“But it doesn’t.” Davis says this as if that’s the final word. “The court deemed it was an accident. Stone is dead. Why can’t you let sleeping dogs lie? Leave that family alone before you stir up more trouble. They’ve suffered, too, you know.”
I know he’s right, but it doesn’t stop the niggling feeling that there’s something more. If this isn’t about Adaire dying, what else was she trying to tell me?
“You’re making this about something that isn’t even in your control,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“Adaire’s visions were vague, something she always had to interpret. But you want justice for her so bad you’re reading into them, inventing some mystery that’s taking you on a wild-goose chase, when maybe the truth is simply it was a horrible accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident!” I rupture. “It was my fault. Mine!” I jab a finger into my chest. “If I wouldn’t have borrowed her car that day, she wouldn’t have been riding that stupid yellow ten-speed.” I stop abruptly as my voice catches in my throat. I haven’t said it out loud yet, but as soon as the words left my mouth, it hit me—it was all my fault. She was on that bike because of me—and worse, I wasn’t there to save her.
“Weatherly, it wasn’t your fault. She let you borrow her car, and I know Adaire, she’d do it again no matter the reason. She’d have done anything for you.” His voice is lower, softer now, as he tries to reassure me.
“Maybe. But I wasn’t there to save her, either. Of all the times I would have been glad to have this god-awful gift. The one time I would have actually wanted to have that power, I wasn’t even there.”
“You can’t save them all. Trust me, I know.” He jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance scanner and I realize, at least logically, that he’s right.
But I’m still sad and so, so angry. Why did she have to go off on her bike? That’s when I’m struck with another thought. “And what was she out doing, anyway? Did you ask yourself that? She didn’t have to work at the diner until that night and Aunt V was going to drop her off. I was supposed to pick her up after her shift. There was no reason for her to be on that bike.”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Davis says, flailing his hands. “Just because you don’t know why she was out riding her bike, doesn’t mean she was doing something mysterious. Maybe she went to get food. Maybe she needed cigarettes. Maybe she was just riding her bike! Sometimes, the most obvious answer is the right one.”
“This isn’t some bullshit in my mind.” I whir a hand next to my head. “It can’t be.” I toss my soda bottle into the trash, and I snatch my keys off the desk. “And it’s up to me to fix it,” I say.
“Jesus, Weatherly, where the hell are you going now? What do you think you’re going to do?” Davis asks as I spin on my heels and head to the car.
“First, I’m going to drop off Adaire’s car to Aunt Violet.” The car door yelps a wretched scream when I rip it open. As I turn the key, the engine sputters and guzzles from being startled awake.
With one hand on the wheel, I look Davis dead in the eye. “Then I’m going to find justice. She holds the truth.” I hold up the bottle stopper, as if all the answers are in that tiny piece of glass.
His frown turns to pity as he steps away from the car.
“I’m not wrong,” I say to him as he shakes his head and walks away. “I’m not wrong!” I yell at his back, but he doesn’t want to hear it.
FOURTEEN
Devil’s in the Details
You can always count on at least three barflies buzzing around the Watering Hole at any time of day. Friday at happy hour, the parking lot is jammed full. The bar used to be an old service station in the ’50s, until they built the bypass on the other side of town. Then the long building sat abandoned for a good fifteen years. Until liquor licenses were allowed—for the county only. Within twenty-four hours, Gary Dunlap painted the windows black, built a square bar corral in the middle and slapped a hand-painted Watering Hole sign over the old service station’s name. It’s been packed ever since.
Quietly, I look over to the car’s empty passenger seat, wish like heck Adaire and I could take one more trip down that old country road to our house. We were always laughing about something. She loved this car, the cracked vinyl her favorite shade of red. She always said it felt like sitting in the mouth of a beast. I pull the purple-and-white tassel from her graduation cap off the rearview mirror. The tiny brass ’83 flickers in the sunlight. It’s faded and ratty but holding it now, I think about that night after graduation where we stole beers from Wyatt’s cooler. Man, he was pissed. We sat on the hood of this very car—a graduation gift to herself—and drank those beers, talking about a road trip to the beach someday.
A road trip we never got to in the last few years. Life just happens like that. You get caught up in doing everyday things; working, saving up money, figuring out the next steps. Next thing you know, time slips out from underneath you. Then life throws you a curveball and snatches away your best friend.
I take one last look around the car, try to soak up all those memories Adaire and I shared here. The door makes a frowning sound when I close it. I try not to think about a new owner sitting in the front seat soon.
A haze of cigarette smoke hovering in the top half of the bar greets me as I step inside. It does nothing to mask the strong odor of dirty bleach-water and fried food. Some new song by The Judds croons from the jukebox like an anthem. The so-called kitchen is a row of eight deep fryers that’ll serve you one of four dishes: chicken nuggets, cheesy fries, mozzarella sticks, or mountain oysters.
I wave hello to Raelean, who’s delivering an order to a table in the back. I’m hoping she can give me a ride home on her break because if Aunt Violet is more than an hour into a shift, you can count on her being too buzzed to drive.
I belly up to the bar and drop the keys on the counter. “Hey, Vic,” I say to the bartender who’s drying a beer stein. Vic’s slippery grin reminds me of a cat before it pounces. It’s as sleazy as his greasy black hair, reminds me of Danny Zuko. Searching the room for Aunt Violet but not finding her, I ask, “Aunt V here? I need to give her these keys.”
He hangs the chunky beer glass on the hook. “Yep, she’s in the manager’s office, talking with someone.”
“Tell her I’ve caught a ride home from Raelean.” And I start to walk in Raelean’s direction when he stops me.
“Nope. She specifically said she wanted to talk to you. That it was important. So you can wait your sweet little ass right here.” He leans against the bar with both hands, lathering up that grin. “Now tell Vic what you want?” I ask for a glass of water. As I sit there drinking and avoiding any more eye contact than is necessary with Vic, I hear the door to the manager’s office and voices as they exit.
“Oh, shit.” I duck behind the register as Deputy Rankin strolls out. I don’t recall seeing a deputy’s car in the parking lot.
“Damn if it ain’t a busy day for the law.” Raelean lays her serving tray on the bar and gives Vic a table’s drink order. “Heard they were out at the Rutledge place earlier today, too. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Raelean side-eyes me. I lean farther out of Deputy Rankin’s line of sight when he passes.
“Let’s just say I won’t be parading myself around town anytime soon.” I sit upright once he’s gone. I don’t bother telling Raelean what Gabby said; she’d have the same reaction as Davis. “Hey, can you give me a ride home? Aunt Violet is probably already toasted.”
“Sure.” Raelean adds limes to the cocktails they ordered. “But she hasn’t been drinking lately.”
“Yeah, right.” I huff a laugh.
“No, seriously, she’s gone cold turkey.” She stacks the last beer on her tray.
I think Raelean is so used to drunk Violet, she’s recalibrated her barometer as sober Violet. Besides, I’d notice if Aunt V got sober. Wouldn’t I?
“Becky just came in. She can cover for me, and I can drive you home—it’s about time for my dinner break.” Raelean spins on her wedge heels, tray full of food perfectly balanced on her small hand. I walk over to the manager’s office.
Behind the desk, Aunt Violet is sorting through a stack of bar tickets. Her black hair—box-dyed and short—flames into this swooping wave on top of her head, the tips frosted. Her eyes, a crimson brown, flit up to me as I tap out a knock on the door frame. My hand a little shaky, I can’t help but wonder if Rankin was asking about me.
“You’re not bartending tonight?” I ask, stepping into the cramped space. Alcohol signage and paraphernalia litter the faux-wood panel walls. Two filing cabinets shoulder up a tottering overstuffed bookcase on either side that could come crashing down with a good sneeze.
“Lord, no.” She swipes a dismissing hand through the air as she stands. “Gary has me doing the books now. Don’t look at me like that. Your Aunt V has a brain, you know.” She leans in to hug me, but stops short and snags my chin. “What in the hell happened here?” she gasps, examining the bruise purpling up my cheek.
