Page 7 of Passerby: A Psychological Thriller
Cole is Johnny’s best friend. Has been since they were toddlers. Why is anyone’s guess. The two of them couldn’t be any more different. That, and, Johnny never has been very good at keeping friends. Davis likes to say that if it weren’t for me, Cole would’ve been long gone by now. Knowing him, though, that’s not true. There are good dogs less loyal than Cole Wheeler.
Johnny looks at me. My brows raise. He nods a hello at Ashley. It’s clear what he thinks of our little brother’s latest love interest. She might as well be a ghost.
“When did you guys get in?” I say to Ashley. Partly because I’m curious, partly because I hadn’t expected to meet like this.
“Just a few hours ago.”
We all watch as they load the girl onto the stretcher. They’ve barely closed the ambulance doors when her parents pull up and the crowd parts to give them room to move through. Cole watches me closely. I pretend not to notice.
“Where’s Davis?” Johnny asks. He’s looking at Ashley as he says it, but he’s speaking to all of us.
“He’s driving the Thompsons’ float,” Cole says.
“He had to run back to the house,” I say at the same time.
“He said there was something he had to handle,” Ashley says. The words spill out in the way that makes it obvious she wishes she could take them back.
“Well, which is it?” Johnny demands.
We all stand there, surrounded by flashing lights, shrugging in unison.
Davis isn’t the type not to show up for the parade. He isn’t the type to just leave his date on the courthouse lawn, so I know something is wrong. I know there is something Ashley Parker isn’t saying, and I am pretty sure I know what that something is.
I just hope I’m wrong.
Ashley rubs her temples and then rolls her neck. Suddenly, she takes hold of Cole’s forearm. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m feeling a little dizzy.”
Cole’s expression goes from confused to reluctant to ready to help in nanoseconds. I don’t miss any of it. “Here,” he tells her, taking her by the elbow. “Sit down.”
“Can you call Davis?” she asks shakily. “I think I need to go back to the house and lie down.”
“I’ve tried,” Johnny huffs. He motions at me. “Ruth, drive her to the house.” He doesn’t tell me he’ll find Davis when he orders me around, but it’s clear that’s what he means.
“I’ll do it,” Cole says with a sigh. It’s slight, that sigh, but it’s there. I know in the way he is looking at me. He knows I don’t want to drive her home. He sees the concern in my eyes. Cole can see straight through me. And I hate every second of it.
I don’t thank him, even though I should. He’d do anything for me. Still, I know this is no small favor.
“I hate to miss the parade,” Ashley says, holding her head in her hands. She’s got the damsel in distress down pat, that’s for sure. I blink hard several times. No one notices. It’s hard to believe this is a grown woman I’m hearing and seeing. I want to feel sorry for her, but I just can’t muster the energy.
That doesn’t stop Cole or Johnny from doing it. While my brother is stoic in his usual way, I can see he sees Ashley Parker for what she is. A liability. And a fragile one.
“It’s sort of a big deal,” Cole says, helping her to her feet. He looks over at me. “But don’t worry. There’s always next year.”
Chapter Five
Ruth
Cole is right about one thing. The annual parade is a big deal. Floats have been worked on for months, tractor trailers have been all decorated up, businesses around town have given it their all while they have the eyes of the entire town. Not just our town, but the eyes of the tourists who’ve descended in order to take their picturesque shots for social media, make their cotton candy memories, and hopefully after a brief stay at Magnolia House, leave just the way they came.
Aside from the parade, kick-off night is when the Watermelon Queen is announced. All the contestants line up, smile nervously, and wave from the stage, wearing evening gowns they’ve fretted over for months. It’s not exactly what you’d call a feminist-friendly occasion, as has been written on many a travel blogs, considering the pageantry of it all. But Jester Falls is steeped in tradition, and this one would have to be pried from our cold, dead hands.
I was crowned Watermelon Queen once, a decade ago. Although, those days have faded into memories I no longer care to relive. Except, sometimes I do relive them. Especially on nights like this, especially when I am haunted by thoughts of him. As soon as I find Davis, I know how the rest of this night will go. I’ll do what I always do. I’ll put on an old record, pour a glass of brandy and go through Mama’s photo albums. The covers are worn, the pages so well picked through that I worry they won’t hold up. But each time they somehow do and I wonder why no one makes albums anymore, why everything has to be digital and fleeting. There’s something about the tactile feeling of holding a physical reminder in your hands that makes it feel important. That makes it feel real. Mama used to say history is what keeps you from forgetting where you came from.
I’m not sure she knew how many people actually want to forget.
If only it were that simple. I’m thinking about her in that cemetery when two teenagers knock me from behind. I turn to find them giggling, dressed in evening gowns, trying to snap a selfie. They do not apologize—in fact, if they see me standing there, they don’t acknowledge it.
“Excuse me,” one of them says, and I am thankful to be wrong. She holds out her phone. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”