Free Stranger in the Room: A Novel by Amanda Kyle Williams Page A

that.
    “Maybe you’re right, honey. But I tell you one thing, nobody’s going to get in my way. I’m going to be the next Paula Deen.” She paused. “Only prettier.”
    I laughed. “What does the current Paula Deen think about that?”
    “Oh come on, Keye. She’s in so much hot water. You know that slot is going to open up.”
    “Bye, Mom. I love you.” I disconnected and leaned my head back on the seat.
“God.”
    “So how’s Emily?” Neil was smiling at me.
    “Brutal. She’s a hammer. A friggin’ ice pick in the eye.”
    Neil and my mother had terrible chemistry when they first met. They had each later complained privately to me about the other’s rudeness. But last year when all hell broke loose, Neil stepped up and ran the business and Mother came onboard to handle the phones and filing and billing. Miraculously, they ended up liking each other.
    “She’s … the … pick …” Neil was speaking in that strange, choppy way that let me know he was typing the words as he said them. “And I’m the ice.”
    “You’re Tweeting that?”
    “New Facebook status,” he said. “Forty-five people ‘like’ it already.”
    I pulled back out on the road and followed a shady, muscadine-laced two-lane past split-rail fences, fescue pastures, and grazing horses. The magnolias were blooming, and that citrusy scent drifted into the open car, bringing with it the particulars of my southern childhood. I remember sitting under the enormous magnolia tree in our Winnona Park backyard with Jimmy, smelling that delicious scent—like lemon cream and butter. We tried picking them for Mother’s table, pulling flowers off the tree by their short, fat stems without touching them. She had warned us that magnolia blossoms weep when touched by humans. And sure enough, everywhere our tiny fingers accidentally grasped a lush white petal, a brown spot appeared to betray us. And something else—that tree and those big, fragrant blossoms are my earliest memories of coming home with my new parents after losing my grandparents, after the terror of seeing them murdered, and the terror of living with strangers—a temporary foster home, a children’s home. I thought about the wailing woman whose child had been strangled last night and the way the grief webs out through your life.
    “It’s the next right,” Neil said, looking down at the map on one of his devices.
    White fences surrounded the property. A guard shack sat square in the middle of a two-way entry/exit, painted white with its own little fence to match the others, a miniature Cape Cod design. A uniformed guard came through the door when we stopped, waddled down the steps with a clipboard in his hand. No weapon, I noticed.
    “How can I help you?” He was in his forties, thinning hair, his eyes looked puffy. A second job, I thought. This one couldn’t pay much.
    “Hi.” I smiled. “We’re going to eight-twenty-eight Murdock.”
    “Mr. Tilison’s residence?” He glanced down at his clipboard. “Name, please.”
    “Keye Street.”
    He glanced up at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t see you on the guest list. Was Mr. Tilison expecting you?”
    “It’s a surprise,” I said, truthfully.
    The guard smiled indulgently. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Tilison gets a lot of surprise visitors. I’m real sorry. But I can’t let y’all in unless you’re on the list.” He glanced at Neil.
    I showed him my identification, which had the state seal, the secretary of state’s printed signature, my business name, and my name and address. I had a badge too, but decided not to break it out.
    He handed it back. “Same agency gave you that licenses security personnel. I got one almost just like it.”
    “This concerns a friend of Mr. Tilison’s,” I said. “It really is important I speak with him.”
    “I am sorry, Ms. Street, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
    “Neil, would you mind getting Cash on the phone, please?” I wasn’t thrilled about