Bottom Feeder (2 page)

Maddy

February

Dixon roars his 1966 fluorescent
orange Bronco across the cobblestone pavers, coming to a screeching
stop thisclose to the UPS truck’s rear bumper.

“
Doo-doo brown Bermuda
shorts,” Dixon remarks in awe of the driver’s uniform. “With a
matching button-down and, oh God, boots to match? She is the
epitome of my future ex-wife.”

I roll my eyes. “If you had this thing
called a job, you might understand the concept of a
uniform.”

Dixon runs fingers through his
iridescent-blonde locks. “Pretty people do not work for
pennies.”

“
Which is exactly why you
work at your dad’s construction company for free.” I jump down from
the jacked-up Bronco and grab my backpack. “See you
tomorrow.”

“
Can I help you ma’am?” I
say to the driver. “I am authorized to sign for Mr. Carrington’s
deliveries.”

“
Package for Madelyn
Carrington.”

Oh. “That’s me.”

“
Do you have
identification? No one else is allowed to sign.”

The woman shifts from foot-to-foot
like maybe her pants are too tight. Or she has a massive wedgie.
After examining my ID closely she hands over a large padded
envelope. She turns and enters the cab of the truck without another
word.

“
Do I need to sign?” I
yell. The delivery truck slams into reverse and the driver backs
down the long driveway that leads to the main road.

Wow. Rude, much? Maybe she had to pee.
Or pull out her wedgie.

Once inside the empty house, I toss my
backpack aside and carefully open the package. The content consists
of a small envelope with three numbered disks, packaged in
individual paper sleeves.

I pop the disk
labeled
#1
into
my laptop and gather ingredients for jambalaya, Daddy’s favorite.
This meal usually puts him in a good, relaxed mood. I’m going to
need all the help I can get tonight. He’s going to be little angry
when I tell him I was accepted to Duke. He thought I only applied
to in-state schools.

Actually, Daddy does not
know how to do a
little
angry so I decide add a praline cheesecake to the
menu.

While the onions and green peppers
sweat out their flavors in a sauté pan I methodically peel, devein,
and toss pieces of fresh shrimp on a bed of ice. The cold, firm
texture against my fingertips, along with the sounds of a
KitchenAid mixer whirring in the background diverts my attention
away from thoughts of telling Daddy about Duke
University.

The step-by-step process of cooking
distracts me. Helps me think. Most of all, it clears my head.
Cooking is the way I remember my mama without recalling the bad
stuff. She died a few years ago. I don’t like to talk about
it.

I wash my hands and press PLAY on the
laptop, then walk to the pantry to grab some honey.

A surge of panic rushes over me when
Daddy’s voice—the one reserved for when too much liquor is consumed
in too little time—rumbles throughout the kitchen.

I glance around. Alone. My eyes move
hesitantly to the laptop.

A single shiver courses its way
through my body, starting at my toes and ending with a quiet squeak
exiting my throat.

A man, maybe twenty-five, with
chocolate red hair and a lanky build sits hunched in a chair. I run
my eyes over every inch of him that I can see through the dark
lighting and the massive amount of blood covering his face and
clothing. Each leg is tied separately to the bottom of a metal
fold-up chair, his arms bound at the wrists with plastic
zip-ties.

The air is sucked out of the room as
the familiarity of this kind of entrapment sets in. I rub the scars
on my wrists instinctively.

The guy sags further in the chair, his
bowed head rocking slowly from left to right. A large man with
tight brown curls appears with his back to the camera. He lifts a
meaty right hand and punches the man once. Twice. Three
times.

Blood gushes from his nasal cavity.
When the man turns around, I instantly recognize him as one of
Daddy’s employees who I only know by nickname, Twitch.

Daddy walks in view of the camera.
“Simon, my boy,” he says to the guy in the chair, “How’re
things?”

I cannot look away. It is as if a
metal device is keeping my eyes pried open, like one of the
nauseating scenes from A Clockwork Orange. The room is empty aside
from the single chair the man is sitting on. A stream of sunlight
illuminates behind his head from a short window in the back of the
room, like he’s partially underground. The gray concrete floors are
waxed to a glossy sheen.

Daddy grabs the back of Simon’s head,
jerking it back swiftly. Blood sprays from a wound on Simon’s
face.

“
You ruined my suit!”
Daddy roars as a few drops of the thick liquid land on his
lapel.

“
For hell’s sake, Cordell,
just do it,” a bored-sounding man says off screen. I would
recognize that disgusting voice anywhere. Larry Duvall, my father’s
oldest friend and business associate continues, “Twitch, now. I’ve
got reservations.”

“
Look at the lens, boy,”
Daddy says.

Simon slowly lifts his head to reveal
his face to the camera. Through misshapen features, his icy blue
eyes show determination mixed with fear. His lips are moving, but
no words resonate from his mouth.

Daddy leans closer. “What’d you say,
boy? I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

Several chuckles are heard in the
background. Simon’s eyes close, his lips continue
moving.

Praying.
Oh God, he is praying.

“
I said, ‘speak . .
.”

“
Maddy!” The front door
slams.

Oh no! I try shutting down the
computer and ripping the DVD out of the drive. Simon’s screams pour
out of the speaker.

Panic sets in. With my rapid thinking
skills, instead of muting the sound and closing the laptop, I slam
the stupid thing on the floor. The drive pops open. I scoop up the
disk as Daddy enters the kitchen.

While he examines the broken laptop
like an alien species, I covertly stuff the disks in my
backpack.

“
Daddy, I’m so
sorry.”

“
That’s all right, sugar,”
he replies evenly. “We’ll order a new one tonight.”

He bends to help me pick up the
pieces. My body shakes at his closeness. The scent of bourbon and
Clive Christian cologne, mixed with the blinding polished gleam of
his D&G loafers flip my stomach until I can no longer hold down
its contents.

“
What the hell is wrong
with you, girl?” Daddy growls when I pull my head out of the
garbage can. And just like that, he’s angry.

“
May I be
excused?”

“
If my supper isn’t
finished, finish it.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “And make sure
the damned rice is on the bottom of the bowl instead of mixed in.
Think you can handle that?”

“
Yes, Daddy.”

“
I’m having a meeting here
tonight. Make sure the boardroom has food and drinks and stay out
of my sight until tomorrow morning. Understand?”

From what I witnessed on the disk,
compliance is in my best interest.

“
Yes, Daddy.”

The gate rings at seven. I lay on the
floor of the terrace attached to my bedroom, watching as several
men—two clad in Savannah PD attire—exit a non-descript cargo van.
Ugh. That is so cliché.

Daddy greets the men with his usual
southern charm before ushering them into the house. I jump up to
double-lock my bedroom door. The only place inside this house where
true privacy exists is in my closet, tucked behind a small space
between the wall and a large three-way mirror.

I sit behind the mirror and stare into
the blackness, willing the sound of Simon’s screams out of my head.
When that doesn’t work I crawl out from behind the mirror and begin
organizing shoes, purses, and refolding shelves of
clothes.

One thing I know for sure: the disks
cannot be in my possession. He will kill me if he knows. I cannot
protect them if he kills me.

More questions come to mind with each
shifting thought. Should I watch the other two disks? Who sent
them? Why would someone send them to me? Are they a warning? Should
I turn Daddy in? Would he threaten to hurt Dixon or Violet if I
did?

Violet
. How do I tell someone, who is like my mother, that she is
in danger each day she wakes up because of me?

Mama died seven years ago. I don’t
like to talk about her death. When I am alone or in a cafeteria of
hundreds of Coastal High School students, I cannot cry for her.
Crying is a sign of weakness. My number one rule is never let them
see you cry. That is why I don’t like to talk about Mama. That is
why I cook to be close to her.

Violet Monroe has been like a mother
since I met her two years ago. She has a strong mistrust and
dislike for my father. I know I can trust her. But getting Violet
involved in this mess is out of the question.

Dixon often refers to my
father as
The Don
, Georgia’s very own
Godfather
. Now I see he might be on
to something.

Judging by the two men in uniform
downstairs, I cannot go to the police. Right now, they are probably
discussing the best methods of getting rid of evidence. Or bodies.
Or both.

When the t-shirts and yoga pants have
all been refolded, I lay behind the mirror with the backpack
clutched to my chest. I do not sleep.

Instead of going for my usual run the
next morning, I shower, throw on a linen summer dress, strap on the
backpack and tuck my flip flops under my arm. I tiptoe downstairs
and pause before I open the side door furthest from Daddy’s
bedroom.

He has several computers and tablets
in his office I can use for research, but the door is always
locked. I contemplate going back upstairs to sneak in the office
using the hidden back staircase that leads into the room. The
stairs run behind a wall that Mama called the “escape route.” The
furthest I’ve ever been is Daddy’s office, but I know it leads
somewhere outside the property. The office door from back there is
tucked between the wall and a hidden door inside the body-sized
vault where he stores his gun collection. I used to hide from Larry
between the wall and hidden door until Daddy found me one day. He
said the passage was for emergencies only.

Regardless, going into his office is
risky. He probably has more trackers on his computers than the
CIA.

I prop my beach cruiser against the
chipped exterior of the Jarrett’s 1940s ranch house. I tap softly
on Dixon’s bedroom window. He peeks one eye from behind the curtain
then lifts the window for me to climb in.

“
For the sake of
Hey-soos
, it’s four
thirty,” Dixon says grumpily. He stretches his lean, wiry arms
above his head and curls beneath the comforter.

“
I need your computer,” I
whisper, grasping the backpack like a life shield.

“
What happened to
yours?”

Instead of explaining, I kick off my
flip flops and snuggle beside him. His rumpled hair falls over his
closed eyes. I am reminded for the millionth time since junior year
just how gorgeous my best friend really is.

I am not in love with
Dixon. I love him, but not, like,
love
him
. Even if I did love him like that,
Dixon is not interested in me. He is gay. No one knows this because
he dates girls. I guess that makes him bi. But he would rather be
with guys. Besides, he is way too high maintenance for my
taste.

I place my hands on either side of his
face and kiss the tip of his nose. He smiles and wraps his arms
around me. I drift to sleep.

“
It must be really bad
this time,” he whispers when I nudge him awake two hours later. I
nod. “Use Libby’s.”

Forty-five seconds of research later,
I find the closest office is four hours away. If I leave within the
hour, I can make it to Atlanta and back without question. Although
the content is still traceable, I clear the search history, delete
the cookies and empty the recycle bin on Libby’s computer. To be a
little safer, I pull up a program to overwrite the data then clear
the history and cookies again.

The smells of vanilla-flavored coffee
and s’mores Pop-tarts heating in the toaster are oddly comforting
as I tread softly into the kitchen. Dixon has eaten the same
breakfast every morning since we were thirteen. Drinking coffee and
eating chocolate is a rite of passage in the Jarrett
family.

“
I’m driving to Atlanta
today,” I whisper.

Dixon brings the mug to his lips. Sits
it down. Picks it up. Sits it down. “I’m going.”

“
You can go, but you can’t
go where I’m going.”

He blinks. “What?”

How do I explain why I would need to
be in an FBI field office? Even if I wanted to tell him, I
couldn’t. If Daddy ever found out and questioned him, Dixon would
know too much. He can read a liar like an English professor reads
Chaucer. Every word, every twitch of the face, every slight body
movement . . . he knows what is truth, a lie, an indecision, a
smirk beneath straight lips.