Not What She Seems: A Novel, page 36
I sobbed. “Mama.”
She held on tight. “Girl, don’t you dare. Don’t you even think about it. You give yourself a chance.”
I looked down at Nick, still holding on, holding his side where the bullet had hit him when I fired the shot.
“Jac.”
I wouldn’t let Nick take one more thing from me. I wouldn’t let him take my life.
I kicked at him, shaking my leg to get him off. He grabbed at it, trying to hang on. We made eye contact, a whole conversation transpiring in seconds. It was enough. Nick had done enough. He stopped fighting. He stopped wanting and finally gave me up. He let go, falling wordlessly into the nothingness that swallowed him whole.
Mama was no longer sliding toward me but away, and I was moving with her. I crested the bluff’s edge, able to see the mass of people in the clearing. Behind Mama was Pen, my beautiful, courageous little sister, her head bandaged, arms around Mama’s waist. Behind Pen was Sawyer, and then Carl, who I thought I wouldn’t see again but was so relieved I did.
Chief Linwood and more cops arrived, hands reaching to grab a part of me from the edge, from the world of the dead, and pull me back to the world of the living . . . to safety.
All of them there not to condemn me this time but to save me.
EPILOGUE
Pen and Patrick’s wedding was the mark of a new day, a celebration of love and of new beginnings. The air buzzed with excitement as I stood proudly as Pen’s maid of honor beside her, newly married, in a barrage of wedding photos. When my maid of honor picture duties were complete, I lagged behind the rest of the wedding party to await the couple finishing up so the reception could get started. Then we made our way to the sprawling back of Moor Manor.
I watched Mama tutting around, welcoming everyone and making sure they had what they needed. I plucked a glass of champagne from a server moving past me. The ceremony was a testimony to the resilience of the Brodie women. We gathered, had weathered the storms of betrayal and tragedy. We were still standing.
“Jac.” Mama came from the side, having finished buzzing about. She slid an arm around my waist, squeezing me to her. She leaned forward, looking at my nose. It twitched, and I waited for her to say something annoying.
“When you and Pen go, I’ll be alone for the first time in a long while. I think I’ll get one of those things too.” She touched the base of her nose lightly, smiling as she gazed out at the maze, pretending I wasn’t gawking at her.
“You’re going to get a septum ring?”
“Hmm,” she said mysteriously, her smile coy, leaving me to wonder if the woman wasn’t actually considering it. Her happiness, the relaxed way she hung back as the wedding, minor hiccups and all, played out without her trying to control it all, or me, was infectious, and I joined her, appreciating Mama’s new easy humor that had flourished ever since her truth was laid bare when Carl came visiting.
“Heard anything about that woman?” Her voice hardened, and I immediately knew whom she was referring to.
Sadness squeezed my heart, thinking back to when I’d said the same things earlier that day at the cemetery, where I visited our family.
“Senior Dick, Chief Dick, Junior Dick reporting for duty,” I announced, taking out a small bouquet of lilies and placing them atop one of the center stones. “For you, Grandma, because I know you don’t drink. But for the rest of the fellas . . .”
I had poured a shot for my uncle Jack, Daddy, Granddad, and lastly, for myself. After the year I’d had, I definitely needed it. I sat facing my Brodie family, allowing myself to feel the weight of being there with some of the people I loved the most, who should’ve been preparing for Pen’s afternoon wedding, here with me and Mama instead of below the ground.
“Faith Anderson, a.k.a. Faye Arden, was found guilty here for attacking you, Granddad, and for killing Mia. A few hunters found Mia’s body about a month after Faye was arrested, rolled in a tarp two counties away, dumped in the woods. GPS tracked Faye’s SUV traveling that way at a high speed, stopping in the area where the body was found for about thirty minutes, and then racing back to town. She’s been extradited to Nevada for the deaths of the Colleton girls and Daphne Franklin. But check this out. Don’t know if you heard, but the professor, Conrad? His death made national headlines. I guess because he was embroiled in the whole sex scandal with me and other staff at the university, plus stealing my story was such good drama it was on the Today show and Good Morning America. CBS Mornings too. And guess what? His publisher—the one that bought my story from him—they want to work with me. They want me to write my story and everything about Faye, the whole deal with you, Daddy, and Nick . . . Think I should?”
I poured a shot of bourbon at each grave, dribbling out a little bit from the glasses for each fallen Brodie.
Poured one out for Daddy. One for Granddad. One for Uncle Jack because I owed that to Cousin K’Shawn, who was somewhere traveling internationally with the best friend / sister he couldn’t tell me about yet, or so he’d said when I’d thanked him for the lawyer.
“Would make a great book, don’t you think? Apparently, all the big publishers want my story. And some production companies have been sniffing around for a movie or TV series. How’s that for being on the come up?”
Guess I had Conrad beat there.
“Patrick and Sawyer will take care of the cabin for us while I’m gone,” I’d assured Granddad in case he was worried. “I’ve already told the Armchairs so they won’t worry either.”
The FBI was investigating if any more victims had been left in Faye’s wake for the twenty years she’d been on the run and reinventing herself over and over to achieve the happiness and satisfaction that was always elusive to her. Sitting cross-legged in front of them, I lifted up my fifth of bourbon in the air.
“To closing cases and setting things back right.”
I honored each headstone: Daddy, Granddad, and Uncle Jack on Grandma’s other side. Then I’d tossed the drink back, grimacing and blowing out breath loudly through my teeth to assuage the burning trail it made down my insides.
I relayed all that to Mama.
Mama said, her eyes filling with tears, “Mia, poor child.”
I should have poured one out for Mia too. Her death was on me. Would stay on me for the rest of my life.
Mama squeezed me again, hard, like she was making up for so much lost time. If she didn’t stop, she would break me, both inside and out.
“I love you, Jac.”
My chest swelled until I thought it would explode from my chest like in that Alien movie as I luxuriated in the warmness of her. “Love you too, Mama.”
We stood wordless as we watched Pen’s special day shift from wedding to reception and the guests got themselves comfortable while waiting for the happy couple. I was still unable to fully believe that Murder Manor had been exorcised of its infamous past. Too much had happened there, as recently as a few months ago. But the Manor was the most beautiful venue Brook Haven had to offer, and Pen was determined not to let Faye Arden, the Tates, or the ghost stories of Murder Manor mar her dream wedding.
“The wedding will be the beginning of a new leaf for the Manor and for all of us,” Pen had said, interlacing her fingers with Patrick’s as she reaffirmed her resolve to have the wedding she envisioned, damn what anyone else thought.
I asked Mama, “What about Carl? You think he’ll keep it secret about his cousin?”
“I think he cares about the newest secret member of his family. That is, until you’re ready to meet them. But as for me, I think he’ll let me be. For you, not for me.”
I disagreed. “No, Mama, I think Carl realizes you’re owed for how Ralph hurt you. You’re owed most of all.”
Carl had chosen to protect Mama and me, opting for a fractured family unit rather than his initial pursuit of justice.
“Jac, I never meant to let my fear dictate the kind of mother I would be to you. I couldn’t see beyond the need to not let him show up in you. He didn’t have the right to any part of you. You’re MJ’s daughter. Always.”
Always a Brodie.
“I know, Mama. I know you had the best intentions.”
Mama said, “You know what they say, ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions.’” She arched her eyebrow as she looked at me. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
I thought about everyone who’d had the best intentions, which had led to disastrous results—me included. Even Nick. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t hate Nick, despite what he’d done. I thought about how I still kept the secret of Daddy’s infidelity from my mother, knowing I’d never tell, despite what hell that road had led me to. Carl’s family weren’t the only ones who owed her. I owed her the belief that the man she’d fought and killed for had never betrayed her, not even once.
My understanding and acceptance of my complex past and even more complex relationship with my mother meant growth for the both of us. We were getting better. Slowly. Surely.
Mama let out a breath, satisfied she’d somewhat cleared the air. She prepared to head back to the party. “Pen and Patrick will be back soon. Don’t be too long.”
I nodded that I’d heard her, wanting to enjoy the last few moments of quiet before the festivities began and I would celebrate my sister long into the night.
I looked down the sloping hills with the garden maze below, the hedges and shrubs clipped and cultivated to perfection.
It had been seven months since Faye. Seven months since Nick. Seven months since I’d come back home and fought for my right to stay. And yet tomorrow, when Pen and Patrick were readying to go on their Virgin Islands honeymoon, I’d be on my way to South Korea, Fulbright scholarship in hand, to teach. It was a ticket that had unlocked the shackles that once held me. It would be an experience of a lifetime, and I was more than ready for it.
The sun began to dip low, casting a warm glow over Moor Manor and the world that surrounded it. From my perch, I could see the bluff that had once been my nightmare and was the place of my rebirth. The memories that were once locked in the recesses of my mind now played vividly before my eyes. I remembered the strained voices. How Daddy begged for me to understand. To not use his mistake to make one of my own in being with Nick. I remembered the push that sent Daddy over the edge. Nick’s misguided attempt to keep us together was what had torn our world apart, fating us to never be together in this life or any other.
With all truths laid bare, I felt a sense of closure and an odd sense of happiness. I felt light, like I could float away with nothing to hold me down.
“There’s my beautiful date for the evening.”
I turned as Dr. Weigert—Chris—joined me, bringing with him a flute of champagne. I showed him I already had one, and he grinned. “Sorry, just needed a minute to catch my breath,” I said.
“I get it. I’ll leave you to it then. But I’m glad we got to have the date.” He pulled a face. “Even if it is for a wedding and only for one night because you’re going away for like a year. Next time, you’re not slipping away. We’re having a real date.”
But for now, I was having a date with destiny. I laughed. “Yes, Dr. Weigert.”
He returned a sheepish grin. “I like that,” he said. “A lot.”
He swapped out my nearly empty flute for one of the full ones he’d brought and left with my promise of joining him soon. There probably wouldn’t be anything for the good doctor and me. I couldn’t think of anything near a relationship after Nick, whom I still cared about, despite what he’d done and what I’d ended up doing to him. It wasn’t something I’d get over easily, but I had time. And a new lease on life.
Brook Haven, once a labyrinth of secrets like the garden maze below, had released me of its bonds. My newfound purpose was to live for me. I was and could only be me. Not for Mama, or a guy, or a town.
But for Jacinda Brodie.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have many people to thank for helping me through this process, providing insight and expertise, and especially their listening ear, their shoulder to lean on, their patience while I worked, their eyes to review. And most of all for telling me I didn’t suck as a writer, even when I never believed a single word they said.
To Megha Parekh, my editor who supported me in writing a different kind of thriller and backed me entirely. I love your style and how you give me space and trust me to do my work. Thanks to the fantastic team at Thomas & Mercer, including the editorial and marketing teams. Special thanks to developmental editor Charlotte Herscher, who helped cobble my hot mess of a story together, and copyeditors Elyse L. and Megan W., with a special shout-out to Megan, who reminded me that “guillotines don’t swing.” I loved her note so much that I had to include it in the story.
Melissa Edwards, my agent and friend. Thank you for your guidance and frankness and comfort when my feelings are hurt. You’re always looking out for me, and that means the most.
To my family, who give up their time with me so I can work and do this thing that I love. I owe you a few nights of board games, where I will win.
Honestly, I don’t know if I ever could have written this story if not for Jess Lourey and Rachel Howzell Hall, my sounding boards, brainstormers, and early conceptual readers. Most importantly, they’re my friends.
To my writing family, thank you for providing community, being inspiring, and pushing me to do and be better. Oh, and for always answering my questions. You know who you are.
To my friend Medina Boggs and my husband, Vincent, who helped with research as I created a fictional coastal Lowcountry town near Charleston that had a cliff high enough for someone to fall from and die. And thanks to Dr. Dan Bouknight and Dr. Cynthia Pridgen for allowing me to pick their brains about pacemakers and their paths to becoming doctors.
To the readers, booksellers, librarians, podcasters, bloggers, et cetera: If not for you all, where would our stories be?
Special shout-out to my cousin Santrese Washington, who inspired Jac’s love of a good hookah. You are an absolute joy, San, but can we go on that trip now? And to my friend Irene Stephens, thank you for having that crazy handgun clock displayed in your shop. It’s the star of this story.
Lastly, I had a great boss and even better friend who was supportive from the moment he learned I was about to be published. Stephen Sutusky passed last year way too young, leaving behind a wife and three kids. He fought hard until he just couldn’t anymore. In his last texts in our group chat right before, he said, “Keep Writing I Love it.”
So I’ll do just that.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2021 Rodney Williams Creative Images Photography
Yasmin Angoe is the author of Her Name Is Knight and a first-generation Ghanaian American currently residing in South Carolina with her family. She’s been an educator for nearly twenty years and works as a developmental editor. Yasmin received the 2020 Eleanor Taylor Bland Crime Fiction Writers of Color Award from Sisters in Crime and is a member of numerous crime, mystery, and thriller organizations, including Sisters in Crime, Crime Writers of Color, and International Thriller Writers. You can find her at www.yasminangoe.com, on X at @yasawriter, and on Instagram at @author_yas.
Yasmin Angoe, Not What She Seems: A Novel
