“I know.” Jane’s mood darkened. She was actually starting to feel compassion for Jordan Copeland, especially after hearing about his fractured childhood. There was a part of her that didn’t want to believe he was guilty and another part that cried out,
What are you? Crazy? He’s guilty!
The fact that she was feeling sorry for a guy who shot a retarded kid and then hid his body under his bed went against the norm for Jane Perry. Up until fifteen months ago, she saw the world in black-and-white. Perps were perps and any excuses they gave for their abhorrent behavior didn’t wash in her book. She’d always been fond of telling people who cut perps slack that if one’s tortured past gave them carte blanche to destroy another’s life, then
she
should be doing hard time.
But after discovering the mind-shifting secret of her own violent father’s upbringing, she had to step back and reevaluate her beliefs. She learned that there was a lot of covert, shapeshifting between generations and that, as far as her father was concerned, his abusive actions toward Jane and her brother coalesced because of what had happened to him as a child. As much as she wanted to continue to despise him and carry the hatred to her grave, she had to let it go. It was one of the hardest things she ever did. All Jane had ever known was unrelenting odium toward her father. To regard him like she would another victim took a lot of time and solitary thought. But it was because of that deeply personal experience that Jane began to accept the world with more hazy tones of grey. And now, with Jordan Copeland, the grey was starting to lean toward black—even though there was a part of her that simply did not want to believe he had anything to do with Jake’s disappearance.
“That was the only time that Jake mentioned anything about curses in families to me,” Hank added. “But it came out of nowhere…”
“You said he read a lot.” Hank nodded. “Maybe he read it
somewhere?”
“Okay. Where’d he get the book?”
Jane looked at the bookcases across the room. “You got a lot of books. Maybe he got it from you.”
“Well, I know it’s only my word, but Jake’s never been in here and I’ve never given him a book.”
Jane studied Hank’s face. If he was lying, he was a great liar. And there
were
those two walls of bookcases in Jordan’s cabin, crammed with books, along with the stacks of literature that cluttered his tiny cabin. “Jordan Copeland is not stupid. He knows that if somebody drove by and saw Jake on his property, he’d be reported. He’s not allowed within one hundred feet of a child or school. You know the drill.”
“So, he stays a hundred and one feet away.”
“Oh, come on! What? He’s yelling a hundred and one feet away to have a conversation? And toss Jake a book or two? That’s stretching it, don’t you think?”
“Hey, the smart ones always figure out a loophole. Some of the fraud criminals I dealt with were ingenious! I used to say that if they used half their brains and energy for legitimate purposes, they’d be millionaires!”
Jane finished the chicken salad and pushed the plate away. She rubbed her head and, forgetting for a moment that it was still tender, winced.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I just gotta get to bed.” The minute Jane said that, she wished she could take it back. It was an obvious entrée for an invite from Hank; something she wasn’t interested in.
“I’ll take care of your car for you. I know the guy who owns the automotive place in town. He owes me some favors. We’ll get the window fixed by tomorrow afternoon.”
Wow
, Jane thought. Not only was there no invitation to the sack, Hank was going to call in a favor for a guy to work on her car on a
Sunday
. “If you need a vehicle tomorrow, you can use my truck,” he added.
This was getting to be too much. First it was free hot dogs
at The Rabbit Hole, then it was voluntary information on the 1401 Imperial address. After that, he gave her a good tip on Chesterfield cigarettes, which was followed by a clean leather jacket and outrageous chicken salad. What was this guy’s motive? There
had
to be a motive, Jane pondered, and it had to be less than noble. That’s all she ever experienced with men…well, except from the first one.
She stood up and retrieved her exceptionally clean jacket. “Thanks.”
“No big deal,” Hank said, shrugging his shoulders.
Jane noticed that his eyes lingered a little longer on her than before. There was a softness there too. It was not the same softness she noted when he looked in Annie Mack’s eyes; this was more like a calm, familiarity with a hint of sexuality underneath. Like meeting an old friend for the first time. Yes, that was
exactly
it…Like meeting an old friend for the first time. Jane suddenly felt a similar connection with Hank, but she couldn’t attach any logic behind it. The blue lily was really doing a job on her mind, she deduced. She started to turn toward the door when she reconsidered. “Hey, you up for some more detective work?”
Hank smiled broadly. “Hell, yeah.”
She dug her hand into her pocket and retrieved the
Patois
sentence she’d copied from Maureen’s diary. “If you could translate that for me, I’d appreciate it.” She handed it to Hank. “It’s in
Patois
…”
“Oh, French Creole,” Hank replied offhandedly.
Jane took a step back. “Don’t tell me you speak French Creole.”
“Nah. But I speak a little French. That should help.
Patois
is mainly spoken in Martinique, Trinidad and some other Caribbean islands, right?”
“And some others…right,” Jane said. “You gonna ask me where I got it and who wrote it?”
“No. I figure if you want me to know, you’ll tell me.”
Well, when in the hell did Jane lose control of this conversation? Now, Jane
wanted
to tell Hank where it came from just to show him that he wasn’t so smart, thinking he knew her so well. Then again, maybe that was the whole point of his remark—to manipulate the information out of her. She kept batting the possibilities back and forth as he led Jane to the front door and walked outside with her.
“You want me to walk you to the B&B?” Hank asked with a concerned look on his face.
Do I look that confused?
Jane wondered. People weren’t usually this invested in her welfare and she wasn’t sure how to take it. There
had
to be a motive. “I’m fine.” Jane said. But she wasn’t fine. She didn’t want to go back to the B&B and lay alone in her room waiting for sleep to overtake her. What in the hell was happening? She felt so bloody vulnerable at that moment, standing there in the yellow neon of The Rabbit Hole’s roof sign. It wasn’t the same vulnerability that hit when she stared at her single cigarette in the American Spirit packet. It wasn’t the same vulnerable sensation she felt when Jordan got into her car and told her to drive over the bridge to his house. Both of those had an element of fear attached. This vulnerability felt more like an ancient part of her psyche melting and revealing the skin of who she really was under all the bravado and crustiness. For some strange reason, she heard Jordan’s voice and the cutting words he said to her the first time she met him. “
Vulnerability for you equals weakness
,” he said. “
You’re hard. Your palette hasn’t been softened by the brush of the right guy. Your steel cannot bend to the forge of a man because to melt your fear you have to become vulnerable
.” Jane winced, recalling what Jordan told her after that. “
Once you go there, there’s no turning back
…”
Jane looked at Hank. She moved a step closer to him but fear gripped at her heels and she pulled back.
The B&B was less than a block away but it was the longest damn walk of her life.
It was well past 10:00 pm when she crossed the threshold of the B&B. Thankfully, the lights were dim and everyone, including Weyler, had retired to their rooms. She had started up the stairs when she spied a pink note attached to the banister. It was written by Sara and simply said:
Fresh cookies on the kitchen table. Help yourself !
A smiley face followed. The first thing Jane thought was that some people in this world were actually quite sappy. The second thing she thought was,
cookies
.
Jane tiptoed into the kitchen and found the large plate, brimming with an assortment of oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies. She slid one off the plate and took a bite. Turning around, she noticed a collection of framed sepia-toned photos on the kitchen wall. Many had the same theme as the ones that lined the stairway and upstairs hallway, in that they depicted Midas and the surrounding area as it looked throughout the Twentieth Century. In the center of the collection was a photo of five women taken in front of the B&B. The date handwritten on the photo was 1919. The sign behind the women read:
The Garden—A Boarding House for Ladies
. Jane took another bite of the cookie and peered closer at the women in the photo. Instead of the refinement one might expect from the group, there was an uncharacteristic loutish flavor that permeated the gals. Jane could almost hear their uninhibited irreverence and frivolity seep from the aging film. One of the women in the photo had the audacity to turn her heel in what looked like a coquettish stance.
Jane grabbed another cookie and turned her attention to the glass cabinet where she had seen Sara protectively hiding the mysterious red photo album. She inched closer to the cabinet, knowing full well where the key was hidden. After considering the action, she started to open the bottom cabinet when she heard Mollie’s bedroom door creak open. Quickly, Jane stood up and grabbed another few cookies just as Mollie appeared in the archway. The kid observed her with an appalled look. Jane stood there, her leather jacket draped over her arm,
exposing the encrusted dirt on her last clean shirt. Jane caught her reflection in the glass of one of the picture frames. Her hair had seen better days and she was sure her face looked pretty haggard. To cap it off, she clutched four cookies in her hand and was in the process of chewing and swallowing another. Jane had to admit there was a definite slovenly slant to her nocturnal pit stop. “Hey,” Jane muttered, as a piece of oatmeal spewed unexpectedly from her lips.
Mollie curled her lips. “Seriously. You look like a
schlub
.”
“Your parents’ washer still on the fritz?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shit.” Jane was exhausted and didn’t look forward to washing her shirts in the bathtub. “Hey, I gotta ask you something. You keep the emails you exchanged with Jake?”
“Why?” Mollie’s suspicion was apparent.
“I need to see them.”
“Just check his computer…”
“Yeah, funny thing about that, Mollie. They’ve been erased.
Everything
on Jake’s computer is erased.”
Mollie’s eyes showed fear for the first time. “There’s not a lot of them. And they don’t say much. He wasn’t really into email and texting.”
“I need to see them.” Mollie’s face showed stress. “They’re just between you and me, okay? If there’s anything about him sneaking out of his house to come see you…” Mollie looked at Jane with a nervous edge. “I won’t tell your parents. It’ll be our secret. Hey, when in Midas…”
“I’ll print them out and give them to you in the morning,” Mollie acquiesced.
Mollie turned back to her bedroom. “Did Jake ever mention a website called
mysecretrevelations
?”
Mollie turned around. Her breathing was shallow. “Why? Is something wrong?”
Jane stepped forward in a show of intimidation. “Do you know about the website?”
“Yeah…I’m the one who told him about it. Did he post on it?” The kid’s face was etched with trepidation.
“I think so.” She asked Mollie to check out the four specific posts in February and March from the anonymous fifteen-year-old boy, giving special note to the one sixteen days prior to Jake’s March 22
nd
disappearance. “Read them carefully,” Jane stressed, “then tell me if you think Jake wrote them. But keep it to yourself, okay?”
The kid nodded and returned to her bedroom. Jane looked back at the glass cabinet that held the red photo album. She was too tired to pinch it, figuring her reflexes weren’t as sharp as they could be that night.
Upstairs, she walked carefully past Weyler’s room and nearly had the knob on her door fully turned when Weyler stepped out into the hall. He was still in his dress shirt and slacks, albeit his power tie was removed and the top two buttons on his shirt were undone.
“Jane,” Weyler said. Jane turned. “What happened?”
“I couldn’t find the address. But I’m going to try again.”
Weyler moved closer to her. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Jane said, offering an offhand smile to cover the lie. “Just tired.”
He stared at Jane, a serious expression clouding his face. “You eat?”
God, he was relentless. “Yeah. No worries.” She opened her door. “See you in the morning.”
Once inside her room, Jane let out a long sigh. She was back in her little Victorian cave with the exploitive honeymoon motif. She clicked on one of the small ornate lamps on the table, but the bulb sputtered. Something felt off as she glanced around the room. It was as if she’d entered a zone that was thick and vaporous. Draping her jacket over the chair, she checked every clue on the clothesline but nothing looked like it had been touched. Still, the syrupy mood in the room hung like lead. Turning off the light, she tried another floor lamp in the corner, but that also
seemed to have electrical issues. “Shit,” she murmured, holding her head. The day had caught up with her. She’d wash her three shirts in the bathtub, wring them out and go to bed. Stripping off her clothes, she donned her nightshirt and found the well-used collection of romantic candles in a large dish in the bathroom. She lit them and was amazed at how much light they produced. Jane turned off the sputtering floor lamp and started the water in the bathtub. One by one, she dumped her identical muddy shirts into the hot water, squeezed in a healthy dollop of lavender scented bath gel to the water and swished them around until the water rose above them. Looking at the shirts drowning in the water, Jane had to admit that they did look “manly,” as Candy so succinctly stated. You certainly couldn’t look at the shirts and confuse them with anything that remotely resembled femininity. But neutered clothing was what she preferred. It was safe. She would never be accused of flaunting her merchandise to get what she wanted. Besides, lace and soft flimsy material made her feel too vulnerable. You can’t build strong walls to keep people out when you’re wearing silk. The dark colors she preferred also reflected Jane’s need to disappear and hide in the cloak of shadows. As the mud loosened from the material, the water turned a decidedly murky brown. Turning off the faucet, Jane felt a wave of fatigue grip her. The claw-foot bathtub absorbed the heat from the water and felt good against her skin. The pink bathmat beckoned her. She resolved to curl up against the tub and wake up in half an hour or so to finish her laundry.