I clattered down the porch steps and across the cracked clay yard. It was dark, and I tripped over a few branches and rocks as I ran, but I made it to the end of the rutted drive and hit the street without feeling Billy’s iron grasp. I didn’t look over my shoulder, didn’t slow down until I’d made my way through the lonely, darkening neighborhood and back to the main street in downtown.
Mike’s truck was there, I could see it three blocks away. It was parked in front of the KKK headquarters beside the blinking yellow light, a tow truck in the spot in front of it. I slowed to a jog and glanced over my shoulder. The street was deserted, same as earlier, but this time I was pretty sure I was being watched.
I walked all the way around the truck. Someone had taken a bat or crowbar or something to the headlights and back lights and the grille. The lights were a mess, but the dents were minor and the paint job was mostly intact. Captain Mike was going to kill me. Maybe if I gave him every bit of cash I had in my wallet—
I stopped at the front grille. A huge Confederate flag was draped over the hood; it had been secured with a web of black electrical tape. I felt the eyes then. I turned and saw them, pinpoints of light in the gloom of the storefront, and the beards and dirty caps and cigarettes glowing.
I grabbed a fistful of the flag, yanked it off, and climbed in the cab. Mike’s veteran’s cap, the navy one with the gold stitched leaves on the brim, perched on the dash. I popped it on, tucking my hair up under, and pulled it low. I started the truck—the light on the radio blinked on. 9:17. I had just enough time.
Not that I was in any shape to drive. It would not be good if I got pulled over.
My hands had gone numb from the pinpricks, but I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, pulled down the drive shaft, and popped off the emergency brake as best I could. I’d stop to clean up when I got out of this nightmare of a town. When I was far enough away that I no longer felt the burn of eyes on me. When I got back to the marina, I’d tell Mike that rednecks from Farrow had defaced his truck and promise to cover all the damages.
When I pulled out, trembling all over, I made sure to screech the truck’s tires over the crumpled flag where it lay on the hot asphalt.
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 17
Ambletern remained an unassailable fortress, indifferent to Fay’s attempts to enter it. She could not manage to pry off the storm panels. And after a day and a half of watching for boats in the sound and nights of sleeping on the porch swing, Fay despaired of seeing Kitten, the Murphys, or anyone else, ever again.
She despaired of escaping Bonny Island.
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was pitch dark when I finally got back to Ambletern. I climbed the stairs, turned down one of the hallways that bisected the third floor, and rapped on Frances’s bedroom door. Somewhere in the distance, crickets chirped a rhythmic lullaby. There must have been a window open in one of the rooms up there.
I tried her door. It was unlocked. Inside, one lone lamp glowed at the desk, but shadows layered the rest of the room. I could still see that it was done up in rose toile. Wallpaper, upholstered loveseat, curtains, all of it the same pattern. On the bed, the toile coverlet stirred.
“Frances?” I whispered.
She sat up. Her hair gleamed in the pale light, a halo of burnished copper. Her face was pale and drawn. She looked so much older in the weak light, it took my breath. I felt a pang. A yearning so intense, it surprised me. What would she do, I wondered, if I ran to her? Crawled beside her in bed?
It would be so easy to tell her I’d decided not to write the book. With just a sentence, I could turn this ship around and make all of it go away. We’d go home. And maybe, because of this experience, she’d be softer. And maybe I wouldn’t be such a bitter asshole. Maybe we could actually try to love each other.
Maybe.
She squinted at me. “What happened to you?”
I moved to the bed. “Nothing. I’m fine. Just a crazy day. How are you feeling?” I handed her the glass of water from the nightstand. She gulped the whole thing down and handed it back to me.
“Less like a corpse now. What are you talking about, a crazy day? Where have you been? Where did you go? You don’t look good.”
So. This was the mother-act I was going to get: the firing-squad version. I steeled myself and tried to arrange my face in a nonchalant expression.
“I went to St. Marys. To do research.”
She stiffened. “You shouldn’t be running around by yourself. It’s not a good idea.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She lay back on the pillows. “Did you find what you needed?”
“Might have.”
She stared at me expectantly. “Well?”
I didn’t answer.
She shrugged. “All right, fine. Suit yourself.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“A teleportation device,” she said.
I smiled. “Are you hungry?”
“God, no. From now on, I will not be consuming anything Doro Kitchens has touched. I swear that woman put something in my soup.”
“Or maybe you have a virus. Or a reaction from something you ate before you got here.”
She sniffed, fumbled under the covers, and produced her phone. She began to scroll, and I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Phone blowing up?” I asked.
“Beno?t is incredibly attentive.”
I watched her thumb her phone. “Is there something you want to say to me, Frances? Something, possibly, about a document you printed that you shouldn’t have?”
She kept scrolling. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is there anything you would like to say to me?”
I sighed. So she wasn’t going to cop to going into my computer and printing out my book. I didn’t even care. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you. I’m sorry you were sick.”
“Are you?”
The sadness in her voice caught me off guard. “Mom. Why would I be happy that you were sick?”
“Let’s see: your tragic childhood, my recent nuptials”—she glanced at me—“Graeme Barnish.”
“I would never wish you pain or sickness.”
“Just a ruined reputation.”
I bit my lip. She had a point. “Look. I don’t know that we’re ever going to come to any kind of agreement about Graeme. Or the rest of everything. I just wish things had gone differently, that’s all.”
She’d let the phone fall and was gazing at the dark French doors. “No one drew the curtains.”
I stood up and walked across the room.
“Why don’t you want to tell me about your research?” she said. “Did you uncover anything that’s going to blow the Kitten story wide open? The murder weapon? Proof that Doro did it?” There was an edge in her voice.
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Megan”—she plumped a pillow behind her—“let me explain something. If the Kitty Cultists haven’t been able to prove the deep, dark, mysterious truth, you won’t either.”
“Right, I forgot. You already told me. Doro killed Kim.” I folded my arms. “Only you have always been and will always be full of shit, so I don’t believe a word you said.”