And After That, The Dark

Five Stars, Winner of Prestigious Maggie Award

"Charlotte Hughes is the Real thing...One of those Southern Thrillers that never lets up..Exciting Enough to even give terror a good name.-Pat Conroy, author, Prince of Tides

"For those who loved the Southern flavor of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird and enjoy Mary Higgins Clark’s edge-of-the-seat suspense. A new voice in romantic suspense. This story and its characters will remain with you long after you’ve turned the last page.” --Janet Evanovich, author Hot Six

Excerpt from And After That the Dark

Prologue

I was fifteen the night Daryl Buckmeyer died. Until then, my life had been uneventful. I'd never traveled more than a hundred miles from home, never been kissed, never even attended a school dance, for that matter. I suppose you could say I'd lived a sheltered life. I was a tomboy and a bookworm and every inch a virgin. My older sister, Lurlene, named after our great-grandmother, was a different story. Buh-lieve-you-me, she knew her way around the backseat of a man's car.

I'm fairly certain our parents suspected, though, on account they'd send her to her room whenever a repairman was called to the house.

Even now I remember wondering what was the big deal over sex. After all, I'd been enjoying the same pleasures alone, since I was eleven. That's not to say I didn't fee! guilty afterward; we were Southern Baptists, and fear and shame were instilled at an early age. I'd do the deed, then spend the rest of the night thinking of Reverend Parmalee's sermons—about how God sends pestilence to those whose flesh is weak. I just knew that come morning our crops would be destroyed by locusts, and we'd all go hungry because I'd had my hand down my britches again. I once shared my concerns with Lurlene, and she told me I was as crazy as our Aunt Bessie.

Aunt Bessie was the family lunatic who was carted off to a mental institution in Columbia, South Carolina, for trying to drown herself at family picnics. She'd claimed it was a peaceful way to die; also claimed she heard Mozart during these near-drowning events. My father said Bessie wouldn't recognize Mozart if he walked up and slapped her in the face, since all she ever listened to was country and western. He didn't much care for Aunt Bessie; he was the one who usually got stuck going into the water after her.

I guess we all have somebody in our family we don't want to be like, sort of an anti-role model. I was cursed with two: Aunt Bessie and Lurlene.

Being a virgin didn't mean I was perfect, of course. Which explained my rather perilous position that night—me out in the middle of nowhere at one A.M. and my daddy's pickup truck parked down the road with an empty gas tank.

Lurlene was spending the night with a friend, so I'd decided it was my turn to have a little fun for a change. I knew, though, that Daddy would beat me into next week if he found out I'd been joyriding in his truck. Afterward he'd have me digging fence post holes and hauling manure till my hands bled.

My parents were harder on me than they were on Lurlene. Sometimes I resented it since if anybody deserved to haul cow dung it was my sister. She'd already failed ninth grade twice, and here I'd been an honor student all through school. Even back then, I knew I wanted to be somebody— a teacher, perhaps, if I could maintain scholarship grades. But I suspected I wouldn't live to graduate high school if I couldn't get myself out of that jam.

Lucky for me, I had run out of gas within walking distance of Fludd's Service Station. Still, it was a miserable trek. The night was airless and hot, even for July in the Carolinas, and I was gritty and sweat-soaked, my sneakers covered in road dust by the time I arrived. I crossed the cracked, oil-splattered pavement. The station looked as deserted as a cemetery after nightfall. A naked I50-watt bulb created a half circle of light near the front door to the station; nearby, a thermometer hung on a partially rusted sign advertising Camel cigarettes. I fanned a sluggish, dust-colored moth aside as I tried to read the thin line of mercury.

Eighty-five degrees. It didn't matter that the sun had set hours ago; it was still hotter'n an oven at Thanksgiving, humidity thick as Karo syrup.

Everything was still. The oak leaves and Spanish moss didn't so much as flutter. That was about to change, though. I sensed it as I watched heat lightning dance along the horizon and heard thunder rumble off in the distance. The drone of cicadas was shrill and unrelenting, a sure sign that something was about to happen.

There was no way I could have known what the night had in store for me,no way I could have prepared myself.

I pushed open the service station door and was hit by a blast of cold air; it coughed and sputtered from a tired old window unit that had seen one too many hot spells. Sixteen-year-old Daryl Buckmeyer sat at a battered metal desk reading a comic book. He was a stocky, square-faced teenager with oily hair and a chin speckled with acne. He smiled the minute he saw me. Both the smile and the overalls he wore looked goofy, and kids didn't mind bringing it to his attention every chance they got. But nobody knew cars like Daryl. He could hear an automobile traveling six blocks away, give you the make and model, and tell you what was under the hood. It was actually kind of spooky that he knew so much about cars, seeing as how he wasn't allowed to drive one and probably never would be. His older brother, Herschel, who'd practically raised him, had recently purchased a brand new ten-speed bike for Daryl, and that seemed to suit him just fine.

"Em-lee, what are you doing out this time of night?" he asked, speaking slowly, as though he had to stop and search for just the right word as he went. "It's a long story, Daryl. You got a gas can around here?"

"Uh-huh." He glanced around. "Somewheres."

"Would you mind filling it up for me while I run to the rest room? I need to wash up." My mother had raised me to believe that it was bad manners to discuss bodily functions. I started for the bathroom as Daryl began to search for a gas can. As he opened the door to the garage in back, I caught a glimpse of the clutter: oil rags, twisted tire rims, discarded fan belts, and Daryl gazing at it all as if wondering where he should start looking. I shook my head sadly and closed the bathroom door.

The room smelled of pine cleaner and urine, and it was painted the same mossy green as the rest of the station. I figured Mr. Fludd, the owner, must have found a bargain on that particular shade. No one in his right mind would choose that color on purpose. I peed and flushed the toilet, then washed my hands and face at the small sink. The porcelain finish had eroded over the years, leaving a dull, sand-papery surface, that had absorbed a multitude of stains. I pressed a wad of wet paper towels to the back of my neck, and wished I had stayed in my bed.

I was about to cut the light and open the door when another door slammed. Someone shouted angrily and it puzzled me, because I couldn't remember Daryl ever raising his voice about anything. Had he made a mistake, put the wrong kind of gasoline in a customer's car?

I cracked the door and peeked out. Daryl and another man stood nose to nose in the garage, just inches from the door. I didn't recognize the man because at the moment he had his back to me. I thought he looked familiar, though: tall and rangy, dressed in ragged jeans and a dirty white T-shirt. Probably one of Lurlene's rejects. My heart gave a start when I saw the tire iron in his hand. "Stop jerking me around, retard," the man said, "and tell me where the money is."

I knew that voice. Frank Gillespie. If there was trouble in town, it usually had his name all over it. "I don't got no money, Fwank," Daryl said. "You’re lying. Everybody in town knows Old Man Fludd keeps his wad stashed in a safe here."

I suddenly realized I was witnessing a robbery, and my knees immediately went loose as banana pudding. I swallowed, though with great difficulty; it felt like I was trying to get one of those tire rims down my throat. Even in my state of panic, I couldn't help but wonder why Frank was forced to rob when his family was the richest in town. Drugs, no doubt. Frank had been in more treatment centers than most movie stars. Rumor had it his daddy had cut off his allowance because he'd gotten tired of watching the money go up Frank's nose. I had to do something, but I knew I was no match for Frank. I searched for a weapon in the tiny bathroom; all I could find was a plastic toilet brush. I grabbed it anyway.

Daryl was crying. He reached into a pocket and brought out a fistful of bills. "All's I got on me is a buncha ones, Fwank. To make change. Mr. Fludd don't let me have more'n that. I'm not so good at keepin' up with money." "And why is that, dumb ass?" Frank demanded. "Is it 'cause you got shit for brains? And 'cause you're a fucking gimp?"

Daryl looked away shamefully.

"Answer me, stupid."

"Yeah"

"Yeah,what?"

"I got shit for brains."

"Well, I'm fixin' to find out if they're made of shit or not."

Without warning, Frank raised the tire iron and brought it down in one swift, crushing blow. Daryl didn't even have time to try and block it. Blood spurted and sprayed the walls. Daryl went down. Down, down, down, like a lifeless slab of meat. I dropped the toilet brush and clamped my hands over my mouth to keep from crying out. Too late. A small, whimpering-puppy-dog sound had escaped. Frank turned a split second before I slammed the door.

I fumbled with the lock, my hands made clumsy by fear, and there was pressure from the other side. The next thing I knew, Frank's fingers were wriggling through the crack like fat white worms. How had he managed to move so quickly? I wondered. I pushed the door harder; he cussed.

I slammed my body against it; he howled like a madman. Nevertheless, I could feel myself losing ground, feel the door inching open. Suddenly, he grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked. My head hit the door with a crushing blow. Light danced before my eyes, and I felt sick to my stomach.

"You're not going to get away from me, girlie," he muttered through the crack of the door. "I'm going to slice you up like summer sausage before we're through." He gave a menacing laugh. "Your hair smells good, you know that? Like strawberries. We might have some fun before I kill you."

Drawing from what little strength and courage was left in my body, I wrenched my head around and clamped my teeth down, as hard as I could, on his fingers. His scream was agonizing, but I didn't let that stop me. I refused to let go, even when I thought my jaw would crumble from the effort, even when I tasted blood. My stomach pitched, but I knew I had no choice. This man was going to kill me.

Somehow Frank managed to free himself, and when he did, I slid the lock home.

"You goddamn fucking bitch," he said from the other side of the door, kicking it several times in the process. "I'm going to break this door down and wring your neck. Just like a fucking chicken."

I heard his voice grow distant, heard various sounds like metal scraping the floor, something falling. I imagined Frank kicking items around in the garage as he searched for something to break in with. I cussed under my breath, realizing that when my back was against the wall, I knew more four-letter words than Lurlene.

I spied the small window and wondered if I would fit through it. I had to try; it was my only hope. I could probably reach it if I stood on the large metal trash can. I grabbed it and turned it over, dumping what looked like a month's worth of paper towels and sanitary napkins. All I could do was hope and pray the window hadn't been painted shut.

Luck was on my side. The window slid open almost effortlessly, and I wondered if my good fortune had anything to do with my saving myself for marriage.

Something slammed loudly against the door, splintering wood, and I glanced back long enough to see an ax blade sticking through.

I thought my heart would leap right out of my chest. Frank pulled the ax out and swung it against the door once more as I popped the screen from the window and heaved myself up, scratching both elbows as I went. I just barely made it, thanks to the fact that I had almost no boobs or butt to speak of.

The door seemed to explode, and I knew Frank had made his way into the bathroom. I propelled myself through the opening and dropped to the ground on the other side. The good news was that I landed on my feet; the bad news, I twisted my ankle as a result. Pain radiated all the way up my calf, bringing tears to my eyes. I wondered how I would explain it to my parents, then realized I might not have to worry about it.

I stood there a second, eyes darting this way and that for any sign of life. Darkness everywhere, not even a headlight on the highway. I wasn't surprised. Nobody in Mossy Oaks stayed out later than nine o'clock. Those who did were Hell-bound, according to the Baptists.

I heard the station's front door open, and I knew Frank was coming after me. I also knew that the nearest house was a quarter of a mile away, through a massive cornfield. I took off at a fast hobble, and disappeared into the field. Finally I was able to buy a little time while Frank searched the shadows around the gas station. I heard the rustle of dried cornstalks and knew he had followed me in. I realized I'd never manage to outrun him with an injured ankle; the only thing I could do was stop running and try to hide among the tall stalks.

Frank ran for a bit, almost in circles before he must've realized the futility of it. I huddled near the ground, trying to control my heavy breathing and the urge to scream. I wondered if Daryl was dead.

"Okay, girlie," Frank called out. "The game is over. I just want to talk to you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Like hell you won't, I thought, listening as his footsteps came closer. I closed my eyes and tried to make myself as small as possible. I realized then that Frank had called me "girlie" a couple of times. He obviously hadn't gotten a good look at me, didn't know who I was. Maybe.

"Look, I ain't got all night," he said, as though realizing someone could pull into the station at any moment and find Daryl. Frank's car was parked right out front. Anybody who passed by would spot the bright red Trans-Am with the license tag that read CMIST, which stood for Canadian Mist, Frank's beverage of choice.

He continued to walk through the rows. Had there been a full moon, he would have seen me. Luckily, the moon was waning and was partially obscured by clouds. Even the stars had tucked themselves inside a blanket of cloud cover. "You listening to me?" he asked, sounding doubtful. At this point, he might think I'd managed to get away. At least I hoped as much. ''I just want to say how sorry I am you had to see that mess back there with Daryl," he said. "I wouldn't have hurt him if he'd just given me the damn money. Besides," he added, as though talking to himself, "Daryl didn't have much of a life anyway. We all know what he was."

I saw him glance across the cornfield and sigh as though it was useless, as though he couldn't believe I'd managed to get away. I could almost hear his thoughts. He could search all night and never find me; in the meantime, Fludd's Service Station might have a customer. He was taking a big chance by hanging around.

"I'll make a deal with you," he said after a minute. "You keep your mouth shut about what you saw, and I won't lay a finger on you. You got that, girlie? But if you so much as breathe a word of it, I'm coming after you. You and your family." He paused, and then his voice was lower. "Don't think for one minute I don't know where to find you."

Some minutes later, I heard the slam of a car door and the roar of an engine, loud at first but eventually fading into the night. Frank had given up; I'd been spared.

I waited, marking off the minutes by the sound of approaching thunder. How long I remained huddled in a tight ball in that cornfield, I wasn't sure, but a fine drizzle was falling by the time I limped out. Surprisingly enough, I found a gas can just inside the front door of the service station and almost wept from relief, since it meant that I wouldn't have to pass by Daryl's dead body to find one. I filled it and took off.

The can would have been heavy under normal circumstances, but I was obviously in shock because I didn't really notice. I reached my daddy's truck and poured the gas into the tank, then tossed the can into a swampy area where it wouldn't be found for a while.

Back home in my bedroom, I stripped off my clothes and listened as the sky opened up outside. I threw up in the small trash can beside my desk until there was nothing left in my stomach but the awful taste of bile.

Two days later, the Mossy Oaks Gazette carried the story of Daryl Buckmeyer's murder as well as reports of the storm that had dumped eight inches of rain in twenty-four hours. The water had eventually gone down, but Sheriff Ben Hix hadn't come close to solving Daryl's murder. Herschel Buckmeyer, Daryl's older brother, was taking it hard, they said.

On Sunday, my daddy gave a grunt over the morning paper. "It's getting to where it ain't safe to go out anymore."

My mother looked up. “What is it, dear?"

He shoved his wire-rimmed glasses high on his nose. "That Gillespie boy robbed a liquor store last night, and shot the clerk in the chest. The man's in critical condition."

Startled, I dropped my fork. It clattered against my plate, drawing looks from my parents. I'd been unusually clumsy these last couple of days, thanks to raw nerves and lack of sleep. My mother claimed it was puberty turning me into such an awkward, bungling girl, causing me to topple from my bed in the middle of the night and sprain my ankle. "You mean Frank Gillespie?" I asked, trying not to appear overly interested.

My father nodded. "Sheriff Hix supposedly questioned him about Daryl Buckmeyer's murder, but Frank claimed he was home in bed, and his father backed him up. Don't matter. Armed robbery and attempted murder carry a stiff sentence. Frank's going to be an old man by the time he gets out of prison."

My mother looked sad. "All this sin and violence," she moaned, and I knew we were about to receive a lesson from the Good Book whether we wanted it or not. "When our Savior returns, we shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption. Romans eight, verse twenty," she added.

I wasn't listening, and it was hard to pretend indifference to what I had just learned about Frank. Tears gathered behind my eyes, and I asked to be excused from the table so I could get dressed for church. My parents no longer forced Lurlene to attend; she wore provocative clothing and flirted outrageously with the men.

In my room, I finally allowed myself to react, and I was certain my sigh of relief could be heard down at the courthouse square. Frank Gillespie was going to prison. It was over.

But I was only fifteen then and didn't realize that nothing lasts forever.

Chapter 1

I hadn't been asleep long that night when I heard it: someone moving stealthily about the house, causing the ancient wood floors to creak and groan like an old shrimp boat on choppy water. I tensed. I didn't like noises in the night. Even though I was now an adult, I hated dark hallways and shadowy corners because some childish part of me feared lurking figures, awful things that might reach out and hurt me. Shadow people, I called them. I'd always had an active imagination.

Suddenly I thought of Molly and wondered if the sounds might be coming from her room. My niece had threatened to split on more than one occasion.

I kicked off the covers and climbed out of the bed, moving swiftly but silently to the hall where a single night-light cast a soft glow to guide Molly, should she make a bathroom run during the night. I listened. Silence. It was eerie. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. "Molly?" I whispered. "Is that you?" No answer, only the steady beating of my heart and the rumble of my stomach. I'd been too upset at dinner to eat. Molly and I had argued again, this time because I refused to let her ride with a group of high school kids to a rock concert in Charleston, two hours away.

I wanted to get along with the girl, but after eight months of living under the same roof, we were still butting heads like two billygoats tangled up in a clothesline. These were the times I most resented my sister for committing suicide. And I blamed myself.

I crossed the hall to the girl's door and peeked in. Thankfully, she was asleep in her bed, her face illuminated by the small lamp on her night table. People said we looked alike: same light brown hair, green eyes and slender build. Those who didn't know us mistook us for mother and daughter.

I remembered the first time I'd seen her, a bony three-year-old with stringy hair and a runny nose. I'd just completed my junior year in college and was home for the summer. After a four year absence, Lurlene had blown into town like a bad wind and claimed she was divorcing Molly's father. We hadn't even heard she'd married.

At three, the child was still in diapers and taking a night bottle. My mother and I would clean her up for bed, then watch in mixed fascination and disbelief as Molly rinsed her bottle and filled it with cold milk from the refrigerator. So while Lurlene, busy as a one-armed paperhanger, was trying to find a new man, my mother and I were trying to convince Molly to use the new musical potty-chair and take milk from a Bugs Bunny cup. We'd just about succeeded when Lurlene met a trucker from Tennessee. Quick as a flash, they were gone, without so much as a fare-thee-well. I had often wondered if I'd ever see my niece again.

The next time I saw Molly, she was ten years old and still scrawny. Lurlene reminded me of a crumpled and faded prom corsage; she claimed that her truck driver had beaten her regularly. She and Molly moved into my parents' house, and I was thankful I had my own place. Lurlene worked as a cocktail waitress at a place called the Thirsty Gullet until she met and married DeWayne Tompkins, an ambitious medical supplies salesman who drove a Town Car. We were thrilled with the match. DeWayne obviously thought Lurlene was the best thing since indoor plumbing, and he was the closest thing Molly'd ever had to a father.

They bought an old house, a turn-of-the-century low-country home with verandahs and six fireplaces and a large attic that smelled like mothballs and rat turds. They set about fixing it up, and we were confident it would work out. But Lurlene had a hard time sitting home nights while her husband traveled. It wasn't long before DeWayne caught her with another man—Harvey Freeman, who owned Budget Cars, a used-car dealership across the street from the Piggly Wiggly. Next thing we knew, DeWayne had packed his bags and moved out, and Lurlene, hard as she tried, couldn't convince him to forgive her and come back home.

Lurlene then went on a partying spree that took her as far as Charleston and Savannah. My niece was left to fend for herself, and no matter how hard I tried to convince my sister that she was ruining their lives, she ignored me. That's when I filed a report with the Department of Social Services. In the meantime, DeWayne hired a lawyer and had Lurlene served with divorce papers. I suppose it was too much. Several days later, my sister hanged herself in that smelly attic. Unfortunately, Molly had found her.

As I gazed down at my niece now, I remembered the three-year-old who'd captured my heart all those years ago. I had so many dreams for her, but right now the two of us didn't seem to agree on much of anything. Despite our differences, though, we did have one thing in common: our fear of the dark, which explained the night-lights in every room and the lamp beside Molly's bed which was left to burn all night.

The child was indeed a contradiction to herself. While she could debate with the best of them the nonexistence of God, she never failed to leave the house without tucking the small crucifix my mother had given her into her pocket. Whether she believed or not was a mystery to us all, but I suppose after the life she'd had she wasn't taking any chances. Sometimes I ached for Molly, for the fact that she'd never had much of a childhood. I specifically remembered the night my own childhood had come to a screeching halt. I often wondered what she had seen even before she'd gazed upon her mother's lifeless body hanging from a rafter. I also wondered if I would ever know. Months of therapy hadn't provided me with any clues.

I spoiled Molly because I wanted to make up for the past hurts. I closed the door and headed for the kitchen and the coffee pot. At the door, I found the light switch easily enough, thanks to the bulb always left burning over the stove. The wood floor was cold. Fall had arrived in Mossy Oaks, and the wee hours of the mornings were chilly.

The kitchen was my favorite room, papered in yellow gingham and decorated with baskets purchased from garage sales and flea markets. Most of my furniture was old and battered, having come from my parents' attic where it had been stored probably since before South Carolina had seceded from the Union and then gone to war over it. I'd painted or stained most of the pieces, and they resembled that expensive stuff the Spiegel catalog refers to as "distressed" furniture. I'm always amused at what it costs to buy furniture that looks like it's been in a house fire.

I bought my house three summers ago, a simple but cheap frame cottage that was built in the early sixties and had suffered neglect when it became rental property in the eighties. Mine was an old neighborhood, inhabited mostly by retirees who kept to themselves and ventured out only to collect the mail or water their shrubbery. The streets were lined with massive live oaks whose gnarled roots had grown right through the sidewalks, causing them to crack and buckle, making walking hazardous for the seniors. The branches would have formed a canopy over the street if the city hadn't cut them back on a regular basis so they wouldn't interfere with the power lines. In spring, the air was sweetened with magnolia and gardenia—our trees and shrubs were mature but hardy—and for a few short weeks the azaleas gave a festive look to the otherwise somber neighborhood.

The area was within walking distance of the post office and library, not to mention the elementary school where I taught and the middle school Molly attended. I considered this a plus since my old Toyota spent much of its time at Omar's Garage.

My place had been the only thing I could afford on a teacher's salary. I didn't mind pinching pennies now and then; I couldn't remember a time when I didn't want to teach. I suppose it had something to do with my own unlimited zest for learning. Any kind of learning. Hell, you could capture my rapt attention by describing the mating rituals of bullfrogs. Sad but true. That explained why I never met interesting men at parties. While everyone else mingled and made conversation, I was the one sitting off in some remote corner arguing with the most uninteresting man in the place about toxic waste or the thinning ozone. Some people become witty after a glass of wine; I become argumentative.

I groaned aloud when I saw the clock over the stove. Not even five o'clock yet. My fanny would be dragging by the time school let out at three. I needed to start taking vitamins. I pondered buying a bottle of Geritol on my next grocery run, then decided it'd be cheaper and easier if I drank more caffeine instead. I turned for the automatic coffeemaker and was surprised by what I saw. The coffee was already made, and a cup had been poured in my favorite mug. I frowned. Molly? Of course, Molly; who else? But why? She never lifted a finger to do anything unless there was something in it for her. "The concert," I muttered in realization.

Molly was really sucking up, I decided.

That evening, I waited until Molly and I were seated at the dinner table before I told her about my wonderful idea.

"Tomorrow's Friday," I said. "Suppose we drive to Savannah and spend the night." It wasn't Charleston and it wasn't the concert, but it was a last-ditch effort to bring peace to our household.

Something flickered in her eyes. Interest? She stopped playing with her KFC mashed potatoes. "In a hotel?" she asked.

"Nothing fancy, of course. We'll eat dinner at one of those restaurants on the river and spend Saturday at the mall."

She was warming to the idea; the corners of her mouth weren't as droopy now. "Can we get a place with pay TV?"

I shrugged. "Sure. We can watch as many movies as you like. Except for the X-rated, of course. I don't want you to see anything like that until we've had our little talk about the birds and bees."

"Yeah, right," she said, her eyes rolling back once more. She seemed to ponder the idea. "I can take my birthday money, right?"

"It's your money."

She smiled. Smiled! I thought I understood how earthquake victims must feel when the trembling stops. "So, what do you say?" I asked.

She pushed her chair from the table and started for the hall. "I'm going to pack my clothes now so I'll be ready the minute you get home from work tomorrow."

I watched her go, confident that the concert was forgotten for now and life could return to normal. Or as normal as it could be with an adolescent living in the house.

Savannah was less than an hour away, but the drive seemed longer with the two of us taking turns adjusting the volume knob on the radio. The scenery was breathtaking; the marsh seared golden and swaying in the breeze, bordered by lush green woodlands. Quaint drawbridges spanned shimmering water, and the horizon was dotted with fishing boats. We entered one eerie stretch where the highway cut through swampland; trees and vegetation grew so thick they blocked the sunlight. Vines hung as though suspended in air, wrapped tightly around the cypress and tupelo and red gums as though loving them to death.

Mossy Oaks is situated in the low country and is every bit as beautiful as nearby Charleston, Hilton Head and, of course, Savannah. Fortunately, it has not been discovered by the tourists, and the locals plan to keep it that way. That's why we have only a couple of motels in town, despite wealthy Augustus Gillespie's wanting to build something grand that would draw visitors. So far he hasn't even come close to getting the votes he needs to begin such a project. It's nice to know that money and power can't buy everything.

By the time we pulled into a modestly priced hotel, my head was splitting. Molly is not content just to listen to music at its loudest; she has to adjust the bass so that each beat is felt at the back of the skull, just above the spinal column.

"This is where we're staying?" Molly asked, trying to talk above the racket and losing some of her former enthusiasm at the sight of the simple two-story brick building. She glanced across the street at the elegant-looking Hyatt, where flashy doormen struggled with luggage and golf bags.

"It's the best I can afford," I told her, "but it has pay TV and a restaurant. What more do we need?"

She brightened. By the time we'd registered and carried our bags into a spotless room decorated in navy and mauve, she was excited again.

It was a peaceful afternoon, still light at that point, but the breeze had an edge to it when we left the room a few minutes later with Molly's birthday money making itchy work of the pockets in her jeans.

A narrow cobblestone street separated the restaurants and shops from the river and was within walking distance of our hotel. Molly ducked into one interesting-looking shop, and I followed. The goods ranged from expensive gold necklaces to cheap ashtrays and coffee mugs with the words “/ Love Savannah” painted on them.

While Molly perused the jewelry section, I read an assortment of greeting cards and laughed out loud over the inscriptions. I found one with a picture of a woman standing on a bathroom scale with a pistol in her hand and decided to buy it for my friend Lilly, who'd agonized over every pound she'd gained during her two pregnancies. I heard Molly make a purchase, but she tucked the small plastic bag into her purse before I could see what it was.

"Are you ready to eat?" I inquired as soon as I'd paid for the card.

She nodded, and we made our way out of the store. Ten minutes later we were sipping drinks beside a picture window and watching a diminutive tugboat push a loaded barge slowly up the river. In the distance, the setting sun resembled a giant egg yolk. Passersby stopped to watch the scene, obviously fascinated with the boats as well as the sunset. I felt more relaxed than I had in months, and I decided Molly and I needed to get away more often. We couldn't afford a real vacation, but we could at least take a brief trip somewhere close now and then.

"Should you be drinking?" she asked after a moment.

I offered her a blank look, then glanced down at the scotch and water I'd ordered. "I'm old enough. Besides, I'm not driving." Even as I said it, I wondered why I was explaining myself to a thirteen-year-old. What did it matter if I had an occasional drink? It's not like I did it routinely; I drank about as often as I had sex these days.

"What if DSS finds out?"

So that was it. “I hardly think the Department of Social Services is going to care if I have a drink once in a while."

"Then how come they took me away from Lurlene?"

I still thought it strange that Molly referred to her dead mother by her first name. "You know why you were taken away from your mother," I said, wishing we could avoid that subject when we were supposed to be having fun.

"Aren't you scared they'll take me away from you?"

"Nope."

"Maybe that's what you're hoping."

I sighed. The girl was playing mind games, something she did well because she was so much smarter than other people, including most adults. Her IQ was staggering, and her standardized test scores the previous year were impressive. She'd scored in the ninety-something percentile in all subjects. "She's smart enough to be dangerous," Lilly had laughingly remarked when she'd seen Molly's test results. I was shocked by the scores, of course, since Molly habitually earned Cs and Ds on her report card.

"Why would I go through so much trouble to give you a home if I didn't want you to stay?" I asked her after a moment.

"Maybe you're doing it because you feel guilty."

I took a sip of my drink. Molly could read me so well. I did feel guilty, but that's not the reason I wanted her with me. "Sometimes you act like you don't want it to work out," I said. "I think you're scared."

She looked wary. "Of what?"

"I think you want to feel safe and loved, but you're afraid to admit it because someone might snatch it away if you do." I reached for her hand and she automatically stiffened, but I refused to let go. "I'm always going to be here for you, Molly. DSS is not going to take you away. Not as long as I have anything to say about it."

She pulled her hand free and looked out the window as though afraid to meet my gaze. Her eyes were unusually bright, and I wondered if she was crying. I wouldn't ask. I didn't know what kind of demons Molly was fighting, simply because she'd shared so little of her past with me.

"I bought you a present," she said at last. She pulled the bag from her purse and handed it to me.

I stared at her in open amazement. "You spent your birthday money on me?" I asked.

She still refused to look at me. "Open it."

I reached inside the sack and pulled out a pair of onyx earrings and a matching necklace. "Oh, Molly," I said, knowing they hadn't been cheap. "You shouldn't have spent so much."

“They were half price the girl said,” tucking her hair behind her ears. "I wanted to give you something to sort of make up for the way I've been acting."

I feared I might cry, and I knew that would only embarrass her. "I don't think I've ever owned anything so beautiful," I managed.

"Don't make a big deal out of it, Aunt Em," she said, poised to flee.

I sat there for a moment, trying to compose myself. For the first time in eight months, I felt that my niece and I were making progress.

Unfortunately, by the end of the trip we were back to square one. My fault. I should have known better than to let Molly drag me into the mall's pet shop the following day.

"I'm not going to argue with you about this," I said, using the voice I used whenever I caught two second graders locked in the same bathroom stall at school. The snickering always gave them away. "Number one, I absolutely cannot afford a puppy at this price. Number two, I said I'd think about it, and that's the bottom line. Now, it's getting late. We need to head back."

The ride home was much quieter than the one coming down. There was no music, no talking, nothing. I wondered when I'd started sounding so much like my mother.

My earrings were nowhere to be found, nor was the matching necklace. I searched my jewelry box carefully before admitting to myself that they were gone. I decided to look once more, this time with the aid of light. I flipped the light switch just as I remembered the bulb was burned out. Much to my surprise, the light came on. Molly must've changed it when she'd made my bed and dusted.

For two days, ever since I'd refused to buy a puppy for her, she'd barely spoken a word to me, but she was keeping the house in tip-top condition. I decided it was her way of punishing me for not buying the puppy while, at the same time, proving she could handle the responsibility of a pet.

When I knocked, I found her sitting cross-legged on her bed reading a Stephen King novel. This is the same girl who'd suffered hellish nightmares on a regular basis when she'd first moved in with me. Could it be she missed waking up in a cold sweat with her stomach churning in terror? I decided we could take it up when we discussed the garish midnight-blue mascara she was wearing, which made her look like a child prostitute.

"Have you seen my onyx earrings and necklace?" I asked. “The ones you gave me in Savannah?"

"Can’t say that I have," Molly said without looking up. "Don't tell me you lost them already."

Yep, she was still mad as a mule with a mouthful of bumblebees, I thought. Lucky for her I was a patient woman. "I didn't lose them. I wore them yesterday, and I specifically remember putting them back in my jewelry box."

The girl looked up. "I haven't seen them," she said, impatience seeping into her voice.

"I thought maybe while you were straightening my room this afternoon you might have—'' I paused at the look she gave me. “Why are you staring at me as though my hair is on fire?"

"I haven't been in your room or touched your jewelry. We had an agreement, remember? I don't go through your stuff, and you don't go through mine." She turned the page in her book. "At least I keep my end of the bargain."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She peered at me from over the book.

“I can tell when you've been snooping around, Aunt Em."

"I haven't gone through your things."

"Yeah, right. And you didn't sneak in and unplug my lamp in the middle of the night. If you're so worried about the power bill—"

"Why are you blaming me?" I asked. "The bulb is probably just burned out."

"How can it be burned out when I just changed it last week?" she said. "Besides, the lamp came right back on once I plugged it in."

Back in my bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to make sense of the whole thing. Was I getting senile? Perhaps I'd taken off the jewelry at school and put it in my desk drawer or something. But I would have remembered changing the light bulb and making my bed.

It bothered me that Molly suspected I'd been searching her room, and all I could do was chalk it up to teenage paranoia. But what about the lamp she claimed someone had unplugged? The only answer I could come up with was that she'd gotten up during the night to go to the bathroom and, in her sleep, tripped over the cord and pulled the plug from the outlet.

I continued to sit there as my frustration grew. My life had been simple before Molly had come into it—except for those brief periods when I felt sorry for myself for not marrying and having a house full of kids like my high school friends. I usually got over it as soon as I went down my mental list of eligible men in town—some of whom were second cousins, sadly enough—and I realized I was better off single. Besides, I could never love a man named Bubba or Junior or Billy-Bob, or a man who kept a wad of chewing tobacco tucked in one cheek.

But that had nothing to do with the problem at hand, and no matter how taxing life with my niece was, I couldn't give up on her. Not only that, but I couldn't imagine anyone else who'd want to take her with all her problems. Suddenly, a thought occurred. While I'd been sitting there bemoaning the fact that most of the men I knew resembled old Hee Haw characters, my subconscious had kicked in and tossed out a possibility that just might solve the riddle I'd been turning over in my mind a moment before.

What if Molly had been lying about the missing jewelry and the lamp just to scare me? It made perfect sense. She might very well be pulling these pranks so I'd feel uneasy and agree to buy a dog for protection. Why hadn't I thought of that sooner?

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