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Daisy
That’s notthe version I told the police, of course. Just that first part, where Liam confronted me, drunk and horny, and I walked away. They didn’t press further. No “Are you sure you didn’t discuss anything else?” or “Did he follow you?” Somehow, even knowing it wouldn’t stand up in court, my conscience feels clean. I didn’t lie. I just omitted facts.
The part that has my gut twisting is that I lied about my identity. Again, that seems ridiculous. I’ve been lying about it since I arrived. Now, though, I have given my false identity to the police. No actual ID—the young deputy didn’t ask for that. If they do, I’ll be screwed. I don’t have fake ID, and the real one is in a safety deposit box in Tampa—I’d been paranoid about someone finding it and realizing who I am.
I’m freaked out for the same reason I’m not carrying fake ID. When my suburban friends shoplifted lip gloss and candy bars, they made me stay outside. Even though I wasn’t lifting anything myself, the guilty look on my face would have given everyone away. I don’t jaywalk. I don’t drive after a single beer. I once lost a good job because I refused to use stained poplar when a client paid for black walnut.
Maybe my extreme law-abiding is like Tom refusing to drink. Through my veins pumps a hereditary disregard for the distinction between legal and illegal ways to make a living. Yet I don’t judge my father—and grandfather—and great-grandfather—for their choices. They needed to put food on the table. And, yes, in Dad’s case, he needed to feed addictions, but the grocery and rent money still came first.
Perhaps that is where my true aversion to criminal behavior lies. Unlike my ancestors, I don’t have an excuse. As a teen, I could afford the candy bars and lip gloss. My skills pay my bills, and I have no dependents—or dependence—to feed. Whatever the reason, now that I’ve lied to the police, I’m a little freaked out.
A lot freaked out.
Tom said I could come by later and talk to him. I’m resisting that urge. It feels like when we’d come here in the summer, and Gran would fight with Mom. It always happened at night when they thought I was asleep and Dad wasn’t around to run interference.
Mom and Gran hated each other, which was weird because they both wanted the same thing: to get Dad clean and straight. I guess it’s like having two master carpenters working on one house. You’d think they’d be thrilled to find a partner who’d make the job easier, but instead, it becomes a battle of will and ego.
Under the surface, they were as alike as mother and daughter, hard in their love and hard to love. So they fought over who could help Dad and who was dragging him down, and on those nights, after I’d gone to bed, they’d clash like titans of old, the house rocking with their frustration and rage.
I think back on those days, and I wish I’d been old enough to jump between them, hold back the force of their personalities and negotiate peace between the two women whose love for my father still couldn’t save him. Maybe that could have saved us. Or, perhaps, it wouldn’t have mattered how old I was—they’d still only see a child who didn’t understand.
Back then, I only understood that their rage scared me. I’d sneak out, run to Tom’s place and tap on his window. He’d keep me company until I felt safe enough to go home. Tonight, I am that girl again, desperate to run to Tom and wake him up to soothe my fears.
Eventually, I do sneak out. Celeste has gone to bed. We didn’t speak beyond me asking how she was doing and praying she didn’t want someone to talk to. Thankfully, she did not and retreated to her room.
When I first planned this mission, I expected to hate Celeste, even if she didn’t murder my grandmother. This woman stole my identity. She found my grandmother in seriously poor health and took advantage. She insinuated herself into Gran’s life and robbed me of any chance that Gran would, on her deathbed, finally reach out and reconcile. Worse, Gran thought we had reconciled. Her granddaughter had returned, and the past was wiped away. My dearest dream come true... except it happened to someone else. Someone who hadn’t loved Gran. Someone who’d only seen her as a mark to be conned.
Then I’d realized that the best way to do this was to just stay cool. Play my role of wandering soul and hope to get information that way. Get access to the house. Find Gran’s diary and the imposter’s ID.
It’s going to take some time to see this woman as Celeste again, and I need to return to that place if I’m going to follow through on my plan.
I slip out of the house and into the yard, heading to Tom’s place. I’ve gone maybe fifty feet past the property when I catch voices on the breeze, and I drop to one knee, extinguishing my flashlight just as a brighter light cuts through the darkness. My heart hammers as two male voices talk, only their tones reaching me, rough and abrupt. I catch Liam’s name and freeze.
What the hell were you mixed up in, Liam?
More than just shady legal work. I know that from our conversation last night.
I wish you weren’t lying dead out here, Liam.
I wish you were still alive so I could sue your ass for everything you’re worth, get you disbarred and see you locked behind bars. I want to see you in a prison cell looking down at a tattoo you didn’t give yourself, marked for life as exactly the sort of person you sneered at with Tom.
I wish that for you, and instead, you are dead, and I’m not satisfied. I only hope that whoever pulled that trigger looked you in the eye when they did it. I hope they were someone you screwed over, and the moment before that bullet hit, you realized every step that brought you to that point was a choice. Your choice.
If I had my phone, I could sneak up and take a picture of the men in case they are Liam’s killers. The thought makes me stifle a laugh. Yeah, no, it’s probably a good thing I don’t have my phone, or I’d end up alligator-chow, all for the sake of a blurry, dark photo.
I should flee. Get the hell out before I’m seen or heard. Yet here is an opportunity I cannot resist. Not a photo, then, but information. A lead. A snippet of conversation.
I stifle another laugh. Okay, maybe hoping for case-breaking information is a bit much. I might hear something, though.
I creep in their direction, following the beacon of their conversation and their movements, lumbering through the swamp. Finally, words come clear.
“You do realize this is a complete waste of time, right? Also dangerous as hell. It’s after dark, and we’re in the swamp.”
“The swamp is over there. This is dry ground.”
“You know what I mean. We shouldn’t be out here.”
“I just—”
