
A strong gust of icy wind blew past us, bringing with it the pungent scent of Vanilla Musk. My mother, Jayne, and I all exchanged glances.
“She’s here,” I said.
“Then who was strangled?” Jayne asked, gently cupping my face and turning it side to side, studying my neck.
Thomas pulled out his phone and snapped a few photos. “Strangulation isn’t uncommon in cases I’ve worked on, but no connection to this particular case.”
Before Jayne and I realized what she was doing, our mother had removed her gloves and picked up the pink Discman in her bare hands. She sat down heavily on the bench beside me, her mouth open in shock.
“Mother?” Jayne tried to pry the CD player from our mother’s hands, but she wouldn’t let go.
We watched in helpless horror as our mother’s eyes rolled back in her head, her skin blanched a deathly white, the red lipstick on her mouth resembling bloody slashes from a knife. Instinctively, Jayne and I stepped in front of her, blocking the view from the cistern. We knew what to expect, and my father didn’t need to witness it.
A growl, pulled from some deep, dark place, rumbled in our mother’s chest and up her throat until it exploded from her mouth like sewage.
“YOU. WILL. BE. SORRY.”
She began to shake, her knuckles bulging under the skin as she gripped the CD player, her staring eyes like black holes in her skull.
Jayne and I reached for the Discman at the same time, the shaking stopping as soon as both of our hands had touched it. Our mother’s hands fell to her sides as her head slumped forward. Thomas grabbed her to keep her from slipping to the ground, kneeling next to her and gently rubbing her hand.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” she managed, her words sliding sideways out of her mouth, her eyes searching until they settled on me. “That . . . machine,” she managed. “It’s important.”
“Let’s get you inside . . .” Thomas began.
Mother held up her hand. “In a minute. This is . . . important.” She swallowed, then turned to Thomas. “Take that machine. Look at it again. There’s something that was . . . missed. They . . . don’t want you . . . to see.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t . . . know. They wouldn’t let me see.”
My gaze met Jayne’s, my throat smarting as I spoke. “Still on board?” I asked.
Her smile didn’t completely hide her worry. “Stronger together, remember?”
I nodded as we each squeezed one of our mother’s hands. We stood together, carefully pulling her to her feet. “I’m taking you home and putting you to bed. Jayne can make up something to tell Dad.”
Thomas picked up the Discman and the yearbook. “I’m taking these both to see what we might have missed. I’ll be in touch.” After being assured that Ginette was going to be fine, he said his good-byes and left, Jayne’s gaze following him until he’d rounded the corner of the house.
As I watched him leave, something soft hit me on the side of the head. We all looked down, spotting the red heart-shaped pillow with the ruffled edge that had once belonged to a young woman who’d been dead for over twenty years.
CHAPTER 9
I brought my order outside to the small red table in front of the Queen Street Grocery, my stomach grumbling at the scent of my Nutella crepe smothered in powdered sugar and whipped cream. I’d opted for the side of fruit to quash any guilt. It wasn’t my preferred doughnut for breakfast, but anything from the Queen Street Grocery was a worthy substitution.
A young waitress wearing a College of Charleston T-shirt brought out my large cappuccino with an extra helping of steamed milk foam on top. I resisted the impulse to lick it, instead leaning forward and closing my eyes, breathing in deeply and enjoying the moment. Despite it being February, the temperature was almost balmy with a rare treat for Charleston—low humidity. I sat back in my chair, intent on allowing myself to be momentarily happy. My family was under the same roof, I was ready to finalize my first sale in over four months, and I was about to eat real breakfast food without the disapproving glances of Sophie or Nola.
“Mrs. Trenholm?”
My eyes shot open to see Meghan Black standing next to my table, wearing an adorable pink swing coat with a large bow at the shoulder, black leggings, and riding boots. I’d seen the entire outfit in the front window of the Finicky Filly. Either Meghan had found another source of income, or her mother still loved dressing her little girl.
“I’m meeting Mrs. Farrell.” I hadn’t meant it to come out as a shout or to sound like I was apologizing.
“Okay . . .” Meghan said slowly.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought Sophie or Nola sent you.”
When her look of confusion didn’t clear, I said, “Have a seat. I think my friend is running a bit late.” Which was understandable, considering the construction commotion at Veronica’s house. I’d set up the breakfast meeting so I could tell her about the episode in my back garden the previous day.