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CHAPTER 29
FLORA
KEITH AND I ARE EXHAUSTED by the time we return to the motel. I’m not even sure what time it is anymore. Six P.M.? Seven? We should probably shower and prepare for some kind of team meeting. I don’t want to shower. I don’t want to move. I want to sink down on the bed and stare at the ceiling till my vision blurs and reality falls away.
After our visit to Jacob’s shack, Walt brought us back to his property. He fed us. Wood-fired fresh fish, topped with lemon slices and microgreens. It was better than anything I’ve eaten in a restaurant. So we sat on the front porch beside the washer and dryer and ate a meal any five-star chef would’ve been proud of.
Keith ate two plates. Given that I was suffering an out-of-body experience at the time, I stuck to one.
“You don’t like it?” Walt asked me anxiously.
“I don’t eat much.”
“You should eat. A girl needs her strength.”
Which of course, completely killed my appetite. Keith got Walt to talk. About his precious microgreens. About all the time he now spent in fancy Atlanta restaurants and the trade secrets he’d picked up along the way. About his plans for expansion, his paranoia about rivals.
He still wasn’t aware of Jacob being in Niche fifteen years ago—or any time prior to Jacob showing up in the bar and introducing himself. Then again, Walt didn’t get out much himself. Townspeople didn’t like him and the feeling was mutual.
What was Jacob driving the time Walt had seen him?
Walt had to think about it. A pickup, he thought. Nothing special. Good enough for getting around on dirt roads.
Did Jacob own the truck? Had he rented or borrowed it?
Walt had just stared at Keith. Now why the hell would he ask questions like that?
License plates, Keith insisted. Were they Georgia, or out of state?
He thought Georgia. And oh yeah, definitely local.
This is enough to rouse me out of reverie. “How do you know Jacob’s vehicle was local?”
“Town sticker on the windshield. You know. For the dump.”
So Jacob had been driving a locally owned truck. Maybe something he stole? Or borrowed from a friend? Keith looks at me. I can tell already what he’s thinking: We should get a photo of Walt’s vehicle, including plates. I nod faintly. Keith excuses himself, disappearing quickly off the porch and on mission.
Keith really is good at this stuff.
Walt insists on cleaning up after the meal. I roam the tiny cabin, searching for photos, personal mementos, anything that might tell me something. Mostly, I sneeze at the thick piles of dust and feel increasingly claustrophobic in the dark, musty space.
If Jacob had ever lived here as a little boy, I can find no trace of it. Any remnants of Walt’s family are long gone and all that remains of family photos are the faint outlines where they’d once been hung on the walls.
Keith returns. Clearly, it’s time for us to be on our way. What do you say to the father of the man who kidnapped you? The father who swore he came back to save you, only to discover he was too late? The father who greeted you at gunpoint, before giving you a tour of your greatest nightmare, then feeding you a perfectly lovely meal?
I go with a simple handshake. My mind isn’t working anymore. I’ve gone down some rabbit hole where nothing feels real.
Keith, once again, has held it together. He thanks Walt for his time, the tour, the meal. Wishes him the best with his microgreens—why not? Mentions we’d probably visit again soon. Might bring an associate or two—such as the police.
Walt nods nervously, wiping his hands again and again on the legs of his jeans. He agrees to all.
We regard each other for a long moment. I can tell he has no more apologies in him, and I know I have no more forgiveness in me, so I guess that makes us even.
“Thank you for the fish,” I manage.
Then I follow Keith out the door and let him drive us back to the hotel.
—
