“Mrs. Doucette,” I said. “You should know the agency had no right to make Susan shut down her blog. There’s something called free speech in this country, and as long as Susan was expressing her opinion, they can’t call it libel.”
That might’ve been a load of horseshit too, but I was on a roll. And I could tell what I was saying was having its intended effect. Millie Doucette had grown quiet.
“We don’t have the kind of money to fight nothing. My husband thought Susan should concentrate on school, anyway, instead of spending all her time on that Kitten nonsense. She was smart. Had a chance at a scholarship.”
“Right.” I paused. “Is there any way I could access the website now?”
“She took it down.”
I’d already started typing. “What about one of those archive sites? Do you think it’ll be there?”
“I gotta go,” Millie said.
“Wait a second—”
But she had already hung up.
Less than three minutes later, while I was searching—unsuccessfully—for the site on any web archives, Susan Doucette pinged my Facebook.
Fuck you and stay away from my mother
I waited. The laptop buzzed again.
She’s terrified now thanks Another buzz.
She is a simple woman a good woman who cleans the shit off rich peoples toilets so she can bring home a paycheck for my lazy father who sits in the garage under a sunlamp and plays video poker all day this is who you’re trying to intimidate nice I rested my chin on my hand.
Rich bitch
And then:
She doesn’t know anything anyway not what I know.
I suppressed a smile. Pressed my fists to my mouth.
Just leave my mom out of this
I typed quickly. Can we meet? I can come to you. To Statesboro. Now.
It was only a two-hour drive. I’d already clocked it. I could probably call Captain Mike, rent a car in St. Marys, and be up there by lunchtime.
I’ll come to you I thought for a minute, then answered. St. Marys Public Library, I typed, tomorrow at noon. They had no right to shut you down, Susan. You deserve to be heard.
She didn’t reply.
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 13
“Kitten, I didn’t carve those words into the windowsill. And I didn’t push out the panel.” Fay reached for the girl, but she shrank away.
Fay’s throat constricted, because the truth was clear. She had to have done it; Kitten wasn’t strong enough. Fay must have pushed the window open in her sleep. She didn’t know about the carvings. Was she capable of doing such a thing without knowing it? Was she losing her grip on reality?
“I told you she would be unhappy,” said Kitten. “I told you she would be angry that I’m the mico. But now you’ve gone and called her back.” She moved across the room to the door.
“Where are you going?” Fay felt desperate. Terrified and exhausted and confused. The room seemed to have filled with a black, suffocating cloud of fear.
Kitten fixed her with a glare. “She told me it was in the library. She said to throw it in the water.” She flung open the bedroom door.
“What’s in the library? What are you talking about? Kitten, darling, come back.”
Fay was conscious that she must sound unhinged, that she was begging a child not to leave her alone in a room. But she didn’t care. She didn’t want to be here with Cappie Strongbow’s ghost.
“You called Cappie. You stay with her,” Kitten said and vanished into the dark corridor.
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After a fruitless half hour of waiting for Susan Doucette to resurface online, I gave up. I showered, dressed, and went downstairs. The foyer was deserted, but through the large bay window, I caught a glimpse of a huge, floppy straw hat. Frances. I felt a hand on my arm and turned.
Doro lifted her eyebrows. “You going out there?”
“Gotta face the lion at some point,” I said.
“Bit of unsolicited advice?”
“Sure.”
“Try being nice. Get her to relax, and maybe she’ll drop her guard with you.”
I watched Frances out the window. The floppy hat was motionless. She was gazing out across the yard, movie-star-style. It was her way, to strike poses like that. Making it easy for the paparazzi. Only there were no photographers here on Bonny Island to get her picture.
“Frances doesn’t drop her guard,” I said. “Not ever.”
“Oh, Meg, come on. Everybody has weak moments. Everybody wants to be seen and tell someone about the awful, horrendous, incomparable shit they’ve endured. Why do you think I’ve been talking to you?” She caught my hand. “It’s been a long time since I had a friend.”
I swallowed, let this sink in.
“Frances has a story too. Maybe it’s about the unplanned pregnancy, who knows? Who really cares—just let her talk. If it’s the truth, you can put it in your book. If it’s lies, well, you can put that in too.”
She gave me a wink, squeezed my hand, and sent me outside.
Frances had settled on the porch swing, her head tilted back and eyes closed. She was dressed in jeans and a white tank top and, frankly, looked better than I did, which rankled. I could hear the faint hum of music from the buds in her ears. I gave the swing a knock with my knee.
She bolted up and squinted at me. Her eyes were heavily made up, but underneath I could see the deep-purple shadows she’d tried to conceal. She looked tired in the harsh morning light. Vulnerable. She pulled out the earbuds, and a blast of static assaulted me.
She clicked off her phone with a sheepish laugh. “Riot grrrl music. Beno?t’s got me into it. I’m thinking of setting a book in that universe.”
“You can drop the act. No one’s here but me.”
She hesitated. “I was just making conversation.”
“You had breakfast yet?”
She shook her head.
“You want to grab a banana or something?” I asked.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
She stood. Pulled off the hat and frisbeed it back onto the swing, then fluffed her hair. She pursed her lips and stared at the huge windows. On the other side of the wavy glass, I could see a distorted image of Esther vacuuming the massive, red-carpeted front stairs.
“Are you?” she said. “I didn’t think you cared how I felt.”
“Frances.”
“Come home with me, Megan.” She took a step toward me. Her pupils had shrunk to inky pinpoints in the bright light. “I’m begging you.”
I almost laughed. “You’re begging me?”
“I’m serious. Please.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
Her voice was fervent. “We can’t talk here. She’ll hear us.” Her eyes slid to the house.
“Okay.” I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “I’m going to Kim Baker’s cabin to look for a murder weapon. You want to come along?” Her face pinched, and she looked away. “Come on, Frances. It’ll be fun. You can tell me everything you’ve been hiding. All your deep, dark secrets.”
She produced a pair of giant sunglasses from somewhere and slid them on.
“’Atta girl.” I pointed her toward the waiting Jeep and she followed me. I slipped behind the wheel and pulled the keys from under the seat.
“You have access to the vehicles, I see,” she groused, hopping in.