No One Knows Part 3

"Strangers. They'll kill her."

"Of course they won't kill her."

"It happens. I've seen it."

Seen it on television, some damn cop show she'd caught him watching in the middle of the night about a year back.

"I told you, Josh. That was make-believe."

She could feel him vibrating in her arms, didn't know if it was tears or fury. Josh didn't like being told he was wrong. Even at ten, he got his back up.

"But why can't she come live here? With us? We could be her family."

He pulled back, staring at her, pleading with his eyes.

"Oh, Josh. That wouldn't be . . . I mean, we couldn't . . . We're not equipped."

For the briefest moment, panic filled her. Me, raise Marie Trenton's daughter? Like hell I will. And then . . . He didn't know. He couldn't know.

"But, Mama . . ."

She stood, quicker than she'd intended, signaling the end of the conversation. She ignored the pain in her back-getting Josh off the subject of the Trenton girl was more important. She needed to finish the cookies and start dinner before Tom came home, exhausted from his long day at the university, ready to eat and watch some television and maybe wrestle with the bills in his office or tinker in his basement before going to sleep.

There was no question of helping. They didn't have the money to take on another mouth. And damn that kid for making her feel like less of a mother, a person. She should want to reach out to the little orphan girl, reach out and bring her to her bosom. But the idea of managing two kids made her queasy. Add to that she'd spend the rest of her life hearing Marie Trenton's voice every time Aubrey spoke . . . Well, that just wouldn't do. The girl would survive. She'd always struck Daisy as a survivor.

Josh stood by the table, still uncertain, like a dog that's been kicked but wants to come back and try to be petted again. He knew that she'd made up her mind, but he was going to press the issue. She could tell.

But he didn't, not in the way she expected. Instead he slung a sentence at her that would resonate for years, the first thing he'd ever said to be purposely hurtful. She didn't know where, or who, he learned it from, but his intent to upset her succeeded.

"I thought mommies were supposed to love everyone."

Daisy's hands had warmed the vodka. The glass was half empty, but she couldn't bear the taste anymore. She tossed the drink in the bed of the cypress tree and lit another cigarette.

Idiot. She'd been such an idiot. She'd pushed him right into Aubrey Trenton's skinny little arms without even meaning to.

Josh had made his choice that day. He'd chosen an eight-year-old stranger over the woman who gave birth to him, nurtured him, loved him. Given his heart to a parentless waif, an orphan twice over, a child he'd spend the next sixteen years catering to.

An eight-year-old stranger who'd grown into his wife.

A choice that had gotten him killed.

CHAPTER 7.

Aubrey Today Dusk shrouded the sky in an inky gray-and-pink blanket. Aubrey's calves screamed. She was gulping air and pumping her arms to try to keep up with the punishing pace her demons set forth. She needed to slow down or she'd be too sore to walk.

She shortened her stride to a manageable jog, finished the last hundred yards around Dragon Park, and walked for a bit with her hands on her hips as her breath finally steadied.

She'd done her daily penance. It was over. Time for her to make her way back to the house, shower, maybe heat up a frozen dinner or, better yet, scoop some ice cream into a bowl and crash on the couch with Winston.

She wasn't that far from home, but the idea of getting there under her own steam was suddenly overwhelming. The darkness didn't bother her; she'd been known to run when she couldn't sleep. Midnight, two in the morning, four, they were all her friends. But she was exhausted, and smart enough to recognize it. She'd done more than sixteen miles, at a seven-minute-mile pace, and hadn't been prepared with water, a snack, protein pack, nothing.

Ignoring the giant mosaic dragon rising out of the playground, the screams of the happy children scaling its spiny back, she walked to the water fountain at the entrance to the park. Sucked down a gallon of warm city water, slowly walked to 21st Avenue, stuck her hand out in the universal gesture of "I need a cab."

It only took a minute, remarkable, really. Nashville wasn't terribly large, and cabs weren't a given occurrence like they were in many cities. This end of town, where Vanderbilt met Dragon Park, wasn't a big spot for tourists; outside of the Pancake Pantry, all the exciting bits were on the other side of campus, near Centennial Park and the Parthenon. She could always call for an Uber car, but she didn't trust them; giving over her life to some random stranger seemed foolhardy. But she had a stroke of luck tonight.

A yellow sedan edged to the curb, and Aubrey saw the outline of a man in the backseat. He reached over and handed the driver some money, opening the door almost before the car had come to a stop. He stepped out, head turned from hers, and pulled a briefcase from the backseat. He began to walk away.

Her heart began to beat, loud and crazy and insistent.

She knew that walk.

Josh.

She took off after the man, rushing before he disappeared into the crowd, her heart soaring.

He'd come back. He was here!

"Josh!" she called. The man didn't turn.

She reached him in just a few seconds, put her arm on his shoulder and whirled him to face her. Older, midthirties, blond hair, lightening a bit at the temples where he'd gray in a few years, brown eyes, straight nose-her mind screaming, No no no no no no.

It wasn't him.

"Hi there. Can I help you?" the stranger asked, his eyes confused.

Aubrey shook her head. Dejected, she turned and walked away.

How many men had she chased down in the street, thinking they were her husband? How many times had she been fooled? The perfect word, fooled.

Aubrey, you are a stupid little fool. A stupid, desperate fool chasing something you know doesn't exist anymore.

She had to wait ten minutes for another cab. She stretched across the backseat, rubbing her sore muscles, her head resting against the window.

He's dead and gone, Aubrey. Dead and gone and rotting in the ground somewhere, and just because you don't know where doesn't change the fact that he is no longer.

And he's never coming back.

Dear Josh, I thought of you today. Of course I did, that's a stupid way of saying it. I think of you every day, all of the time. I just wish I knew where you were.

I thought of you today when I was walking on the beach. Kevin and Janie have forced me on an out-of-town weekend, to the house in Nags Head. Remember the time we went there, that ridiculously long drive, and the place was boarded up and we had to sleep in the car?

They claim they want to get me away from town, away from the memories, away from the press clamoring after me, but the truth is, they are embarrassed by all the attention. Our friends are embarrassed by me.

I hate it here. It's wrong to sleep in our room without you. All I can do is walk, escape, get away from the insincere, solicitous smiles. The air is thick and wet, but down by the water there is a touch of a breeze, a whisper, really, and that's where I go.

There were rocks on the beach. Not shells, nothing crushed underfoot, but a wide expanse of sand dotted with stones. I collected them, one by one, eight in all. One for every month you've been gone.

I know you're out there. Everyone tells me you're dead. But I know you're there. I can feel you, as strongly as if you were walking beside me, scattering the stones in my path for me to chase. But when I look back, there is only one set of footprints.

All I can do is hope that one day, you will come back to me.

Always, Aubrey

CHAPTER 8.

Aubrey Today The house was dead quiet when she returned, emptier than usual. Winston was asleep in the living room, snoring lightly, paws up in the air. He didn't even budge when she put his food down. She stood in the kitchen in her bare feet and drank two large glasses of water. She wasn't hungry, but she forced herself into a frozen dinner all the same, knowing that her run had depleted so many calories that she'd be weak in the morning if she didn't refuel.

The light on the answering machine was blinking.

She went to the phone and pressed the Message button. Linda's cheerful voice sprang from the machine.

"Aubrey, honey, if you change your mind about wanting company, I'll be at Frothy Joe's at eight. I'd love to see you come out tonight."

Aubrey deleted the message and glanced at the clock. It was 7:45 p.m. already. She didn't want to talk about poetry tonight, see Linda's solicitous smiles. She was dripping wet and so tired she couldn't think straight.

And yet something drove her to set her fork down, mount the stairs, take a shower, whip a comb through her wickedly curly hair, slip on a cotton dress, and gather her car keys.

The house was just so empty tonight.

She couldn't face it alone.

Frothy Joe's was a quaint little coffee shop on 21st Avenue, hugely popular with the Vandy students. The original owner, now deceased, was from Colorado, and had a thing for bears, which took over every corner of the coffee shop. Between the scent of freshly ground coffee beans and the decor-mountain chic, so unlike anything else in Nashville-Aubrey found she could almost imagine she was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The store was currently owned by Meghan Lassiter, Aubrey's best friend and confidante, who had happily given Aubrey the part-time gig when she'd applied. Meghan was independently wealthy, and always seemed to have room for a few extra employees.

Meghan's exact background was a mystery. She'd told so many stories about from whence she came, all with a sly wink and an engaging smile, that no one knew what was real and what was fabricated. Which was exactly what Meghan wanted. She felt it imperative that her life's story be full of mystery and excitement.

There was one truth to Meghan that Aubrey knew: she kept a well-loved, tattered copy of Daniel Wallace's Big Fish in her purse. Aubrey wondered which of the crazy characters from Meghan's life would come parading out at her funeral.

It didn't matter where Meghan had come from. All that mattered was she was here now and, despite the boss-employee relationship, functioned as the combo-platter sister, aunt, and fairy godmother Aubrey didn't have.

Aubrey opened the door to the shop slowly and carefully so the chimes wouldn't ring and interrupt the students studying. She needn't have worried. She'd forgotten it was open mike night. There was a buzz in the air. The crowd was quite large, standing room only. Aubrey could see folks packed in cheek by jowl, all facing away from the door. Good. All the more opportunity for her to get lost in the shadows. Singers and slam poets spoke in the back corner of the shop, behind an incongruous wall divider stacked with coffee-stained, dog-eared books. A lending library of sorts. Meghan had put up the wall to separate the two areas of the store, dropped a few paperbacks on the shelves, and the students had done the rest. There was an honor system: if you took a book, you needed to replace it with another.

She heard a deep voice droning on behind the shelving-some poet or another reading from his work.

Meghan was standing against the far wall, arms crossed and one leg propped up behind her like a stork, one eye on the poet, another on the counter. She was somewhere in her midthirties, a few years older than Aubrey, her black hair in a pixie cut, the sprinkling of freckles across her nose echoing Aubrey's own. She smiled widely when she saw Aubrey, green eyes sparkling against her peaches-and-cream skin. She launched off the wall and went straight to Aubrey like a bullet, enveloped her in a rib-cracking hug. She motioned with her head toward the front of the store, where they could chat without disturbing the event.

"You're not scheduled tonight. And after the day you've had, I didn't think you'd be out and about. You look like hell."

"Linda told you about the letter?"

"Yes. Are you okay?"

Aubrey shrugged. "I went for a run. I accidentally did sixteen miles."

Meghan shook her head. "Who accidentally runs sixteen miles?"

"Me. I just lost track of time."

"Sure. Did you eat? I have fresh muffins. And those spinach pinwheels you like."

"That's all right. I'm really not hungry. Who's the poet?"

Meghan eyed her again but backed off. "Some guy. His stuff's a little much for me, but what do I know? I just make the coffee."

"And he turned out this big a crowd? Good for him."

"Slam poetry junkies. Always looking for something to snap their fingers about. Besides, he is rather hot."

She winked slowly, the black fringe of lashes surrounding her green eyes succeeding in making it look suggestive. Meghan, for all her attempts at androgyny, was a singularly sexual creature. And equal opportunity with her playmates, Aubrey knew. Not from firsthand experience, of course. Meghan liked to brag.

"So now your looks predicate how big your crowd is?"

"You know that's not true. Just look at-" Before Meghan could finish, applause started. "Oh, I gotta go. Help yourself to something, sugar. You need to eat. You're getting downright anorexic."

Then she was gone. Aubrey watched her scoot to the back, her calf-high Doc Martens silent on the wooden floor. Meghan had a tiny tattoo centered on the nape of her neck, in an Asian language, but wouldn't tell anyone what it meant. Rather, she had a new story for how and why she got the tattoo, and what it stood for, each and every day, but none of them were remotely factual.

Aubrey often wondered if she would have survived the past five years without Meghan cheering her on. She'd held her, commanded her, forced her, loved her, and simply carried her when she wasn't able to carry herself. Aubrey had never had a friend like her, and something told her she would never find that combination of friend, confessor, and partner in anyone again, barring a husband.

Great. Now Meghan was the husband she'd never have.

At least she'd moved up to bipeds.

To appease her friend, Aubrey moved to the food table and selected a couple of savories. She choked down a spinach pinwheel. Despite the fact that they were incredibly tasty, Aubrey just wasn't hungry. People began filtering from the back, and Aubrey saw an opportunity for distraction. She went to the register, logged in under her employee ID, and began to sling refills.

Forty-five minutes later, Meghan came to the front of the store with the evening's star in tow. Aubrey was counting the till but could hear them coming, his deep voice contrasting nicely with Meghan's contralto. There was a coquettishness to the conversation, and Aubrey realized Meghan was going to go home with the poet tonight. It was a foregone conclusion. What Meghan wanted, Meghan got. She was a stalking lioness when someone turned her crank. People fell under her hypnotic spell whether they wanted to or not.

Aubrey normally envied her that. Though honestly, tonight, she just didn't want to watch the carnage.

"Excuse me. Can I get a refill?"

Aubrey turned toward the voice and felt a shock, the trilling of her blood rising to the surface. It was the man from the cab, the one she'd chased down earlier. She was transfixed. She couldn't move. The man's eyes stayed on hers, and she felt like he was staring deeply into her soul.

It could have been two heartbeats or two years later when he finally spoke. "It's you."