My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 9

9

THE NEXT MORNING I was dressed and downtown by 7:30. Like my mood, the weather had turned cold and blustery—not the best for Azalea Festival Week. I pulled my collar up against my neck for the short walk to Tripp's Ham and Eggs still stunned by the events of the night before. Inside, I tracked to the same table with the same five other guys I join for breakfast most every morning.

Sappy Talton was doing his customarily splendid job of getting our waitress Sheila flustered and confused. Sappy and I had been best friends since eighth grade when we stole a pack of Lucky Strikes and a can of Miller's Beer from Smith's IGA, which started a summer of wildness that cemented our friendship forever.

A burst of laughter spread through the group as I took a seat. That's what I like about these guys. They're relaxed and fun to be around. No heavy burdens allowed.

Besides Sappy, there was Fred Gorman, a salt and pepper-haired fishing guide who'd lost two fingers off his left hand to a winch. Next to Fred sat Bob Bennett, an accountant with black horn-rimmed trifocals and buckteeth. George Reason, the bald-headed and goateed past-president of the Chamber of Commerce sat next to me. And my attorney, Joe Forrester, sat on the other side of George.

As I took my seat, Sappy reached across the table and slapped my arm. "Hey, that girl they think got murdered day before yesterday? Wasn't that over in your neck of the woods?"

I exhaled. "She lived next door."

Sheila slid a cup of coffee in front of me as she walked past without even slowing down.

"You have anything to do with that?" Sappy asked, his usual smart-alecky smirk plastered across his face.

"Actually," I tore open a packet of artificial sugar and dumped it in my coffee. "I might have been the last person to see her before it happened."

They all got quiet and turned their attention to me. Fred massaged the nubs of his missing fingers with the heel of his right hand. "You know her?" he asked.

I stirred my coffee. "She came to my house during that storm Sunday night. Her power had gone off and I went back to her place to help her get it back on."

Their faces could not hide their surprise. Joe shoved a copy of The Morning Star at me. "You seen the story in today's paper?"

"No, I haven't." Taking it, I saw that Ashleigh had made the front page.

"Which house did she live in, Rich?" Fred asked.

My eyes drifted over the story. Single female...twenty-three years old... "She lived behind Dr. Hardesty in his guest house." Violent struggle... blood-spattered walls...sexual assault...

Sappy wagged his finger. "I told you to get out and date more." A collective chuckle rose from the table. According to the paper, it appeared she'd been murdered although her body has not been found. What? I read the line again: Her body has not been found.

I read the entire article, then, as I folded the paper and handed it back to Joe, he asked, "Have the police talked with you about it yet?"

"Oh yeah. They came last night." I sipped the steaming coffee and could feel his eyes burning into me.

"What'd they say?"

My hand trembled slightly as I sat my cup down. "They mostly just asked a lot of questions. What time I went over there. What time I came back."

"That was it?"

"And they took hair and blood samples."

Joe's face deflated. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I did. I couldn't get you."

"Last night? Oh, we went to a movie."

"Besides, I have no idea what happened over there. They just wanted to know if I knew her, when I saw her last, what time that was. I had nothing to hide. I hadn't done anything. Then, when I realized how serious it really was, I tried to get you, but there was no answer."

"Damn Rich!" He lowered his voice, but his eyes were intense. "They don't take DNA unless they consider you a suspect."

A shiver snaked through me—a familiar feeling I've grown accustomed to when talking to my father, and my response probably sounded overly defensive. "I probably am a suspect. At the top of their list, but I still didn't do it."

Bob tilted his head back and eyeballed me through the lower part of his lenses. I set my coffee down and gave them the abbreviated version of the story. When Joe grasped his head in his hands, my chest tightened. "I was trying to help her. What would you guys have done?"

"What did she look like?" Sappy asked.

Sheila returned carrying an armful of plates and began dealing them around the table. "She was cute," I said. "You would've stayed the night."

"Damn right I would have. Let me see that picture again?" He reached across the table and took the paper from Joe.

George flipped a napkin across his lap. "So what happened at her house?"

"I just got her power back on and—left."

"No you didn't," Sappy pressed. "I can tell by the sound of your voice. Something happened. What?"

I ripped open a single-serving tub of butter, scooped it into my grits, and leaned forward. "Okay, you want the truth?" The five of them leaned closer. "After I got her lights back on..." They were frozen in place as if I'd hit the pause button on the VCR. I spoke softly, slowly, and distinctly. "...she went in her bedroom, lit a bunch of candles, stripped stark naked, and tried to get me in bed with her."

George's mouth dropped open as his left hand wiped across the top of his bald head.

"You wish," Sappy quipped breaking the yolk on a fried egg along with the tension. "I know you," he added. "You wouldn't have done it if she'd let you."

Ouch! The truth hurt. But, thank God I didn't do it. No telling what problems that could have caused. The conversation around the table drifted away from Ashleigh into a debate of why none of the North Carolina teams made the final four in college basketball this year. I sliced my eggs, stirred them into the grits, and wondered why they hadn't found a body. Joe remained quiet the rest of the meal and pulled me aside as we were leaving.

"This thing could turn out to be a serious problem for you, Rich," he said heaving an overcoat over his shoulders. "If I were you, I'd get an attorney right now."

"Can't you handle it?"

"You need someone that knows criminal law, Rich. That's not what I do."

The look in his eyes and the sound of his voice gave me the jitters. "You think it's that serious, huh?"

"How'd you get the scratch on your face?"

"Swear to God, I don't know."

"Swear to God, I'd get an attorney." He slapped my arm as he walked away.

I trailed after him. "But I didn't do anything."

"You need a good attorney more if you didn't do it than if you did."

"Okay. Then who?"

"Let me check into it. In the meantime, don't talk to anyone else about this. Not a peep! Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. If the cops want anything else from you, make them get a search warrant. I'll call you later."