Passerby: A Psychological Thriller Page 3

  Davis isn’t the type not to show up for the parade. He isn’t the type to just leave his date on the courthouse lawn, so I know something is wrong. I know there is something Ashley Parker isn’t saying, and I am pretty sure I know what that something is.

  I just hope I’m wrong.

  Ashley rubs her temples and then rolls her neck. Suddenly, she takes hold of Cole’s forearm. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m feeling a little dizzy.”

  Cole’s expression goes from confused to reluctant to ready to help in nanoseconds. I don’t miss any of it. “Here,” he tells her, taking her by the elbow. “Sit down.”

  “Can you call Davis?” she asks shakily. “I think I need to go back to the house and lie down.”

  “I’ve tried,” Johnny huffs. He motions at me. “Ruth, drive her to the house.” He doesn’t tell me he’ll find Davis when he orders me around, but it’s clear that’s what he means.

  “I’ll do it,” Cole says with a sigh. It’s slight, that sigh, but it’s there. I know in the way he is looking at me. He knows I don’t want to drive her home. He sees the concern in my eyes. Cole can see straight through me. And I hate every second of it.

  I don’t thank him, even though I should. He’d do anything for me. Still, I know this is no small favor.

  “I hate to miss the parade,” Ashley says, holding her head in her hands. She’s got the damsel in distress down pat, that’s for sure. I blink hard several times. No one notices. It’s hard to believe this is a grown woman I’m hearing and seeing. I want to feel sorry for her, but I just can’t muster the energy.

  That doesn’t stop Cole or Johnny from doing it. While my brother is stoic in his usual way, I can see he sees Ashley Parker for what she is. A liability. And a fragile one.

  “It’s sort of a big deal,” Cole says, helping her to her feet. He looks over at me. “But don’t worry. There’s always next year.”

  Chapter Five

  Ruth

  Cole is right about one thing. The annual parade is a big deal. Floats have been worked on for months, tractor trailers have been all decorated up, businesses around town have given it their all while they have the eyes of the entire town. Not just our town, but the eyes of the tourists who’ve descended in order to take their picturesque shots for social media, make their cotton candy memories, and hopefully after a brief stay at Magnolia House, leave just the way they came.

  Aside from the parade, kick-off night is when the Watermelon Queen is announced. All the contestants line up, smile nervously, and wave from the stage, wearing evening gowns they’ve fretted over for months. It’s not exactly what you’d call a feminist-friendly occasion, as has been written on many a travel blogs, considering the pageantry of it all. But Jester Falls is steeped in tradition, and this one would have to be pried from our cold, dead hands.

  I was crowned Watermelon Queen once, a decade ago. Although, those days have faded into memories I no longer care to relive. Except, sometimes I do relive them. Especially on nights like this, especially when I am haunted by thoughts of him. As soon as I find Davis, I know how the rest of this night will go. I’ll do what I always do. I’ll put on an old record, pour a glass of brandy and go through Mama’s photo albums. The covers are worn, the pages so well picked through that I worry they won’t hold up. But each time they somehow do and I wonder why no one makes albums anymore, why everything has to be digital and fleeting. There’s something about the tactile feeling of holding a physical reminder in your hands that makes it feel important. That makes it feel real. Mama used to say history is what keeps you from forgetting where you came from.

  I’m not sure she knew how many people actually want to forget.

  If only it were that simple. I’m thinking about her in that cemetery when two teenagers knock me from behind. I turn to find them giggling, dressed in evening gowns, trying to snap a selfie. They do not apologize—in fact, if they see me standing there, they don’t acknowledge it.

  “Excuse me,” one of them says, and I am thankful to be wrong. She holds out her phone. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

  I take it from her and consider snapping several photos of myself instead and handing it back. But I’ve recently set a new goal to only reach for pettiness in extreme situations, and also, I notice the Watermelon Queen sash around her. I remember being that age. Barely.

  I position the phone, snap a photo, and hand it back to her. She glances at the screen, brings it close to her face, studies it, and scrunches her nose. Then she shows her friend, shakes her head and thrusts the phone in my direction. “Would you mind taking another?”

  Actually, I would. But that’s not what I say. I take several shots, hand the phone back, wait for the approval of a teenager, and think about how far I’ve let myself go. Finally, she looks up at me and shrugs. “I guess it’ll do.”

  Her friend says, “We can filter it.”

  No one says thank you.

  I stand there, annoyed, and I search the crowd, thinking about the past, thinking how much better it must have been when everyone didn’t try so hard. When everything didn’t feel so manufactured, when people didn’t have to make their memories perfect, with exactly the right shot—and maybe that’s the problem. Now people expect things will live forever. It used to be that someone could write something bad about your town, or your place of business, and it would be gone the next day. Now, it lives in digital form forever, only to be repurposed and shared in controversial bits, bits that never quite tell the whole story. There’s a lot that can happen between perfect takes. I could’ve strangled the Watermelon Queen, for example. I certainly pictured it in my mind.

  My eyes aren’t the only thing scanning the crowd. I pick up bits and pieces of conversation, mostly small town gossip, but also threads about what happened with the girl we found by the courthouse. I listen to two women talking: Georgia, who runs the floral shop, and Anita Bealls, who was widowed last year and owns a boutique but spends all her time shopping. You have to be careful about making eye contact with her. Any conversation vacillates between her ocean of grief and her latest internet find.

  But now she’s onto a different topic, which doesn’t happen often. Which is probably why I listen. “All I’m saying is you ought to be prepared. When word gets out, the tourists will stop coming. I can’t say I’d blame them. It’s not safe.”

  Georgia waves her off. “It’s terrible. But unfortunately these things happen.”

  Anita’s hand flies to her chest. “Not in Jester Falls, they don’t.”

  Georgia furrows her brow. She wants to argue but rape is a tricky subject to navigate. “I’ll be praying for the Jenkins tomorrow in church. I’m sure we all will.”

  “I don’t know,” Anita says. “I hear even church attendance has dropped.” She shakes her head slowly from side to side, clutching her actual pearls. “This town is changing. It’s not the same as it was when I moved here. Back when Bill and I were married.”

  Georgia takes offense, but she does it the way most women in this town do, politely with a bit of an edge. “Well,” she answers with a smile. She places her hand on Anita’s forearm. “I was born here. And summer season at First Baptist has always ebbed and flowed. Everything will be fine. There’s no need to worry. And like my mama said…” She leans in close and lowers her chin, leveling her eyes. “Worrying gives you wrinkles.”

  “Maybe,” Anita quips. “But I just hope word doesn’t get out that we have a rapist on the loose, or I’m going to be buying a lot more flowers to save your ass.”

  I can’t help but laugh, even though nothing is really funny, considering, but I can’t stop. I laugh until tears well in my eyes, until eventually the two women turn and look at me. Anita looks me over from head to toe while Georgia Adkins goes about it a little more subtly.

  “I guess she’s been drinking again,” Anita says, turning her back to me.

  Georgia follows suit. “It’s a shame. She’s so pretty. Always has been. You should have
seen her when she was little. She turned heads on the street, that girl. People stopped to watch her go by. Now, it’s almost like she’s stopped trying.”

  “That’s what happens when girls don’t listen. They think they can have it all. And then they become old maids.”

  “Who drink too much.” She ribs Anita. “What’s your excuse, then?”

  “I’m a widow. And I’m already old,” Anita laughs. “But yeah, I mean, who can blame her?”

  “Did you catch the Johnsons’ float?” Georgia asks. “I thought they did a lovely job. We supplied the flowers, but they did all the work.”

  “The who?” Anita cocks her head. “Oh and hey— about the Channing girl.” She points in my direction. “Look at her. I really do think something’s wrong with her.”

  “Ruth is Ruth,” Georgia says. She and I do a fair amount of business together. Surely she knows I can hear them.

  “No,” Anita says, “It’s that entire family. I’ve always thought there was something off about them. Bill always thought so, too.”

  I walk toward the carnival with my phone pressed to my ear. The scent of popcorn and nostalgia fill the air. I listen to my voicemail, two of which are from Julia, and one is about a reservation.

  I try Davis again, and when it goes to voicemail, I send a text. I consider going back to the house. There’s no point in being here.

  And anyway, I know that photo albums, old records, and brandy await me at home. It’s like they’re reaching out, beckoning me, proving to me where I belong. All the elements are in place for that kind of disaster. Those women, the situation at the courthouse, seeing Ryan, reminiscing about the past. Thinking of what could have been. Thinking how much can change in an instant. Thinking he knows that now. He’s living it.

  I glance back at the stage, where a slideshow is playing. Photos flash across the screen displaying all the former Watermelon Queens. Mama’s photo is there, but I know I won’t stay long enough to see it.

  I think about what Jester Falls must have been like then, and I wonder if Anita is right. Maybe things have changed and not for the better. Surely they faced controversies too. But I have a hard time coming up with anything significant, even though I know this can’t be true. Things are never as perfect as they seem.

  Finally, I spot Johnny near the food stands chatting up a group of Rotary Club members, men twice his age. That’s Johnny for you. He always has his hand in some sort of pot, and he’s always stirring. He gives me a look, which is to say he hasn’t found Davis, as though it isn’t obvious, so I text Cole.

  Johnny didn’t find Davis. Can you check the Holts’ place?

  He replies within seconds. Already did.

  I ask myself why Davis would have gone there, but it’s a pointless question, one I already know the answer to. My little brother has to play the hero. He always has.

  I just hope I’m wrong.

  My phone vibrates in my hand. I pray it’s Davis but Cole’s name lights up the screen. Don’t worry. I’ll find him.

  I scan the crowd, and my eyes land on Johnny, who hasn’t moved. He flashes an irritated look in my direction, the kind that makes me wish Davis would get his shit together. That way the rest of us wouldn’t have to be out here propping the world up with our own two hands.

  Chapter Six

  Ruth

  Cole didn’t find Davis at the Holts’ place because he’d already been there and gone. He wasn’t at the parade, and he wasn’t at home, because he was in the emergency room. It sounds bad, and it is, but not for the reasons you think. Davis is pretty lucky that he isn’t in jail or worse—dead.

  Cole calls the ER and then me when he finds him, and even though I’m stone-cold sober, I ask Johnny to drive me to the hospital. Because if there’s one thing Davis is going to need, aside from medical attention, it’s the protection of his big brother.

  I don’t know what he was thinking. It’s a sentiment I’ve held where he is concerned far too frequently lately. Davis should have known better. Everyone knows you do not mess with a Holt and get away with it. The same way you don’t mess with a Channing. The difference is the Holts will kill you in broad daylight and not think twice about it, whereas we Channings like to go about things in a slightly more civilized manner.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” I say the second the emergency room attendant opens the door to the small exam room. It smells like antiseptic and bad decisions, and the combination fills me with rage. “And you drove yourself here? In this condition?”

  The attendant looks from me to my little brother, wearing a blank stare and a sly smirk. It’s obvious that not only does she see a lot in her occupation, but she enjoys it.

  “What are you looking at?” I step forward, straightening my spine. She doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t bat an eye—not until Johnny steps in, anyway.

  He offers his signature grin, dimples and all. That grin has an effect on women that I’ll never understand. Most women in this town say it’s the dark hair and the even darker eyes, that or the tan skin and broad shoulders. But probably it’s the grin. Either way, it’s disgusting. Although, it did earn me a number of friends in high school and college that I wouldn’t have otherwise had.

  “You’ll have to forgive my sister.” He motions with his hands as though he’s knocking a few drinks back. “She has a hard time understanding her limit.”

  The girl is putty in his hands. All smiles and head tilts. She nods at Davis lying on the gurney. “Looks like it runs in the family.”

  Johnny towers over her. He leans in like a Cheshire cat, eyeing its prey. I scan the room for the vomit bin. He clears his throat and then lowers his voice. “You have no idea.”

  Thankfully, there’s a knock at the door which saves us all from me losing my lunch, both physically and metaphorically. “Well, well,” a booming voice says, stepping into the small room. “What have we here?”

  I’d know that voice anywhere. “Ruth?”

  I smile at Dr. Erichs, Jester Fall’s oldest veterinarian, as he pushes the curtain back.

  “I guess I should ask the same,” Davis coughs out. It’s clear he’s in pain and not simply because there’s a gash in his forehead or blood all over his shirt. It’s not just the black eye or the ice pack covering his right hand. It’s in his voice. My little brother’s voice gives everything away, always. It’s his biggest tell.

  “Well, my boy, this is what happens when you live in a small town and the only other doctor on emergency call is dealing with a kid with a concussion and another waiting with a broken arm. You get me.”

  Davis shifts. “Is that even legal?”

  “The Good Samaritan Law, look it up,” Dr. Erichs says. “Unless, of course, you’d rather wait around all night…”

  “No,” Davis answers with a wince. “I just hope you brought the good drugs.”

  “I take it you were feeling a bit tougher a few hours ago,” Dr. Erichs remarks. It makes me think of the two summers I spent interning with him, back when I thought I’d trade the hospitality business for the animal one, back before I realized they’re all the same beast.

  It was a hard lesson to learn, but not the hardest. If only I’d known at the time, I’m sure I would have spent less time feeling miserable about it. Daddy had been furious at me over the situation. It was one of the few things I ever heard him and Mama truly argue about. You have to let her learn, Mama had said. She’ll come to her senses.

  Mama was right.

  There was no way I was getting away from Magnolia House. Perhaps in a different life. I learned in those two summers that the things you love, you also come to hate, but you have to choose your battles. Also, Daddy usually got what he wanted, and this case was no different.

  Johnny reaches out to shake Dr. Erichs hand, and then with a nod he slumps down in one of two plastic chairs.

  “I’m sorry you had to come out so late,” I say.

  He waves me off. “It’s par for the course. Carnivals and bouncy houses�
�” He stops mid-sentence as he pulls back the makeshift bandage on Davis’s forehead. “They’re good for business.”

  “I still want to know what you were thinking,” I say, gripping the handrails of the gurney.

  “You’re going to need some sutures in that hand, too,” Dr. Erichs says, looking him over.

  So while Davis is getting his hand sewn up, I keep asking him what in the fuck he was thinking and he keeps deflecting by asking where Ashley is.

  Finally, I say, “Cole took her home.”

  “Are you sure? She isn’t answering her cell or the house phone.”

  “Why would she? She doesn’t live there.”

  I know what my brother is thinking. He’s thinking he doesn’t trust the Holts. He’s thinking about retaliation. But it isn’t Magnolia House at the forefront of his mind, and it really should be.

  “They’re going to kill you,” I say, and Johnny waves me off.

  “No one is going to kill anyone.”

  “Sure they are. They’ll kill him.”

  Dr. Erichs gets a call. I watch closely as he deftly silences his phone with one hand while threading sutures with the other. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Ruth. That family’s more bark than bite.”

  I can tell he’s lying because I know Dr. Erichs. Working with large animals requires a certain kind of trust. You learn to read cues real quick. And he taught me well.

  His phone rings again. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I need to take this.”

  We can’t help but listen to the muffled voice coming from his phone as a woman speaks in a hurried tone. Dr. Erichs responds with a series of questions. It doesn’t sound good.

  He ends the call and points at the sutures. He tells us he has to go and then he hands me the scissors. “You okay to take over, Ruth?”

  At first I think he is kidding, but then I remember Dr. Erichs doesn’t kid. I motion toward my brother. “What about Johnny? He’s the EMT.”