Page 23 of Her Wild Coast Promise

“I’m fine.”

“Please open the door.”

Another sigh. I wait. Maybe I should have brought one of my female deputies. But we’re so short-staffed right now, and I’m not sure it would make a difference. Mrs. Hayes has no reason to fear me. Doc Hayes was a friend.

Finally, the deadbolt unlocks and the door pulls back. Even through the screen, I notice a burn mark on the crook of her neck.

“See? I’m fine,” Mrs. Hayes says, her dry lips curled in hostility.

“May I come in,” I say, locking eyes with her so she’ll understand that I’m here to help. That I’m on her side if only she’d trust me.

She pulls back the door, her shoulders slumping. “Fine.”

After I slip through the screen door and make sure it doesn’t slam behind me, I follow Mrs. Hayes into a living room. A sour smell coming from deeper in the house forces me to breathe through my mouth. There are dirty dishes stacked on the coffee table. A pair of opened boxes filled halfway with packing peanuts sit next to the couch. Empty beer cans and fast food wrappers crowd the dining room table’s surface.

Standing in the middle of the space, Mrs. Hayes rubs her arms up and down, as if unsure what to do.

“Mind if we sit?” I ask because I’m not confident she’ll offer.

Wordlessly, she shuffles to the couch, and in that moment she’s turned away from me, I realize how thin she’s become. Also how many layers she’s wearing. Is she cold? Or trying to hide that she’s starving herself? Her hair, once shoulder length and wavy, looks brittle, the grey growing from the roots.

She chooses the nearest corner of the couch, so I have no choice but to select the corner opposite her, with my back to the door.

I go over a few standard questions, sharing the concern from a neighbor about not seeing Mrs. Hayes in town.

“Nosy,” Mrs. Hayes replies with a huff.

“They’re concerned for your welfare.”

“They just wanna gossip about me,” she says, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater.

“Are you getting enough to eat?” I ask.

Mrs. Hayes blinks, like her attention is waning. “I eat plenty.”

“That’s a nasty burn on your neck.”

“Curling iron,” she replies. “I’m fine.”

She’s giving me no opportunity to help her. Reluctantly, I switch to my second objective. “Have you heard from Zach?”

The question seems to take her by surprise. Like she’s been on autopilot but doesn’t have a pre-made response to this question, and her neurons are short-circuiting.

“Your son. Zach. Has he been in touch?”

“He left with William,” she finally says.

“That’s right.” Encouragement might keep her talking. Even though Zach “left” with William in July for a fishing trip.

“Where’s William?” she asks, her lips quivering.

“He’s at school.” William is enrolled full time at Eagle Ridge Outdoor School thanks to some creative subterfuge orchestrated by Evan’s wife, Tasha, and Zach.

“Oh,” Mrs. Hayes says, her eyes going blank again. She scratches at her arms, the rough edges of her fingernails clawing at the fabric of her shirt. “Right. He’s such a good boy.”

“Has Zach stopped by, visited?”

“No.”

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