By hour four, Edmund’s body had stiffened. His arms stopped flopping. His head, bent awkwardly back and to the right, no longer bobbed with each bump. Instead of a rag doll, Edmund was a frozen mannequin. Rigor mortis had settled in. Nico still didn’t notice.
By hour ten, the cab of the truck began to take its own beating. On the seats… the floor mat… across the vinyl interior of the passenger-side door, the blood began to decompose, turning each stain a darker, richer red, tiny speckles of liquid rubies.
But even when they left all that behind — when they abandoned the truck and used Edmund’s wool blanket to switch to the clean maroon Pontiac — there was no escaping the smell. And it wasn’t from the body. That would take days to decompose, even in the Florida heat. The true foul horror came from what was inside, as Edmund’s lack of muscle control caused everything from feces to flatulence to leak out, soaking his clothes, his pants, all the way through to the once-parchment-colored cloth seat and the dusty blanket that covered Edmund from the neck down.
In the driver’s seat next to him, Nico couldn’t have been happier. Up ahead, despite rush hour, traffic looked clear. On his right, out west, the sun was a perfect orange circle as it began its slow bow from the sky. And most important, as they blew past another green highway sign, they were even closer than Nico expected.
PALM BEACH 48 MILES
Less than an hour and we’re there.
Barely able to contain himself, Nico smiled and took a deep breath of the car’s outhouse reek.
He didn’t smell a thing. He couldn’t. Not when life was this sweet.
Quickly picking up speed, Nico reached for the wipers as a late-day sun-shower sent a few speckles against the Pontiac’s front windshield. But before he could flick the wipers on, he thought twice and left them off. The rain was light. Just a drizzle. Enough to cleanse.
Maybe you should—
“Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing,” Nico said, nodding to himself. With the push of a button on the dash, he opened the sunroof of the car, held his stolen Orioles baseball cap, and tilted his head back to stare up at the gray sky.
“Hold the wheel,” he told Edmund as he clamped his eyes shut.
At eighty miles an hour, Nico let go of the steering wheel. The Pontiac veered slightly to the right, cutting off a woman in a silver Honda.
Saying a prayer to himself, Nico kept his head back. The wind from outside lashed against the brim, blowing his baseball cap from his head. Needles of rain tap-danced against his forehead and face. The baptism had begun. Wes’s home address was clutched in his hand. Salvation — for Nico and his mom — was less than an hour away.
78
Lisbeth thought the neighborhood would be a dump. But as she drove west on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard and followed Violet’s directions — past the Home Depot and Best Buy and Olive Garden, then a right on Village Boulevard — it was clear she didn’t need to lock the car doors. Indeed, as she pulled up to the guard gate for Misty Lake — A Townhome Community, the only thing she had to do was lower her window.
“Hi, I’m visiting unit 326,” Lisbeth explained to the guard, remembering Violet’s instructions to not use her name. Of course, it was silly. Lisbeth already had her address — who cared about her name?
“ID, please,” the guard said.
As she handed over her driver’s license, Lisbeth added, “I’m sorry, I think it’s unit 326—I’m looking for…”
“The Schopfs — Debbie and Josh,” the guard replied, handing her a guest parking pass for the dashboard.
Lisbeth nodded. “That’s them.” Waiting until the security gate closed behind her to scribble the name Debbie Schopf in her notepad, she followed the signs and never-ending speed bumps past row after row of identical pink townhomes, eventually pulling into the guest spot just outside the narrow two-story house with blinking holiday lights dangling from above the door and an inflatable snowman in the thriving green garden. Christmas in Florida at unit 326.
Heading up the front path, Lisbeth tucked her notepad into her purse and out of sight. Violet was already nervous on the phone. No reason to add to—
“Lisbeth?” a female voice called out as the door of the townhouse swung open.
Lisbeth looked up at eye level, which put her directly at Violet’s dark brown neck. It wasn’t until she craned her neck up that Lisbeth saw the full picture of the stunning 5'10" African-American woman standing in the doorway. Wearing faded jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt, Violet almost seemed to be trying to dress like a mom. But even standard suburban uniforms couldn’t mask the beauty underneath.
“You… uh… you wanna come in?” Violet asked, her voice shaky as she lowered her head and looked away.
Lisbeth assumed she was being shy. Probably embarrassed. But as she got closer — walking past Violet and entering the house — she got her first good look at Violet’s left eyebrow, which appeared to be cut in two by a tiny white scar that sliced through her dark, otherwise perfect skin.
“That from— He do that?” Lisbeth asked, even though she knew the answer.
Violet looked up, her shoulders arching like a cornered cat — then just as quickly, her posture leveled as she regained her calm. For Lisbeth, it was like glancing too late at a just-missed lightning bolt. Two seconds ago, rage detonated in Violet’s eyes, then disappeared in an eyeblink. Still, like the lost lightning bolt, the afterimage was too strong. Lisbeth couldn’t miss it. And in that moment, she saw the brash, confident, and swaggering self-assured woman that the young twenty-six-year-old Violet used to be. And who she’d never be again.
“I don’t want my picture in the paper. Or my name,” Violet whispered, tugging her bangs over the fleshy white scar.
“I’d never do that,” Lisbeth promised, already kicking herself for pushing too fast. From the plastic pink tea set scattered along the floor and the baby doll stroller in the entryway, Violet had a great deal to lose. No way Lisbeth was getting the story without a softer touch.
“Adorable,” Lisbeth said, heading up the main hallway and admiring a framed family photo of a little white girl running through a sprinkler, her mouth open with her tongue licking the water.
Violet barely responded.
Lisbeth turned. Every parent likes to talk about their kids.
Halfway up the main hallway, Lisbeth scanned the rest of the family photos along the wall. The girl in the sprinkler. Pictured again with a redheaded woman at the beach. And again with the redhead at a pumpkin patch.
As Lisbeth scanned all the photos, she noticed that every shot had white people in it. Indeed, not one — not a single one — had anyone who was black.
Lisbeth underestimated her. Violet — or whatever her name was — wasn’t some dumb novice.
“This isn’t your house, is it?” Lisbeth asked.
Violet stopped in the small, cluttered kitchen. A child-size plastic Cinderella table sat next to a full-size faux-wood one. Half a dozen photos cluttered the refrigerator door. Again, everyone was white.
“And your name’s not Debbie Schopf, is it?” Lisbeth added.
“Leave Debbie out of this—”
“Violet, if she’s your friend…”
“She’s just doing me a favor.”
“Violet…”
“Please don’t drag her in— Oh, God,” Violet said, shielding her eyes with her hand. It was the first time Lisbeth got a look at the thin gold wedding band on Violet’s ring finger. The one detail Lisbeth believed.
“Listen,” Lisbeth said, touching Violet’s shoulder. “You listening? I’m not here to catch you or trap you or drag your friends in. I swear. I just need to know if what you said about Dreidel—”