Page 62 of Someone Knows

Lucas:Hey. Heard you’re in town.

How the heck did he know already? Another text follows before I can respond.

Lucas:You went to the Grind for coffee. New owner since we were kids. Higher prices. Still gossip central.

A memory comes back. I’m not sure if it was repressed, or I just had no reason to think about it until now. But it makes me smile.

Elizabeth:Do you still pour an inch of sugar into your coffee cup before filling it?

Lucas:LOL I don’t. I take it black now. Diabetes runs in the family. Do you still drink yours until it’s ice-cold, yet you despise iced coffee?

Mysmile widens.

Elizabeth:I do.

Lucas:I just wanted to reach out and say I’m sorry about the way I broke the news to you the other night. I should’ve given you a minute, let you wake up first.

Elizabeth:It’s fine. I appreciated that you called instead of a stranger from the hospital.

Lucas:If there’s anything I can do, just let me know. I work three twelves, so after eight tonight, I’ll be off for four days. If you want a shoulder to cry on, ear to bend, drinking buddy . . .

The drinking part sounds like a good idea, though I’m not sure I can wait until eight o’clock tonight. Today already feels like it’s been a week long, and it isn’t even five in the afternoon. But Lucas might be able to unlock some more memories . . .

Elizabeth:Thank you. I appreciate that. It’s been a long day, so I’ll probably go to bed early tonight, and I have some errands to run tomorrow, but maybe we can get together at some point after the services are over? They’re going to be Friday.

Lucas:I’d like that a lot.

A warm feeling spreads through me.

Elizabeth:Okay, great. I’ll text you.

The door to the funeral parlor opens. Kenny Chapman walks out and looks around. Mine is the only car in the parking lot. He lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, gets a look at me, and waves. I guess I’d bettergo or he’ll be adding a twenty-five-dollar parking surcharge to my bill. I put the car in drive and head home. Well, not home—but to my mother’s house. I’m not looking forward to going inside. Actually, I’m dreading it. But I can’t stall forever. Though I can make a stop, pick up a bottle of wine to take the edge off when I get there, maybe two bottles. I should probably pick up some food, too, but I’m not hungry. The liquor store is on Main Street, the two-block-long strip of stores that cover basic small-town necessities—Laundromat, grocery store, bank, barbershop . . . It’s also diagonally across from Liars Pub. I glance over at the cars in the parking lot on my way in. None look familiar. No red pickup tonight. But as I walk out, two bottles in hand and my head still spinning, I remember something Noah mentioned to me in that bar the last time we were there—the place he goes when he needs to clear his mind. Big Devil Bayou.

I return to my car and toss the wine I’ve just bought inside. Maybe the bayou can clear my mind, too. Or better yet, maybe I’ll find someone there who can make me forget my life for a while . . .

CHAPTER

30

The air feels even thicker out here.

I park along the edge of the brush, walk the path I somehow still remember to get down to the beat-up old dock. Damp soil and decaying leaves yield an earthy scent unique to the bayou. The spongy ground squelches with each step as I push Spanish moss hanging from gnarled cypress trees out of my way. Thick roots snake out to make the short trek in heels even more daunting than it needs to be, while cicadas and mosquitos buzz all around, creating a low hum. It’s interrupted by the occasional croak of a frog or chirp of a bird, but it’s otherwise eerily quiet. Yet there’s still something beautiful about this place—the way the late-afternoon light filters in through a canopy of bending trees and their damp trunks seem to glow. Though none of it holds a candle to the sight of the man wearing a white T-shirt and backward baseball cap holding a fishing pole while sitting at the end of the pier.

Noah must sense he’s being watched. He sits up a little straighter, turns, and glances over his shoulder. His slow, confident smile curves up when he sees me, and what is otherwise an awful day feels a little brighter. There’s a glimmer of hope, a promise ofsomething. I’m not sure what, but something besides thinkingabout my mother.

I walk down the long pier to the end and take the seat next to him—without hesitating, without asking.

“Hey.” He doesn’t hide the surprise in his voice, though according to Lucas, it’s public knowledge that I’m in town. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

I wait for him to say something—to ask why I’m back or say what everyone says when someone important to you dies:I’m sorry.It’s a pressure building under my skin, and I just want to get it over with.

But Noah just sips his beer and extends the half-full bottle to me to take a swig. “Been boring around here without you,” he says. There’s a hint of a smile, his dimples making their presence known. “Glad you’re back.”

All I can do is stare at him. Stare into hisfather’seyes. Oddly, it doesn’t make me want to turn and run, even knowing it wasme, thatI am Jocelyn. Instead, as I accept the beer from his hand, Noah’s eyes zone in on my lips. I take a long pull, and the hungry look on his face makes me feel something very different from the way I’ve felt the last twenty-odd hours. I’m probably deranged for feeling it, knowing what I now know I’ve done—I swallow—with hisfather. But I don’t care.

My hand clenches the beer bottle, and I imagine gripping Noah’s hair in my hands, pulling tight enough to make him hiss in pain, in pleasure. I envision my nails scraping down his skin, the palm of my hand covering his mouth, being in control, on top this time. I salivate, practically able to hear the loud crack of my hand connecting with his skin.Hard.Fantasy lets me escape the world that is reality, the reason I’m here.

---