Jennifer Estep - By a Thread

“Now what?” I asked, watching Bria while she riffled through the various room service and spa menus that had been propped up on the kitchen counter.

“What do you mean, ‘Now what?’? Now we go out exploring. You know, see the sights, buy some souvenirs, things like that, before we go see Callie later this evening.” Bria looked at me. “You have been on vacation before, haven’t you, Gin?”

I shifted on my feet. “Sure I have. I went to Key West just last fall.”

I didn’t tell Bria that I’d spent most of my time down there reading, drinking, and brooding about a number of things, including Fletcher’s murder and my strange relationship with Donovan Caine, a cop that I’d been involved with before he dumped me and left Ashland for good.

“Well?” she said, grabbing her purse off the sofa where she’d thrown it when we’d first come into the suite. “Are you ready?”

“You betcha.”

Bria didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm in my voice, and she turned toward the door so she didn’t see the forced smile drop from my face. We’d just gotten here, but I could already tell that this was going to be a long, long weekend.

Watch out, tourists and locals alike. Gin Blanco is on the prowl.

One of the valets brought the car around, and we headed out. The resort hotel was close to one of the long, narrow bridges that connected the island and town of Blue Marsh to the outside world. Instead of crossing the bridge, Bria turned left and headed inland.

The farther we drove, the more the landscape shifted from smooth, sandy beaches to thick, swampy bogs choked with gray cypress trees full of thick wads of Spanish moss and neon green cattails that were taller than I was. But no matter the plant life that surrounded the soupy marshes, the still, shallow waters reflected back the brilliant blue sky overhead, until it seemed that the surface of the swamp was as bright and clear as the azure sky. Hence the name Blue Marsh, I guessed.

But the swampland was far from deserted. Through the twisted, gnarled trees, dozens of mansions could be seen clinging to what high ground there was, along with several themed shopping developments, coffee shops, and high-end restaurants. Looked like Blue Marsh was a bit of a Southern boomtown.

“It reminds me of Northtown,” I said, watching something that looked like a gray-green log with eyes drift across a pond, disturbing the perfect reflection of the sky there. “But with gators.”

Northtown was the rich, fancy, highfalutin part of Ashland where the city’s power players—magical, social, monetary, and otherwise—lived on their immaculately landscaped estates. McMansions just like the ones I was looking at right now filled Northtown, along with sly, uppity folks who’d call you sugar to your face and then stab you in the back with their dessert forks the second they got the chance. I had no doubt that the people who lived in the mansions down here were just as dangerous. Geography might change from place to place, but human emotions and appetites rarely did.

Bria nodded. “Blue Marsh is definitely more of a resort town these days. Developers are buying up all the land, filling in the swamps as best they can, and pushing out the middle- and lower-class folks, making it too expensive for them to live here anymore even though they work in all the restaurants and hotels on the island. It’s a shame, really. Every time I’ve talked to Callie, she’s told me that it’s only gotten worse since I’ve been gone.”

“Ah, progress,” I mocked, and we drove on.

Bria parked the car in one of the lots in the downtown district, and we spent the next two hours exploring the Southern coastal town. It was quite a bit warmer here than in the cool mountains of Ashland, and the oppressive humidity made the air thick and heavy, despite the steady breeze that blew in off the ocean. Shops, restaurants, and hotels filled the area, all facing the water to take advantage of the picturesque view and the strip of beach below.

We strolled along the cobblestone walkway that ran past the shops and cafés, ducking into the various storefronts and listening to the street musicians trying to impress passersby and pick up tips with their lively jazz tunes. In the distance, ships with glassed-in decks sailed up and down the waterfront, showing tourists all the sites worth seeing.

Shopping wasn’t really my thing, but it seemed to make Bria happy, so I tagged along behind her, making the appropriate oohing and aahing noises when called upon. I even let her buy me a tacky T-shirt that said I’m a real peach above a picture of the fruit.

“Well,” I said as we left the shop. “Finn will certainly get a kick out of the shirt.”

Bria snickered. “I know.”

She bought a few more things, including a massive T-shirt for Xavier, the giant who was her partner on the police force back in Ashland, and a much smaller one for Roslyn Phillips, his main squeeze. Then she stopped at a flower stand and picked out two bouquets of blue and white forget-me-nots.

“Who are those for?” I asked. “Callie?”

The smile faded from her face. “No, not Callie. You’ll see.”

We left the downtown district behind and walked through some of the island’s historic gardens, passing more shops, restaurants, and museums along the way. Eventually we left the tourist sites behind and came to a wrought-iron gate that wrapped around a small cemetery. Magnolia, cypress, and palmetto trees had been planted around the gate, and their thick branches arced from one side of the square cemetery to the other, creating a canopy that blotted out the blazing sun and cloaked everything below in soft, sleepy shadows. The air was hushed and heavy inside the cemetery, and even the drone of the dragonflies seemed muted and far away.

Bria opened the gate, wincing at the loud creak it made, and stepped inside. I followed her. My sister walked slowly, her eyes fixed straight ahead. All around me, the granite gravestones whispered with low, mournful notes, echoing all the heart-wrenching sobs and quiet tears that folks had cried here for their lost loved ones. I heard the same hollow, empty sounds whenever I visited Blue Ridge Cemetery, where Fletcher and the rest of the Snow family were buried.

Bria finally stopped in front of a simple marker that spanned two graves. Coolidge flowed across the top of the gray stone in an elegant script, and a small heart had been carved in between the two names below. Harry Coolidge . Beloved husband and father . Henrietta Coolidge . Beloved wife and mother .

The marker gave the dates of their deaths, which had been a couple of years ago. Bria didn’t talk about her adoptive parents much, but I knew that her dad, Harry, had been a police detective and her inspiration to become a cop as well. He’d died of a heart attack, while her mother, Henrietta, had been hit and killed by a drunk driver a year later. They’d been good people, and they’d loved Bria just as much as I did.

Bria knelt and picked a few dry, brittle leaves off the smooth grass before arranging the forget-me-nots on the two graves. White flowers for her mother, blue for her father—the colors made a pretty contrast against the lush greenery. She fussed with the stems and petals for several minutes, until they were arranged just so, while I stood still and silent behind her. These were her parents, this was her grief, and I didn’t want to intrude.

Eventually, my baby sister wiped away the tears that had slid down her cheeks and got to her feet. She turned to face me, her blue eyes full of memories, love, and sorrow.

“I thought you might want to see their graves,” Bria said in a quiet voice. “Besides, Callie’s working right now, and I didn’t want to come here alone.”