The Dark Light of Day (The Dark Light of Day 1)

No. Nothing did.

She cleared her throat. “I know this doesn’t mean shit to you, Abby, but I think you are doing a great job as a mom, a much better job than I ever did.” Bethany's eyes had started to glaze over. Was hell freezing over, or was Bethany Fletcher—formerly Satan’s right hand man—actually about to cry? And in front of me, no less. “Is Owen her father, Abby? I mean, I know you were living with Jake for a while…”

It was time to tell someone about it.

I would never have dreamed in a million years it would be Bethany Fletcher. But, she happened to be the one who was asking.

“When I first found out I was pregnant, I was sure she was Owen’s, but then she was born with bright blue eyes, and I thought for a second there was a chance…” I shook my head and laughed. “I was so young. I didn’t know most babies born with blue eyes change color over time. One day I was staring at my six month-old baby girl and her eyes were as green as the freaking Emerald City. That’s when I gave up all hope that she was Jake’s.” It was difficult to admit out loud.

“Oh, Abby,” Bethany said. “That must have been hard for you.”

I nodded. “It still is.”

“Will you at least think about letting me get to know my grand-daughter, about giving me a chance?”

“I can’t promise you a yes or a no, but I can promise you I’ll think about it,” I said. Bethany may have been ready to let go of the person she was, but I couldn’t forget so easily. That person caused me too much pain to be given a do-over and a free pass to form a relationship with my daughter.

“That’s all I’m asking.” She got off the bench to leave. “Thank you.” It was said so softly I could barely hear her over the parents calling to their children from the benches next to us. “Thank you,” she repeated and walked away.

Had I just agreed to think about letting the most evil woman I’ve ever known have a relationship with my daughter simply because she no longer looked like the devil and had spewed some sincere-sounding words?

Apparently, I had.

I sighed and looked over at Georgia, who was showing a little brown haired boy how to position his feet in front of him before sliding down the shiny new slide. “Hey Bethany?”

“Yes?” She turned around, her cheeks flushed red.

“You know what Owen did to me. You know how badly he hurt me. But what you haven’t said is how you know.”

Her face paled. “Abby…” She started, her voice shaky and unsure. “Owen was in terrible shape afterwards.” He wasn’t the only one. “He drove two towns over and called Cole. Cole called me. I’m so sorry.” She shook her head. “I helped Cole bring you home that night.” Tears streamed down her face.

And then she was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I TRIED NOT TO THINK ABOUT BETHANY and her request from that night, or her revelation that she had more to do with covering up Owen’s sick behavior than I had initially thought. But, I did tell her I would think about letting her get to know Georgia, and I meant it. I wouldn’t do it right away. I had other issues on my mind.

Tall, blonde and leather issues, to be specific.

My housing situation had changed, too. I had that on my mind more than anything else. After Nan’s house had been foreclosed on, it sat empty for years as the economy continued to slide downward. Eventually, the bank sold it to some big time investor who fixed it up and turned it over to a property management company to find a renter. When I passed the window of the Matlacha Realty office and saw the familiar pink siding and white shutters on the picture taped to their window, I ran inside to sign the lease right then and there. After a few phone calls to the owner, they accepted my check and handed me the keys.

I didn’t even have a chance to tell Frank about the house before he died. I knew he would have been really happy for us though.

Georgia and I had officially moved in a few days earlier. There were still boxes piled in the corner of her room that I hadn’t had a chance to unpack yet. Actually, there were boxes I hadn’t unpacked in every room.

I gave Georgia a bath before tucking her into bed in the very same room where Nan had so generously given me the deadbolt I requested on the first night I’d stayed with her. I’d felt safe there, like my heart could finally lay calm and quiet. Now, the framed photo above my little girl’s bed made my heart skip a beat and my stomach double over.

I wish she hadn’t asked me to hang it up for her.

A few months earlier, I’d been sitting on the couch in the apartment sorting through some old photos in my scrap box when Georgia turned from the cartoon she was watching and asked if she had a daddy. I had no idea how to answer that. Telling her about Owen was out of the question. I was trying to figure out the right way to tell her she actually didn’t have a daddy when she pulled a picture from the bottom of the box I was sorting.

“Mama, is this my daddy?” She had asked, holding up my favorite picture of Jake. He was on his bike, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He had just parked in the lot and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. He wasn’t quite smiling, but there was happiness there. It captured exactly who he was. My heart fluttered just looking at him. I had almost forgotten the effect his appearance had on me.

Almost, but not quite.

My childhood had been built on lies and mistrust. I decided then that I wasn’t going to continue that cycle with my daughter.

“No, baby girl, he’s not,” I answered. “I wish he was though.” My eyes watered.

“Don’t cry, Mama. We can pretend he is. Okay?”

“Pretend?” I asked. Georgia had such a huge imagination.

“Yeah. We just pretend he’s my daddy.”

I couldn’t say no to her liquid green eyes. “Just for pretend though, okay, baby girl? He’s not your daddy. Not really.”

She looked down at the picture then back at me, smiling like she’d just ransacked an ice cream truck. She also lost all interest in knowing anything more about who her father was. She was satisfied with her new picture and the promise of a game we could play together.

“Yes, Mama. Just pretend.” Then, she ran off to her room with the picture in hand. It wasn’t until I changed the sheets on her bed a few days later when I realized she’d kept it under her pillow.

The day we moved into Nan’s house she requested a frame for her picture and announced she wanted it hung over her bed. I didn’t want to do it. It took the pretending a little too far for my liking. But, the picture went up, and each night when I put Georgia to sleep I came face to face with what had almost been.

Before I started tackling the boxes in the kitchen, I changed into shorts and a tank top. I was in need of some comfort, so I threw my old black hoodie on top of it all.

I wondered what Nan would have said if she could have seen all of the changes her little house had been through. I was sad to see the old avocado appliances and white cabinets were gone, but I wasn’t about to complain about the stainless steel and cherry wood that had taken their place. The stained and ripped linoleum floors had also been replaced with a dark hard wood in varying shades. Nan’s home, even in its new and improved state with its landscaping overhaul and new coat of paint, still looked like Nan’s house…just mixed with an ad from Island Home Magazine.

I slipped out of the house through the back sliding glass doors. The investor had torn out the old screened in lanai and built a new outdoor kitchen area, complete with a brick paver deck, state of the art grill, mini-fridge, sink area, and granite counter tops. But the view was as spectacular as ever, with the mangroves floating over the dark blue waters of the Coral Pines River. It seemed to be the only thing left completely unchanged.

I opened the grill and felt around for the key I had taped to the inside of the hood. I used it to open the lock on the drawer below the grill meant to house cooking tools.

I had no such tools.

I retrieved the old tin pencil box I hid the day we moved in. The box had been doodled on and taped together more times than I could remember. It contained a small yellow glass pipe, a lighter, and a dime bag. I’d tried to be one of those women who had a glass of wine at the end of the day.

I’d never developed a taste for it.

I’d bought a couple of plastic reclining chairs from a garage sale to use on the patio. Those chairs, plus a twin bed and mattress for Georgia and a mattress and box-spring for my room, were all the furniture we had. I had planned on buying myself a real bed, along with a couch and table for the living room by perusing the weekend flea market and swap meet the week before.

My plans for more furniture had been derailed when Frank died.

I’d been calling him all throughout that day to tell him about having rented Nan’s house, and to tell him I would be by with his groceries a little later than normal. After two hours with no call back, I had a sick feeling that something was wrong.

I pulled up to his house and banged on the front door. When he didn’t answer, I tried the door...which was already unlocked. As soon as I had entered the house, I knew he was dead. It seemed to radiate a chill throughout the space.

The smell only reinforced that.

I found Frank’s body upstairs in the guest bathroom. He’d been sitting, fully clothed, in a pink tiled bathtub with no water, clutching a picture frame in one hand and an empty bottle of Wild Turkey in the other. His eyes were closed and if I didn’t have that feeling of death all around me, I would have just thought he was sleeping.