The answer isn’t one I’m comfortable with.
I pull out and follow her at a distance, to a dealership a mile or so away. Nathan Butler gets out and smacks the roof of the car, and she drives away, the car chugging and spitting all over the place. I answer my mobile when Otto calls, keeping three cars back. “All okay for tonight?” I ask.
“Yeah. Where are you?”
“Surveillance.”
“You mean following the girl.”
“She’s business.”
“And you’re a tool.”
“She’s digging, Otto.”
“And there’s nothing that can be found. We’ve been over it a hundred times.”
“Someone knows something, and Beau’s suspicious. If she gets too close—”
“She’s already too close.”
She’d die.
I see the signal light of Beau’s car start blinking, and a quick scan of the area tells me she’s pulling into a Walmart. It’s early afternoon. The store will be packed. What the fuck is she thinking? “I’ve got to go.” I hang up and follow her into the car park, parking on the other side, out of sight. But I see her. She sits in the driver’s seat for an age, looking at the store. Then she makes a call. To whom?
I rest back, watching her closely, hoping she’ll change her mind and drive away. This is too much in one day. The diner, the store, the opera tonight.
But she gets out, pulls her bag onto her shoulder, and walks with purpose toward the entrance. I don’t know if my increasing heartbeat is because she’s exposed, or because I am.
What the fucking hell is she doing?
29
BEAU
After I drop Nath off at the dealership, I head for Walmart, trying desperately not to pin all my hopes on my newfound recollection. Nath has a point. I could have my dates wrong. I could be clutching at straws, making small things into big things, or even nothings into somethings. I’m driving myself wild going over the conversation that happened over two years ago, reciting it word for word, trying to iron out the sketchy parts. I keep coming back to the same thing. Mom’s breathlessness.
The parking lot is packed when I pull into it, the afternoon shoppers out in force. This has got to be on par with an opera house, hasn’t it? Or maybe worse. People at opera houses are considerate and dignified. There is nothing dignified about fighting your way around Walmart on a Saturday afternoon. It’s each person for themselves. Survival of the fittest.
I park and call Lawrence. “Do you need anything from the store?” I ask, my mind blank, even the essentials disappearing.
“Huh?”
“I’m at Walmart.”
“Why?”
Because I’m preparing myself for a trip to the opera. “I got my period. I need Tampax,” I mutter, and cringe immediately with it.
“Really, Beau? I know your cycle. It’s like clockwork, and you’re not due for a few days. Besides, you have a stash in your bathroom vanity.”
“You’ve been through my bathroom vanity?”
“I needed some tweezers.”
I sigh. “It’s all I could think of. Put Dexter on.”
“Fine,” he grunts, and the line muffles as Lawrence tells Dexter who it is and why I’m calling.
“Milk,” Dexter says softly, soothingly, when he comes onto the line. “We always need milk. And bread. And wine.”
“Keep going,” I order, putting him on loudspeaker and pulling up my notes, starting to compile my list.
“Coffee. Make sure it’s not decaffeinated.”
“Because what’s the point in that?” we chant in unison, and I laugh a little.
“Tea bags, eggs, and some lubricant.”
“Because that’s essential in our house,” we say together, both laughing again.
“Thanks, Dexter.”
“Block it all out, Beau. You can do it.” He’s not making a big deal of it. God, I do love that man. He’s the calm to Lawrence’s chaos. The logical to Lawrence’s irrational. They balance each other perfectly, and their love? The richest kind. Lawrence’s favorite story always begins: Let me tell you about the time a cop walked into a drag bar . . .
I jump out of my car, mentally repeating Dexter’s mantra as I collect a cart. A basket would do, but I need some kind of armor. Some protection. On that thought, I pull out my earbuds and pop them in, finding my music app and putting on some . . . opera.
Perfect.
Pie Jesu starts to serenade me as I push my cart through the doors of the store. I immediately have to dodge a woman who’s stopped in the middle of the busy entrance. And then someone else who abandons their cart and dives across the aisle to grab something off an end display. And then a kid who spots the toy aisle. It’s bedlam, total chaos, and my lack of hearing the madness doesn’t lessen my building stress. “Jesus,” I breathe, taking it all in, alarmed, my muscles becoming tenser by the second. I walk in a zigzag, navigating the store carefully, stepping left and right to avoid crazy shoppers, constantly stopping and starting to avoid being knocked to my ass. Lord, what was I thinking?
I can’t do this.
I can’t do this.
I can’t handle the chaos.
It’s too much.
I turn up the volume and round a corner, finding a man racing toward me with arms full of groceries, looking harassed. I stop in the middle of the aisle, frozen, the shopper’s face morphing into fear rather than stress. And he’s suddenly not alone. He’s joined by a stampede of frantic people running scared.
I blink, shaking my head violently, clearing my vision and my flashback. I see the harassed shopper again. He’s alone. No stampede.
I really can’t do this.
I release the handle of my cart, trying to convince my legs to move. I need to get out. Leave. Go. I turn on the spot, my lungs tight, my heart tighter.
Get out. Get out.
I jump out of my skin when my phone screeches in my ear, and I reach up quickly to yank my earbuds out. I shouldn’t have. The bustling noise of the supermarket hits me hard, and I scan my surroundings frantically, searching for the one thing that might get me through the impending panic attack. A paper bag.
No paper bags.
“Fuck.” I look at the screen of my phone, starting to hyperventilate. “James,” I murmur, answering it quickly as I shove my buds back in. “Hello,” I yell, making an old lady startle as she passes.
“Hi, it’s me.” James’s deep voice sinks into my ears. “Why are you shouting?” I close my eyes for a moment and listen to his breathing. “Beau?” he says calmly, and for some extremely strange reason, his voice eliminates everything else. Everything. My heart slows. My breathing settles. I look at my hand that was trembling moments ago. Steady. “Where are you?” he asks.
I look around me at the unrelenting bedlam. “Shopping.” I locate my cart and seize the handle with both hands, anchoring myself. But it’s not the cart quietening my demons. It’s James, and that’s a frightening thing to admit to myself.
“Why, Beau?”
He’s right. Why would anyone tackle Walmart on a Saturday? Least of all me, with my phobia of chaos. “Because I wanted to make tonight easier,” I murmur, not holding back. I haven’t got the mental capacity to lie. “Anything has to be easier than this.” I chance a risky peek around me. God, it’s getting busier. Focus on James.