Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6) (41 page)

I feel her hesitance at the sight of Charlotta, at the sternness on her son’s face. He’s come to forgive her, I think, and to show her the way from here—away from the horrible anger that has held her captive for so long—but he brought his Charlie for a reason. Even now, even gone, they remain a package deal. He won’t choose Mama Lottie over Charlotta now, as he wouldn’t then, and he’s saying without one single word that to come with him, his mother must accept his love for the last Drayton to reside in the place that stole her life.

“What’s happening?” Beau whispers.

“She’s considering,” I tell him, and Daria nods in agreement.

The ghosts in the river don’t speak, at least not so I can hear them, no matter how much I want to. I don’t know if Mama Lottie does, or if she understands what he’s asking, what he’s offering, the way I do, but she only looks back at us once. The twist of her features tells me she has no idea
what
to feel. The confusion in my stomach seconds that conclusion.
 

Mama Lottie doesn’t know how to fill the hole left by her hatred. She doesn’t know how James can possibly be here, be willing to love her, but he is. She even wants to thank me, but she doesn’t. I’d almost be disappointed if she did.

I’m still crying as she goes to her son and touches her heart, then his, and he folds her in an embrace. She climbs into the canoe with the girl who changed everything, who is
still
changing everything, and the three of them disappear across the river. The same river where James and Charlotta used to meet when they were children, falling in love and with bright ideas for the future.

It’s not until they’re gone that I realize Amelia’s not here.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I
feel numb all the way back to Heron Creek. My car is at Beau’s but I don’t care, asking him to take me straight home and leave me. He resists, wanting to stay, to comfort me, but gives in when he realizes nothing can do that. I need to be alone.

After he’s gone, I tear through the house, desperate to find Amelia back home and safe now that Mama Lottie is gone from our lives for good. The Draytons are safe, Beau and I are able to resume our relationship if that’s what we want, but what about Amelia? Why would Charles Henry tell me that Mama Lottie took her if she hadn’t?

The house is as empty as it was when I left. My heart screams at the unfairness of it all, but I resist the urge to sit down and cry in the laundry room the way I did before, knowing it won’t do any more good this time around. Instead, I summon determination from deep inside me. I am not going to lose Millie to all of this nonsense. I’m going to find her, we’re going to break the curse on our own family, and we’re all going to live goddamn happily ever after.

I prowl the house like a caged animal for a few minutes, then decide to go for a run to clear my head. It takes no time at all to change into leggings, a hoodie, and tennis shoes, and the first rays of sunlight have streaked the horizon with lavender when I step out onto the porch.
 
I expect to see the curtains twitch as I pass Mrs. Walters’s house, a sure sign she’s trying to pretend she isn’t spying, but no movement catches my eye.

There hasn’t been for a while, come to think of it. Not that I’ve been home often or wishing I’d see Mrs. Walters, but I do remember thinking she’d be along to give me grief about the parade of different men in and out of the house. Odd. Maybe she’s still sick.

The run produces a lot of sweat but no answers. I stop at Westies an hour later to get some coffee and run into LeighAnn at the counter, her two older children in tow. They have their noses pressed against the glass of the pastry cabinet as she orders a coffee and two tiny hot chocolates.

“Hi,” I say, keeping my distance since I probably stank
before
the run. I try and fail to remember the last time I showered, but that just makes me want to cry again. Amelia makes sure I do things like that.

“Hey! Any news about your cousin?”

I shake my head, groping for another topic. “Thanks again for doing story time for us.”

She pauses while I order my latte, then waves a hand. “It’s no trouble. I’ve been covering some of your hours, too, and it’s been nice to get out of the house. The kids are wrecking the place, though, fair warning.”

“I guess it’s job security.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

Betty hands LeighAnn her coffee over the counter, and LeighAnn turns to go, tugging on her children in the process.

“Hey, has my neighbor been in to the library looking for me? Mrs. Walters?” I ask her before she disappears out the door.

She thinks about it but not for long, then shakes her head. “Not when I’ve been there— Stop it, I’m talking!”
 

The oldest kid, a boy, quits yanking on her arm but not before hot chocolate slops onto her sleeve. I shake my head and frown at him, but he still doesn’t look properly chastised. It seems my mom stare needs some work.

“Okay, thanks.”

My own coffee is ready then, but I spot old Laurel and Dorothy in front of the big picture window and pause on my way out. “Good morning, ladies.”

“You’re up early, Graciela,” Dorothy, the one with the pretty white hair, titters.

My reputation precedes me, as always in this town. I force a smile, trying to see in the face of Laurel’s new bright-as-the-sun red hair. “Have either of you seen Mrs. Walters? She hasn’t been over to harass me in a particularly long while, and believe it or not, I’m a little worried.”

They exchange a glance, looking equally helpless. If I ask them to tell me what sort of drink is in their mugs, they probably couldn’t recall that, either, and I know their answer before they give it.

“You know, I don’t remember the last time I saw her…” Laurel trails off, waiting for Dorothy to come to the rescue.

“Maybe at Bunco the other night? No, she was supposed to bring the pie and we didn’t have dessert.” The second sister frowns, and I knock on the table.

“That’s right,” Laurel nods. “We ate M&M’s.”

“Okay, thanks,” I say quickly, trying not to get stuck on this merry-go-round of a conversation. “Maybe I’ll stop by on my way home.”

I can’t run home since I have the coffee, but I make sure my pace is as brisk as possible. At first, I really am worried about Mrs. Walters. She might be a pain in my ass, but she is old, and she could have been lying in that house for days needing help.

Then I start to think about Amelia’s disappearance. About how we all agreed she couldn’t have gone far on foot but wasn’t in the nearby area when we searched just an hour or so later.
 

What if she had been at Mrs. Walters’s house all this time? What if Mama Lottie had convinced our mean old neighbor to snatch my cousin? It wouldn’t even have been hard. Amelia would have gone with her, had Mrs. Walters come over saying she needed help with something.

I have no idea if a ghost can do any such thing—convince the living to do something out of character, and keep it up, besides—but I
do
know that it’s safe to assume Mama Lottie can do just about anything. Could have
done
just about anything, except she’s gone now… So why is Amelia not home?

I drop my coffee in a trash can on the corner and break into a run, not stopping until I’m on Mrs. Walters’s porch. The swing drifts back and forth in the light breeze, and I struggle to catch my breath while I press the doorbell over and over, not caring one whit if I piss her off.

There’s no answer. I could call Travis, but that would mean waiting, and I’ve waited long enough—too long, if no one has been caring for Amelia all these days.

“Millie?” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Are you in there?”

A muffled bang issues from inside but no words, and there’s no way I’m waiting another second. The door is locked so I whip off my shirt, immediately cold in my sports bra, and wrap it around my hand before picking up a paving stone from her landscaping and banging it against the front window. It cracks the first time and breaks on the third. I sweep the remaining glass out of the frame and slither through into the living room, ignoring the pricks of pain as the leftover glass slides into my midsection.

“Amelia?” I ask again, spooked by the eerie silence of the house.

More muffled noises come from the direction of the kitchen, and I move toward it, through a living room that has dust motes dancing in the streaming sunlight.
 

“Oh my god.”

I stop in the doorway, stunned at the scene for a heartbeat, then another, before I fly to my cousin’s side. She’s tied to the leg of the kitchen table with strips of cloth. The scuff marks on the floor tell me she’s scooted the thing all over the kitchen without being able to get herself loose or flag anyone’s attention.

I do my best to ignore the dead body of Mrs. Walters and the reek of death and feces blanketing the kitchen, pulling the dirty rag from Amelia’s mouth and going to work on her wrists. “Are you okay? Millie?”

Her eyes are dazed, staring at Mrs. Walters. I shake her hard enough to get her attention, and her green gaze wanders lazily toward me. Her forehead wrinkles. “Oh my god, Grace.”

Now that she’s free, Amelia crumples in my arms, sobbing, while I fumble my phone from my pocket. I call Travis then, because there’s a dead person and my cousin needs to get to the hospital, and the last thing I need is to find myself on the wrong side of the law. Again.

“S
he should be getting better, but she’s not,” Dr. Patel tells us in the hospital waiting room. We’ve been here a couple of hours. “It was probably only a day or two that she went without food and water, not enough to cause lasting damage. Physically, she and the baby should recover nicely, but mentally…I’m not sure how this has affected her.”

My stomach sinks at the news, even though I expect it after attempting to talk to Amelia myself. It’s as though this incident is the thing that broke her.

“She’s been seeing a therapist for depression,” I supply. “We’ll make sure she gets in to see him as soon as possible.”

“I think that would be wise,” she replies, making a note in her chart and swinging her long, dark braid back over her shoulder. “We’ll be able to discharge her this afternoon, if you think you’ll be able to handle her care.”

The doctor leaves Aunt Karen, Uncle Wally, and me alone. My aunt and uncle look a mess, which is understandable given the amount of stress they’ve been under with their daughter over the past six months, not to mention that they rushed here right after falling out of bed.

“What happened, Graciela?” Aunt Karen demands. “The truth this time. All of it.”

“I’m not sure. From what we’ve been able to piece together and what Amelia told us, Mrs. Walters came over and told Millie that she’d broken a window and needed help boarding it up. When she got there, Mrs. Walters gave her some tea, and next thing she knew, she was waking up tied to the kitchen table. Mrs. Walters refused to say anything to her, but she did make sure she had food and water.”

“Until she died,” Detective Travis adds, striding into the waiting room. He’d been in talking to Amelia, and I’m anxious to hear if she told him anything she hasn’t told me. Which wouldn’t be hard, since my once brilliant, articulate cousin seems to be struggling to piece together a coherent sentence.

“We’re waiting on the medical examiner’s report, but it appears she had a stroke about a day and a half ago.” Travis holds out his hand. “I’m Detective Travis, Mr. and Mrs. Cooper. I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”

Aunt Karen flicks a glance toward me that says she recognizes the name, but it doesn’t stop her from giving Travis the same cool greeting she gives everyone she considers beneath her.
 

“Nice to meet you, son. Thanks for all of your quick work on this.” Uncle Wally pumps Travis’s hand, always trying to make up for his wife’s aloofness.

“Of course.” There’s an awkward silence, and then Travis stuffs his hat back on his head. “William and Melanie are in with her now, so I guess I’ll get going.”

“Thanks,” I say, a slice of guilt stinging me as I remember what I told Clete.