Darkest Fear (20 page)

“Hi, Mrs. Peachtree,” I said.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said. “How are you doing?”

“Fine. Still working in the coffee shop. So everything's okay.”

“Good. Listen, did your friend find you?”

“What friend? Jennifer? She knows I'm here.”

“No, not Jennifer, I know her. This was a man. He said he was a friend of your parents, and he had something of theirs for you?”

I stopped sorting laundry and sat down hard. “When was this?”

“A couple of days ago,” Mrs. Peachtree said. “When Phil saw him looking in the window at your house, we went over there real quick.”

“Oh, good,” I said faintly, my heart in my throat. “Did he say who he was?”

“Said his name was Felix Winston, and that he worked with your dad. He said he'd found something of your dad's at the office and wanted to return it to you.”

“Hm. Yeah, my dad did work with someone named that. I think I met him once. What did he look like?”

“Indian,” said Mrs. Peachtree, who was from south Texas. “Like Mexican Indian, you know?”

“Yeah.” I remembered Felix Winston as being tall and light-haired. “Did he leave anything with you?”

“No. He said he'd come back later. I said it was hard to know when you'd be here—with work and all. I made it sound like you still lived here but were unpredictable.”

“Thank you. This was just a few days ago?”

“Yes. Anyway, I haven't seen him since.”

“Did you mention New Orleans?”

“No. Didn't give him your cell number, either. But he seemed to think he could look you up or something. So I was curious if he'd found you.”

“No,” I said. “But could you do me a favor and let me know if you or Mr. Peachtree ever see him again?”

“Sure, honey. Everything else okay?”

“Yes, I'm still enjoying being here. I'll probably be back before too much longer, though.”

“Okay. You let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“I will. Thanks, Mrs. Peachtree.”

Of course I told Matéo and Aly about it right away. Since it had been just a few days before, it wasn't the person who had attacked Tink. But it definitely hadn't been Felix Winston.

“We were already on guard,” said Matéo. “Now we'll be extra on guard.”

“Hey, should we maybe get an alarm system?” I asked. “I know a lot of houses have them.”

Matéo looked at me. “We're a bunch of haguari. What's an alarm going to do that's better than anything we can do ourselves?”

He had a point. I pictured the alarm contacting the police and
them showing up in time to see a bunch of large jungle animals fighting.

“Oh, you know, I wanted to show you this.” Matéo took out a photo album, one of his mother's from before she was married. It was amazing, looking at it. I saw so many familiar pictures, except these had Donella in them. She had been cut out of the pictures we had at home. Other albums showed Matéo as a little kid, in Mardi Gras costumes, school uniforms, with friends. His school photos. It was still hard to believe that both our families had lived in America, not all that far apart, and yet had never met, never gotten together for holidays, never exchanged birthday cards. What could have caused that?

Matéo was closing the album when a picture fell out. I picked it up and looked at it, an odd feeling going down my spine.

“What's this?” I asked.

Matéo gave a sad smile. “That's my mom with one of her old boyfriends. Actually, they were engaged, and then like two days before the wedding, she ran off with my father. It was a big scandal. Her parents had loved her fiancé. But she said she knew my father was the love of her life, and she had to be with him.” He shrugged. Then he saw my face and frowned. “What?”

I let out a breath. “Matéo . . . this is my father.”

We stared at each other, then at the picture again. It was definitely my dad: young, handsome, smiling, in horrible eighties clothes. He had his arm around Donella's waist and was gazing at her adoringly. She was laughing at the camera, her face so much like mine.

“Are you sure?” I asked Matéo. “Sure that this was who she was engaged to? It wasn't someone else?”

“No,” he said slowly. “She told me the story a bunch of times. She thought she was in love with him, but then she met my dad and was crazy for him, even though he wasn't Brazilian. He was American, and his parents are Irish. Mami told me that her parents didn't speak to her for two years, and when they finally met my dad, they couldn't stand him.”

“Did she ever tell you her fiancé's name?” I asked in a tiny voice.

“Victor. Victor somebody. I don't remember.”

Victor was my dad's name. My dad had been engaged to another woman, and not just any woman. To my mom's sister.

“Maybe this is why the big split happened,” I said. “Why there were no pictures of Donella, no mention of her anywhere.”

“I can't believe this is your dad,” said Matéo. “That he was who Mom was engaged to. This could definitely be why the sisters quit speaking to each other.”

My mind was reeling. It was one thing to find out that your parent had once been engaged to, or even married to, someone else. But to find out your dad had been engaged to your mom's sister? A sister you'd never even known existed? It hinted at a much more complicated story. Would Tia Juliana tell me anything, if I asked her? Would she just get mad? Surely she had to know the whole story.

“Is there any way this could be related to the attacks?” I asked.

“How?” Matéo said. “It's bizarre, but who would be upset
about it after all this time, except the four of them? And they didn't kill each other.”

“So this could be why the sisters split up, but probably doesn't have anything to do with their murders.” I was having trouble taking this all in.

“I guess so,” said Matéo.

I pushed the album away. “I better go get ready for work.” I still had an hour but wanted some time alone. Matéo nodded and put the albums away—he seemed as freaked out as I was. Upstairs, that picture kept popping into my mind. My dad. He and my mom had seemed so perfect for each other, so happy. Victor and Aracita. I'd seen their wedding pictures a million times. The eighties had a lot to answer for, stylewise, but still. My grandparents had been in those pictures, looking happy. So had Tia Juliana, who'd been barely twenty. I'd always thought my parents had been destined to be together. They were so affectionate. How had Papi ended up with my mom after being dumped by Donella? Obviously my mom had known all about it. How many more secrets was I going to stumble onto?

Aly and I had gone shopping last week, and now I pawed through my clothes trying to find something to wear. I decided on a new vintage bowling shirt, more my size, instead of my usual huge. I'd become a convert of the skirt club, and today's was short and pleated, with an inexplicable printed border of kittens going around the bottom. I was even wearing sandals instead of my black high-tops. Okay, so they were Birkenstocks and not platforms, but they were sandals. And comfy.

My long, thick hair was defeating my attempts to subdue it when I heard my computer ping. I lunged for it and flipped it open.

“Jen! I tried calling you last night.”

She sighed. “I was at a dorm party.”

“That sounds fun.” I leaned over the bed, untangling a knot in my hair. Would I tell Jen about my parents? I tried to think it through.

“What are you doing?”

“I have work in a little bit.” Once again I held a hair elastic in my teeth as I swooped up handfuls of hair.

“Still doing okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I pretty much know how to do everything now, so I don't feel so stupid.” I shrugged. “It gives me something to do, a place to go. I like the people there.”

What else could I talk about? My parents? About accidentally changing into a monster at the drop of a hat? About somebody snooping around, trying to kill us? I considered for a moment while I managed to braid my hair, pulling it around in front to get the last bit. Then I snapped on an elastic and sat down on the bed.

“How's the hot boss?” she asked.

I made myself grin. It was a relief to have something normalish that I could tell her.

“Still hot. Still apparently completely uninterested in a social misfit with no fashion sense and poor social skills. Go figure. Did you get the latest pictures of the mural?” I'd been sending her progress shots from my phone.

“Yeah. It's incredible, and he's not even finished. A brilliant
artist,” Jennifer mused, looking at the ceiling. “Misunderstood . . . needing love and understanding . . .”

I howled with laughter and threw my socks at my computer. “Anyway, how about you?” I asked. “How's rooming with Lucy going?”

“She's fine,” said Jennifer, but I read between the lines. “She's not awful or anything. I just . . . have nothing in common with her. Not a thing. Not a single thing.”

I gave her a sympathetic smile. “That's a bummer. Can you get a different roommate next year?”

“Oh god, I'll still be here next year,” Jennifer moaned, dropping her head into her hands.

“How about your classes?” I asked quickly. “You said you were liking your public policy class.”

“Yeah.” Jennifer raised her head a little bit. “The one I'm finding super interesting, actually, is the social services one—like, social work.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. So that's my highlight. Out of endless hours of misery.”

I smiled at her hyperbole.

“Are you going back home for Thanksgiving?” Jennifer asked.

I hadn't given it a thought. “You're going to be up there, at your aunt's, right? So . . . there's kind of no one at home to have Thanksgiving with. I don't know.”

“It's like you're making a whole nother life without me,” said Jennifer.

“You're kind of doing the same thing without me,” I acknowledged. “It sucks.”

“Yeah.” Jennifer sighed.

“Have you met any nice girls?” I asked, wiggling my eyebrows.

Jennifer gave a little smile. “There's a girl, Amy, in the Columbia B'nai Brith. There might be something there.”

“Oooh,” I teased her, and she smiled bigger.

“I have to get to class,” she said. “Take care—call me soon, okay?”

“Will do,” I said, and blew her a kiss. “Gotta fly.”

• • •

“Oh, Lord Jesus,” Talia muttered, looking at the front door.

“What?” I asked.

“I need to go reorganize every single thing in the kitchen,” she said, heading through the doorway behind the counter. “Yell if you need me.”

I was still wondering what she was doing when a sharp rap on the glass case made me jump.

“Girl!”

There was no one there. Then I saw a shadow through the glass case and peered over it. A tiny old woman, maybe in her early eighties, dressed all in black, was about to rap her cane against the glass again.

“Please don't do that!” I said quickly. “I'm sorry—what can I get for you?”

“Make me a cup of coffee, and not that fancy bilgewater my grandson serves!” she snapped. “Fix me a cup of coffee and chicory with hot milk! Café au lait! You know how to do that?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, grabbing a thick ceramic coffee cup and
saucer. Gods, this must be Rafael's grandmother, the crazy old woman people kept talking about.
Great. Thank you, Talia. The view from beneath this bus is great.

Fortunately, just last week, Rafael had given in to my almost daily requests that we get some regular New Orleans–style coffee on hand, since I was now addicted to it. He'd agreed, and already enough people had started requesting it that he'd bought several French presses so I could make it fresh.

“Don't lie to me!” the old woman snapped as I reached for the electric teakettle, and I almost jumped again.

“Excuse me?”

“You can't!” she said, and I expected to see fangs at the corners of her thin, wrinkled mouth.

“Can't make you coffee?”

“Can't make me good coffee!” She was practically howling, and people were turning to watch. My cheeks got hot.

“I can try,” I said. Weeks of working here had toughened me up a bit, and I no longer got as rattled when faced with a difficult customer. Now, as the old woman scowled fiercely at me, I took one of our small, three-cup French presses and put it on the counter in front of her. She frowned at it suspiciously. Then I took a can of CDM and carefully measured three and a half scoops of coffee into the glass carafe. The old lady's black-beetle eyes flared when she saw the can, and her lips pressed together tightly.

I poured in boiling water, then took a wooden chopstick and stirred the coffee and water until there was a fine tan foam on top.
I let it steep for a moment while I zapped a small pitcher of whole milk in the microwave. Finally I eased the press down, trapping all the grounds of the coffee at the bottom of the carafe. Inhaling deeply, I couldn't help smiling—it smelled so good.

Now for the
au lait
part. I poured the hot coffee into the cup until it was half full, then filled it up with the steaming hot milk.

“Do you want sugar?” I asked.

“One sugar! Regular sugar from sugar cane!” she barked. “Not that fake rat poison! Not brown sugar! Not sea sugar hand-dried by organic virgins! Regular sugar!”

Dixie Crystals it is.
“Yes, ma'am.” I added one scant teaspoon of white sugar, then pushed the cup toward her.

Frowning at me so hard that her overgrown and overblack brows almost met, she reached out a slightly trembling skeletal hand. Slowly she took the cup by its handle as I watched her. Talia came in very quietly from the back and waited on another person who had come up.