I shrug it off and put a bite of cake into my mouth, but as delicious as it is, I can’t stomach it.
A moment later, Jericho is gone and Anthony is back at the door. Megs joins me at the table.
“Shit,” she says. “Waste of good cake.” She cuts herself a slice as she glances at Anthony. “But at least we get to talk.”
“Page 286?”
She nods and takes a bite. “Fuck, I’m good.” She says louder than necessary, then lowers her voice. “I found a house in the Seventh Ward that belonged to a Marjorie Gibson who is deceased.”
“What?”
“The address is on page 286. She has a son named Gerald who has a rap sheet about as long as my arm, and another named Danny who is currently serving time for the murder of one Christian York. That’s thanks to my detective friend. What the fuck is going on, Isabelle?”
“Shit. He’s real.”
“And he is not a nice man.”
“No, his brother wasn’t nice either. Does he live at the house?”
“Last address was out in Vegas.”
“Vegas?”
She nods. “But it doesn’t mean he’s not here and just hasn’t changed his address.”
“The van?” I ask, not sure I want to know. Not at all.
“He owns a white van. What does it mean?”
“I’m not sure. If he’s out in Vegas, nothing. But if he’s not…” It means Jericho is telling the truth. At least some of it. And possibly that Julia isn’t. “Do you have your car here?” I ask, hating the idea even as I ask but unsure what else to do.
“My car?”
I nod.
“Out back.” Her eyes narrow. “And no, you’re not taking it to pay a visit to that shithead.”
“I’m not planning on visiting him if he’s even in town. I just want to see the house. See if the van is there.” See if it’s the same one.
“Isabelle, no.”
“I won’t have another chance like this. I can’t leave the house without Jericho. I can’t call you or anyone else. I can’t do anything without his permission.”
Megs swallows, glances at Anthony. “What about him?”
“Cake?”
She slips her hand into her pocket and takes out the keys. “This one will unlock the door at the end of the hall past the ladies room. You’ll see the car out back.” I close my hand over it, glance at Anthony who is smiling at something on his phone. I slip the keys into my purse and Megs quickly shoves her phone in there too. “You know the code. You’re just driving by, right?”
I nod.
“It should take you twenty minutes to get there. If I don’t hear from you in twenty, I’m sending cops to Gibson’s address.”
“No. I need more time.”
“Fine. Twenty-five. Then you’re straight back. Agreed?”
I nod, get to my feet. She closes her hand over mine. “Don’t do anything stupid, Isabelle. You hear me?”
I nod, smile and turn to Anthony. “Can you get the cake packed up? I need to use the lady’s room.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. St. James.”
“You may as well have a slice first,” Megs says and gets Anthony a slice, making him sit down as I slip through the door and toward the exit.
43
Isabelle
I understand why she named her car The Potato. It’s a clunky old Mustang and it sputters to life, hiccuping all the way, making me wonder if it’ll run at all. But then the rumbling settles and I shift to drive, the gear sticking momentarily.
The car itself is spotless even though the scent of gasoline permeates the interior. Megs loves the old thing. It was her father’s. It’s why she keeps it. He loved it too.
The Seventh Ward is not the best neighborhood. I know that. But during this time of day, I should be fine. I think about what I’m going to do when I get to the house where Gerald Gibson could be living. This is Danny’s brother. The man who tried to rape me. The man who killed Christian. Can I even do this?
I have to.
Because I have to know the truth about Julia. And if the van that tried to run me over is at the house, then it can’t be coincidence.
Carlton’s cause of death was not natural, I know that. And Jericho believes Julia is at the root of all of this. His death. The attack on me.
Possibly the attack that killed Christian.
The light a few blocks from Gerald Gibson’s house turns red. I stop, rub my face. Am I ready to know this? Am I ready to know that Julia, my cousin whom I trust, with whom I have a relationship, whose son I love, could have tried to hurt me? Could have had anything to do with Christian’s death? She explained it all so easily the other day and it makes sense that Carlton could have used her name and email address for the payment. But why would he leave a paper trail? That makes no sense. Why keep a record of your crime?
But it could be true, too, and Jericho is too angry to see it. With Matty being Carlton’s son, the inheritance is settled. Jericho must see red at that and Julia would become his natural target.
Someone honks their horn, startling me. The light has turned green. I take my foot off the brake and drive, looking at the street names. I’m a few blocks out and my anxiety grows as I drive slower than the speed limit, the car creeping along once I turn onto Marjorie Gibson’s street. I see the house at the far end. It’s nondescript, blends in with the others on this street, the houses worn down, a neighborhood forgotten. They’re all single-story homes with curtains pulled closed over windows. The cars parked along the street and on driveways are older, unloved models.
The driveway is empty. The house dark. It, too, looks empty. Like no one lives there. There’s a garage at the end of the driveway and the door seems to be stuck. I drive by slowly, peering toward it and although I’m too far to be sure I see there’s a vehicle inside. A truck or a van. And I can see it’s white.
At the end of the street, I make a U-turn and creep toward the house. I park Megs’s car and kill the engine. I sit inside for a long minute, my hands sweaty around the keys.
I just need to look at the van. I’ll recognize it. The day is a blur but there was one thing that I remember. And it’s distinct.
I check my watch. I have ten minutes before Megs calls the police, so I dig her phone out of my purse, punch in her code and dial the café. She answers on the first ring. I’m sure she’s been waiting.
“Hey,” she says.
“I just got to the house.”
“And you’re just doing a drive-by, remember?”
“I just need to see inside the garage.”
“Isabelle—”
“Has Anthony figured out I’m gone?”
“He thinks you have an upset stomach but honestly, he won’t buy it too much longer.”
“I’ll hurry. I just need to see, and the house looks empty. There’s no one here.”
“Please don’t make me regret this.”
I don’t have anything to say to that, so I disconnect the call. With clammy hands, I open the car door and step out. I tuck the keys into my purse, walking down the sidewalk toward the house. Lace curtains that may once have been nice hang in the windows and through them the rooms are dark. No one’s here. It’s fine.