My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 23

"Hi," she said.

I took a deep breath and smiled. "Hi."

Minutes later, as we crossed the Cape Fear Bridge heading northwest, I could see her watching me out of the corner of her eye. "I guess you've been keeping up with the news this week."

"Oh yes," she replied.

"Then you must have been a little shocked when you saw me."

"Yes, I was."

"Then do you mind if I ask why you're here now?"

"I know you didn't have anything to do with what happened to Ash."

The quickness with which she answered surprised me. It just came out without a second thought. Not only did I find that comforting, but encouraging as well. "Thanks. I needed that."

She smiled. "You're welcome."

We passed a doe with a couple of fawns grazing on new grass along the shoulder of the road. They didn't even look up as we blew by.

"So, what made you decide to open your own dance school?"

"I was teaching two days a week in Myrtle Beach, two days a week in Wilmington, and one day a week in Jacksonville and just got tired of all the driving. Then a school came up for sale here in Wilmington and I really wanted to buy it, but they wanted more for it than I could afford so I decided I'd start one on my own. And I did. But I never dreamed it would be this successful. I only needed enough students to earn a living, but they kept coming. It got to the point I had to hire more teachers. Then after three years, I moved it to where it is now."

"It looks like you've got something very special there."

"Thanks."

I could see her eyes staring at me through the dark lens and wondered if she was trying to figure out if I was guilty or not. "What?" I asked.

She looked down and brushed a piece of lint off her jeans. "I was just thinking about how little you've changed."

"And I was just thinking about how much you've changed. Why haven't you gotten married and started a family?"

"People ask me that all the time. I've always said I was too busy and that my students are my children. But, now? I don't know. It would be nice, I think."

As we rode on, we talked about the photography I'd be doing at her school, about the old days when I dated Jewell, and the black and white Manx cat named Tux that she still had after fifteen years. The more we talked, the more comfortable we got. And the more comfortable we got, the more we laughed. And the more we laughed, the more infatuated I became.

"So what do you want from her brother?" Sydney asked.

"I've got to start somewhere."

"Start what?"

I took a deep breath. "This whole thing—her murder, or disappearance, or whatever it is—just seems a little fishy to me."

"What do you mean?"

"Like it was staged."

Her mouth parted slightly and I could sense her eyes on me. I told her about the bicycle, the boat, the guy who knocked me in the head, the missing money, and what Mrs. Winslow had said. "And if she did set all of this up, I can't believe she'd just walk away without letting her brother know what she was doing."

"I see what you mean."

"And tomorrow I'm going out on the river to see if I can find the boat she rented and figure out why she needed it and, hopefully, where she went."

She looked to her right. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why am I doing this?" I laughed and looked her way, but she wasn't laughing. "I'm trying to prove I had nothing to do with what happened to her."

"And that's the only reason?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"I thought maybe you...liked her."

"You get right to the heart of things, don't you? Maybe you ought to be the one to interview David." She slapped my arm and smiled.

As we neared Lake Waccamaw, she called out the directions and I drove right to the farm. An older man in denim coveralls and mud-caked boots answered the door. I stood back from the porch and let Sydney do the talking. She spoke to him through a screened door.

"Hi. I'm Sydney Deagan. I was Ashleigh's dance teacher a few years back and I—"

"She ain't here," the old man growled stepping back to close the door.

"Wait! Actually, I was hoping to talk to David."

"David don't talk to nobody since the accident."

"He knows me. Sydney Deagan. Would you ask him?"

"Won't do no good. I told you. He don't talk to nobody, not even the police. They came the other day and banged on his door for half an hour. He ain't been out of that room since he come here, except to see a doctor."

"We were hoping he could help us find Ashleigh."

"You ain't heard what happened?"

I spoke up from behind Sydney. "Mr. Jackson, we think there's a chance Ashleigh might still be alive."

He pushed the screen door open and squinted his eyes. "You the police?"

I climbed the steps and extended a hand to shake. "No, sir. I'm Richard Baimbridge. I live—"

"Baimbridge?" He retreated, closing the screen door. "Ain't you the one they say done it?"

I retracted my hand and stuffed it in my pocket. "I had nothing to do with it, Mr. Jackson. And that's why I need to find her."

"We don't know nothing but what the police tell us," he said.

"When was the last time you saw Ashleigh?" I asked.

"You folks best be on your way. We got nothing to say."

"Please, I don't think anything has happened to Ashleigh. I think she planned this whole thing herself and made it appear there had been foul play. I was hoping—"

"Now why would she do something like that?"

"I'm not sure, Mr. Jackson. But I believe she got involved with some people she wanted to get away from."

"That girl was smart as a whip. She wouldn't get herself messed up in nothing that wasn't proper. Somebody done her in and that's the way it is."

I noticed a curtain slightly pulled back in a window at the other end of the porch and strode toward it. "David! Talk to us! We're trying to help Ashleigh!" The curtain dropped back into place. I banged on the window with the side of my fist. "David!"

The screen door sprang open and the old man stumbled out holding a double-barreled shotgun leveled at me. Sydney backed down the steps.

"Git on now 'fore I drop you dead." His eyes were clear and his hand steady. "Don't think I won't do it."

I raised my hands and moved slowly to the edge of the porch and stepped off into a long-abandoned flowerbed. "We're not trying to cause any trouble here, Mr. Jackson."

"If you know what's good for you, Mister, you'll stay away from here. I mean it. Now git!"

I backed toward the car, cupped my hands over my mouth, and shouted, "David! Call me! Richard Baim—"

The shotgun exploded.