A Girl by Any Other Name (18 page)

He flinched at my words. I felt the slight hindrance of guilt, because he was a good man, but I

wanted him to do his fucking job. “The FBI took it over. I don’t know anything. They’re saying it was

random.”

“There was nothing random about the shit that happened that night. They knew her name. She

knew them.”

“I know you want to get justice for her.”

“No, you’re wrong. First and foremost, I want to find her, Sheriff. I want to make sure she is

okay and if she’s not, I want to help her recover. Once I do that, I’ll worry about beating down those

assholes who did this. Right now, her safety is my priority. Why isn’t it yours?”

“Cal, maybe you can talk to the agent assigned to her case?”

“I call him twenty times a day. He won’t return my messages anymore.”

“Well, I would take that as a sign to stop calling. Let them do their jobs.”

I gave up. The man was no use to me.

That was when good old Uncle Joe strolled through the door. He talked to my mother for a

while, thanking her for the memorial. He even hugged her.

I waited until he was alone to approach him. “Well, well, what do you know, Uncle Joe?”

“Hello, Cal,” he replied, with a sigh. “I know you’ve been asking a lot of questions, but—”

“Are you her mother’s brother or father’s brother, Joe?”

“Father’s,” he said tightly.

“Funny, because you don’t look like either of them.”

“I was adopted.”

“That’s convenient. You know she never talked about you. Where’s the rest of the family, Joe?”

“There is no one else. I’m surprised you don’t know that seeing as you two were supposedly

very close.” He was trying to piss me off. It didn’t make sense. He seemed somber, but there was no

raw emotion there. The man had just lost his brother and his niece for crying out loud.

“We were best friends, but you’re her family. I mean even if you don’t believe she’s still alive,

as I do, you surely want the men who took her away from us to pay for their crimes.”

He pushed his face into mine, trying to threaten me with his height. I didn’t back away. We were

both close to the same size anyway, although with my leg it wouldn’t have been a fair fight. “Listen,

kid, she’s dead. Her ashes are in that urn over there.” He gestured to the fireplace mantle where two

urns sat. “You need to cut this out.”

“If you won’t help me, I’ll do it myself, but I will find her.”

“Cal, come with me,” my mother said, suddenly appearing behind me.

I didn’t want to end the conversation, but Joe had already backed away from me, so I obliged.

People were murmuring all around us. I could hear the gossipy evil in their quiet voices, especially

Mona Simms since her whispers sounded like horse shrieks. She made some comment about how

she’d known Sylvie was bad news. How any girl who dressed so weird wasn’t normal. How Sylvie

was a troublemaker and must have been on drugs to bring such chaos to our safe town.

I stomped my cane into the wood floor right in front of her. The thick shoulders any linebacker

would be jealous of abruptly jerked to attention. Her mouth clamped shut, stopping the spew of

garbage flowing from it. “Shut the fuck up. You’re not even good enough to shine her shoes, you fat

bitch. The only troublemaker is you.”

Her eyes widened and the mole on her cheek grew as her face morphed into shock.

“Caleb James Tanner! Get in here now,” my mother screamed from her bedroom doorway.

I staggered into the room. She slammed the door behind us.

“You have to stop this madness right now.”

“Momma, you have to believe me. I know she’s not dead. She promised me she would fight. I’d

know if she died. I’d feel it. She was part of me. She was in here,” I said, pointing to my heart. I

sounded frantic, but I needed someone to have faith in the idea. “I love her. I know—”

The hard slap stopped my tirade. My mother looked at me with those stern, but sharp green eyes.

She took hold of my shoulders. “Cal, I know you have suffered more than any boy your age should,

but you need to stop this now. Don’t you think I loved her? Don’t you think Mandy did? We’re all

mourning her, but carrying on like this is making it so none of us can grieve and move on. She would

have wanted you to go on, Cal. As long as you keep holding onto this false hope you never will.”

My own momma thought I was crazy. Everyone did. “I’ll stop talking about it.”

It wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear, but she accepted it. I knew she wanted me to

denounce my views, but I would never do that. “I won’t make you apologize to Mona Simms, at least

not right now, but I think you should apologize to Joe. He was her only family. He said he’d like you

to spread her ashes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied through gritted teeth. I would spread them. I had a feeling that both urns

contained her father’s ashes, so I would give him a proper burial and say a prayer. I would do that for

Sylvie.

I wouldn’t bury her. She wasn’t dead.

When I walked back out, Joe was leaving, with some excuse about needing to catch a plane. I

was glad. I didn’t want to see him ever again. I didn’t like him. He was lying to me. Sylvie was out

there and all alone. She needed me. I needed her.

I sat on the couch next to Mandy. I swear there were invisible eggshells on the floor because

everyone tiptoed around me, doing their best to avoid me as if I could fly off into another volatile

rage again. I wouldn’t now. It was a waste of breath. I was alone.

“Cal, you’re really scaring me. You’re scaring everyone,” Mandy said, putting her hand on my

knee.

“I’m sorry.” I patted her hand. She’d lost her best friend too. She didn’t deserve my crazy on top

of that. “Will you play something for her? Maybe sing?”

“What should I play?”

“Something happy. Something she will like.” Mandy stared at me hard. I knew she hadn’t missed

that I’d used present tense, but she nodded and smiled reassuringly anyway. I refused to use past tense

when it came to Sylvie. I would see her again.

I wiped the tears that were running down Mandy’s cheeks. She embraced me. After a while, she

stood up and made her way to the piano.

Matt Sampson took my sister’s vacant seat. It surprised me he didn’t want to stay the hell away

from me like everyone else. I found some weird comfort in his company, though. He knew what I was

going through on some level.

“I loved her too, you know,” Matt said, bringing me out of my morbid silence.

I wanted to be angry at him, but somehow it made me feel good to know someone else loved her.

“I should knock your teeth out for that, but I won’t.”

“It wasn’t the same way you loved her, but I did. We were lucky, Cal.”

“How in the hell were we lucky, Matt?”

He waved his arm around the room. “We both knew how special she was. Most of the people in

this room never will.”

The man had a point.

Mandy started playing
Only the Good Die Young
by Billy Joel. I smiled, remembering Sylvie

and Mandy rearranging the music and words to work for the piano. It was definitely the most

inappropriate song for a memorial service, especially one in a small southern Methodist town. The

lyrics were shocking and maybe even blasphemous.

No one sang along this time. I didn’t give a fuck. Sylvie was one of the few people who would

appreciate Mandy’s musical choice.

I hoped she was listening.

Chapter Eleven

Present day

After Sylvie’s alleged death, I’d changed. I’d felt like part of me had disappeared with her.

Momma had made me go to therapy. I drove forty miles each way since we had no therapists in

Prairie Marsh. Dr Arnold had interesting books and a stuffed doll of Freud on his shelf. He’d

suggested I couldn’t let go of Sylvie because I was feeling guilty that I hadn’t saved her that night.

He’d called it damsel-in-distress syndrome or some shit.

In a way, he’d been right. I did blame myself. I should have picked her up and carried her away

sooner. I should have stood in the line of fire. I should have covered her body again. There were a lot

of what-ifs from that night, but my guilt extended far beyond the should-haves and what-ifs. It was the

present and what I should have been doing that worried me the most. She was out there and she didn’t

have anyone to help her, protect her, love her, care for her.

In the end, I’d decided I needed to go to college and get a job. After all, how could I help her if I

had no money?

I’d never planned a career in teaching. My first choice had been to play college football and

eventually go pro, but even as a cocky sixteen-year-old, I’d known that was a long shot. My second

choice had been to enter the police academy like my father and have a career in law enforcement. My

third had been to sign up for the Marines and defend our country. My physical and mental injuries

precluded all those professions so I’d settled for the only other thing I was good at. Reading. I’d

majored in English Lit and it became the only career choice left to me.

As I stared at Sophie Becker, I wondered if it was all worth it.

She looked so different than she had in my class, but it was definitely Sophie. I sucked in a deep

breath, drinking in the sight of her. It was Saturday and I’d decided to go an extra mile today, ending

my run at the Wicker’s Cove farmers’ market, affectionately referred to as the WC by the locals.

Ironically, I’d thought it would help clear my mind of her, but here she was in front of me like a scar

that wouldn’t heal.

She wore a white billowy top that I was pretty sure girls referred to as a peasant blouse and cut-

off jeans. Judging from the uneven frayed edges they were true cut-offs, not factory made. Her long

cinnamon-colored hair hung down in waves of luxurious curls that looked so inviting, my hand

actually twitched with a feral need to touch them.

I swallowed hard as my eyes slowed to her choice of footwear. Cowboy boots. Most men

preferred high heels, and I was no exception, but there was something so incredibly sexy about a

woman in cowboy boots. The softened and scuffed leather made it clear they were well-worn. I knew

Sophie Becker was a pretty girl even with the baseball hats and plain clothing, but seeing her like this

made me wish I wasn’t wearing sweats. Not the best choice of attire when your dick decided to stand

at attention.

She looked so much like Sylvie, but different too. I was mesmerized. She hadn’t spotted me so I

decided to do the most stalkerish thing I could and follow her.

I had never been here, but Molly always said such great things about the WC so I’d decided the

extra mile would be worth it to check it out. The WC farmers’ market was much more than a place to

buy fruits and vegetables. It was part produce stand with all the offerings of local farmers, part flea

market with numerous vendors selling handmade wares and part carnival midway with a few groups

of musicians strategically aligned down the path. Sophie Becker wove in and out of the crowd

effortlessly, often chatting with merchants, which told me she came here often. I watched as she

bought a burlap sack filled with red apples. She knelt down, handing one to a little boy, before

darting back into the hordes of visitors.

I kept pace with her, oblivious to the other sights and sounds surrounding us. I only had eyes for

her. When she stopped, I stopped, but kept enough distance between us so it wouldn’t be obvious.

When we were toward the end of the street that comprised the WC, she paused to listen to a band, one

hand shoved in her pockets, tapping her boots to the music. They played a mix of modern and folk-

type stuff. A large crowd gathered around them, especially children.

After they finished the song, the lead singer, a guy with a Peter Frampton look and ZZ Top beard,

smiled appreciatively at the crowd before he spoke into the microphone. “Sophie Becker, come up

here and sing with me,” he said, gesturing to her. She shook her head vehemently. “Okay, folks, I’m

going to need your help. My friend Sophie here is a great singer. Would you like to hear her sing?”

Everyone hooted and hollered in encouragement. “Come on, Sophie, the people have spoken.”

He grabbed her hand and led her into their makeshift stage area. She was reluctant but allowed

him to do so. He whispered in her ear and she nodded. I felt a pang of sudden jealousy at the

intimacy, which was ridiculous since I had no right to that emotion. One band member took her bag of

apples, while Mr Hippy ZZ Top shoved a tambourine in her hand. She looked at it with hesitation, but

took it. “You know the rules. Everyone plays an instrument,” Mr Hippy ZZ Top said.

They started playing. I didn’t recognize the tune until they laid into the chorus since it was a

different arrangement.
The Weight
by The Band is definitely a toe-tapping song, even for a guy. Her

voice was pure innocence with the perfect hint of sexy rasp that only some girls could achieve. But I