I’m pulling the curtains closed when she opens one eye and says, “Just be careful, don’t let him break your heart.”
I try for my most reassuring smile. “Don’t worry Mom, we’re just having fun. That’s all.”
Justin stopsby the camper the next morning. My mother is still asleep and I’m reading when he taps quietly on the window over my bed. Not wanting to wake her, I tip-toe past her and open the door as silently as possible.
“Hey,” he says, greeting me with a fast kiss. The visit and kiss come as a surprise but I can get used to waking up like this.
“What’s going on?” I ask. I see he’s in his work uniform, so I assume that’s where he’s headed.
“Just wanted to see you before my day started.” His fingers tug at mine. “Invite you out tonight. Maybe hit the beach or come over?”
My stomach flutters at his invitation. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “I have to work with my mom today. Not sure when I’ll get back.”
“Whenever is fine. We have a meeting after closing, too. I won’t be done until eight or so.” He’s staring at my lips. It’s okay though, because I’m staring back at his.
“Okay, call or text or something,” I say. He nods and takes a step forward and I move back on instinct. I hit the trailer with a thud. Justin’s hands wrap around my waist and he leans down to give me another kiss. This one I’m ready for and respond with enthusiasm. That is until Mr. Johnson turns on his weed-eaternext door. The zipping sound rips through the air, breaking the moment.
“Tonight?” he asks, with a smile as big as the sun.
“Tonight.”
Seeingmy mother groggy and hung-over is weird, but so is sharing a tiny trailer with her and listening to her talk about ancient history with Richard.
“That was another dead-end,” my mother says, tossing her notes into a folder and securing them in her bag. Since our visit with Darlene, she had spent her days either writing or researching possible victims. Somehow she managed to get her hands on several crime histories from the period, including the notes from the DA’s office. Her suspicions were right. Several victims came forward during that time period but their cases were never prosecuted. Most, she said, didn’t have enough proof or evidence for the police to proceed. This injustice has fueled my mother to give them their moment to speak. The problem we face now is that we can’t find any of these people. They’ve either died or moved away. Today we searched for three in the Conway area and came up empty-handed.
“We’ll try again,” Nick says. Yeah, he’s with us. Invested in our research and volunteering to drive since he’s familiar with most of the back roads, he drove while she took notes in the backseat and I sorted her files.
“There are a couple more on my list, plus I’ll just keep looking in the employment records. Maybe I can track them that way.” Every day I learn a new trick to gathering information. She has dozens. She really may have missed her chance to be the nextNancy Drew. “Actually, do you know where the library is? I may dash in and see if they have anything.”
“Yeah, it’s a couple blocks over.”
The building isn’t anything special. Just a small red brick building with the familiar paper scent that lingers in places with a lot of books. In the corner is a woman reading a story to a group of children. My mother pays us no attention and heads straight to the desk. In a matter of moments, they’re off in some dark corner of the building that holds ancient records and Nick and I are left alone.
“Should we go help?” he asks, watching my mother’s retreating form.
“Nah, she’ll tell us if she needs anything.”
A couple of the parents nearby give us a dirty look for talking and I slink down a stack of books. Nick follows.
We’re quiet—he’s quiet all the time—and driving around the backroads of South Carolina gives me a lot of time to watch him. He’s physical in a different way than the surfer boys; more intentional—a threat. He’s huge and it’s not hard to imagine him on the football field.
“How come you don’t surf like the others?” I whisper, pulling a book from the shelf. It’s about bugs. I pretend I’m interested. “You’re never there in the morning.”
“I used to but now I have a conditioning schedule I have to meet. I drive into town to the gym every morning.”
That makes sense. “It’s mandatory?”
“Yep. Surfing is a big workout but not the kind my coaches want.” He removes a book and flips through the pages. The scent of decaying paper is strong and pleasing.
“You don’t seem as upset as Whit about going to the Citadel.”
He doesn’t respond right away, looping around me and grazing my shoulder as he goes for another book. This one is filled with magnificent photographs of wildlife. “I’m proud of myfamily tradition and want to continue it. My grandfather and his brothers and my father and his brothers…they all went to the school. It feels right. Whit sees it as an obligation. I view it like a rite-of-passage. Like a piece of my personal puzzle that has to fit into place.”
I turn to face him and over my shoulder he slides the book back in place, but leaves his hand resting against the shelves. “I never had any family that I knew about until I came here. I get what you’re saying about puzzles. Suddenly things about my mom and her upbringing make a little more sense.”
“Things like your name?”
“My name?”
