Under Her Care



My headlights stare down the two-story brick colonial across the street. It’s nondescript like every other house on the block. Built in the 1950s with the traditional white exterior paint and front porch. I’m not supposed to know where they’re keeping Mason, but in a town this small, it’s not that hard to find out. I called Shelby Richardson because she’s got a heart of gold just like me and is part of a nonprofit that helps kids transition out of foster care. She’s always going on and on about one of the teenage girls she’s letting stay in her house.

Her eagerness to talk about it didn’t disappoint. I made it sound like I was considering helping out those teenagers the way she does, and it wasn’t but five minutes, and she was prattling off the therapeutic foster homes they have in Tuscaloosa. There are only two—one for kids under twelve and one for kids over—so it wasn’t hard to figure out where to find him.

My hands shake on the wheel. They haven’t stopped shaking since I hung up the phone with that man. I run my hands through my hair. I don’t know what to do. He hit end and left me hanging. He hasn’t called back since.

How’d he get the video? That’s what I don’t understand. John never would’ve sent that video to anyone else. He was too embarrassed. He’d never send it to a stranger—that’s for sure. What if it’s one of his friends? Would he do something like that? And why now? If he sent it to someone else all those years ago, what have they been waiting for? Did John give them some kind of weird instructions when he sent it to them?

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

I don’t know anything about John. I thought I did, but then he turned out to be a different person. Now everything’s turned upside down. And I don’t know what to do about it, and he’s not here to help. Of course I get stuck picking up all the pieces. Anger burns my insides, but I have to let it go. I just do. I’m not going to let that man go dredging up bad memories, making me relive things I worked so hard to bury.

What’s done is done. The past is the past. That’s what my mama always says too.

Stop your crying and get over it—that’s another one of her favorite sayings.

So that’s what I did when it came to John, and I’m not going to let anyone fault me for it. He doesn’t know what it’s like. Nobody does. People think they know all kinds of things about everything and everybody, especially around here, even though half of them have never left state lines. Shoot, some of them have never left the county line.

I’ve got to get away from here. That’s the only thing left to do. I already took care of Casey. She might’ve been plotting against me this entire time, and I wasn’t letting her get away with treating us that way. Maybe a little taste of her own medicine will make her think twice next time. Richard took care of all of it for me like a gem. At least he finally did something useful. I’m sick of paying him for nothing.

It’s time to leave. Everything’s crumbling, and it’s just like Detective Layne always says about lies—once you find one, you’re bound to find others. It’s okay. That’s what I’ve been telling myself all day. I can start over again. Won’t be the first time. I’ll pack a few of our favorite things and leave everything else behind. A totally fresh start. We could use a new beginning. None of the baggage from this place.

I’m not going to let that man or any of his other little cronies rain terror down on me and my family. That’s not going to happen. Not after I’ve worked so hard to pick up the pieces and carry on. How dare he threaten me like that? He has no idea how hard it’s been.

Richard can help us. He’s been part of my family long enough to help somebody disappear. And I don’t care how he feels about it. He’ll do anything if I pay him enough money. Most lawyers will.

But what about Mason? What do I do about him?





THEN



Bite this. She said. But I don’t want to bite.

I want to burn.

You’re hurting me.

I don’t care.

Focus.

This task. At hand. Always another one.

Please let me rest.

But no rest for the weary. Even though I am.

Weary.

She calls it lazy.

Ugly. Fat. Lazy. Pig.

She could do this.

Look at her.

I don’t want to.

I’m a stranger to what I see.

Slightly outside.

There’s no beginning. No end.

Somebody. Please.

Help.

Me.





TWENTY-SEVEN


CASEY WALKER



Dad’s name flashes on my screen, and I turn down the podcast I’ve been listening to on my drive home from Tupelo. I needed a distraction after my meeting with Savannah, but it hasn’t done much. All I’ve done is replay everything she said about Genevieve. The shock about her having something to do with John’s death hasn’t worn off. I switch over to my Bluetooth and answer his call.

“Hi, Dad! I’m only about twenty miles outside of Tupelo, so I’ve still got a long way to go before I’m home. How are things?” Harper had a rough morning. She woke up cranky and irritable. Nothing went right after that, and she completely derailed when she couldn’t find her favorite tennis shoes right as we were leaving and she had to wear a different pair. She carried on the entire drive to school.

“Honey, can you pull over so that we can talk?” He sounds just like he did when he called to tell me about Mom’s cancer.

“Oh my God, what’s wrong? What’s wrong with Harper? What happened? Is she okay? Dad, what’s going on?”

“Casey, honey, pull over. Harper’s okay. She’s fine. Just please pull over.” He speaks to me in a calm, soothing voice, but it does nothing to stop my racing heart or the panic tearing at my chest.

Lucinda Berry's books