Smoky Corners 6-V: JC Salinger

Whoever heard of Smoky Corners, Montana? You can’t even find it on a map, unless you are looking for it. It’s perfect…

I needed a place serene, someplace to get over… Well, get over everything. My wife, Sophie, had been shot in front of me by her lover. She had obviously been cheating on me. I couldn’t write anymore. My publisher was begging me for another book; I was empty. I don’t know what drew me to an old road atlas. Google seemed to have taken over the map, literally. I remember driving through the northern half of the US in my youth. I was trying to find myself. Jack Clay. Well, that was who I was when I started out. Funny, that’s who I’m trying to find again. So, Jack Clay, welcome to Smoky Corners, Montana.

I had enough money saved up to buy a modest home in town. It’s simple here. I remember driving through here during that road trip. Few kids roaming around, they’re probably all grown by now. Lots of classic single story homes, away from all the hustle and bustle of the cities.

My agent thought I had lost my mind when I told him that I wasn’t going to write anymore. He nicknamed me JC Salinger, the reference and the parallel wasn’t lost on me.

It took me a while to drive here from Great Falls International. The guy at the rental counter had never heard of Smoky Corners. I didn’t hold it against him. Nothing, but old maps actually bear the name. He thought he was clever offering me a 4wd truck upgrade.

I knew the way though… I don’t know why, but I knew the way. I pull into town. It had grown a bit since I had been here last. It still had that small town feel though. I smiled when I saw the sign:

Smoky Corners. MT
Population: Yes. It's not "MT".

Some things never change. The sign certainly didn’t. Hal Warner, my traveling companion at the time took a photo of me in front of that very same sign. The sign may not have changed, but the scrawny kid with the jet-black hair became a scrawny middle aged man with salt and pepper hair.

---

I checked in to one of the local motels. I wanted to find a place to have dinner. The little shopping center near the motel seemed promising. There was a Subway. I figured that if anything, I can at least have a sandwich.

I pull into the parking lot. The sun low in the sky. It’s odd to still have sunlight this late in the evening. Yes, it was summer, but the sun seemed to linger in the sky. I wander through the shops in the shopping center. An odd store catches my eye. It wasn’t your typical shop. I peered through the window to see a lone figure, a bearded man who looked up from what he was doing. I could swear that he mouthed the words “not time, yet.” to me. I felt a chill run through me.

I continued to the sandwich shop. I ordered a simple ‘veggie delight’ and an ice tea. I sat at the table, wondering what to do tomorrow. I needed to find a more permanent place to live and seeking a realtor would be the first order of business. I had only planned to stay a few days while I got my bearings. This place seems more like home than my condo in Los Angeles. I sigh, bite into my sandwich and wonder—what lay before me.

---

The sun had set rapidly in a bright orange haze. I had picked up some whiskey from the minimart on my way back to the motel. The lonely room of the motel, with its deep blue carpet, solitary circular table with a barstool instead of a chair and mismatched floral print comforters on the two queen sized beds made me wonder about the motel and how it was run.

It was a far cry to the penthouse suites and four star hotels I was used to staying. None of those are in Smoky Corners. For some reason the citizens reveled in the small town feel. You couldn’t find anything in any travel brochure about the place. It was tucked away well enough that I could drown myself in whiskey and watch the slow burning candle of my life go out.

I wanted to be somewhere else, be someone else, Jack Clay needed to be remoulded, remade. I don’t know why? But Smoky Corners seem like the only place where that would be possible. So another Solo cup full of whiskey later and I wake up on that very deep blue carpet with its very shallow pile making an impression on my cheek. I must have tried to drown myself in it, the Knob Creek whiskey nor the carpet, neither one swallowed me. I push myself off the carpet; looked at the unused beds and realized that, in my anonymity, I had never slept better in my life. I woke-up JC Salinger.

I didn’t wake up as a new person, but I did wake someone that was— dormant. Was that someone my muse or myself? I thought Sophie, who now lay in repose in a freezer in the Los Angeles coroners office, was my muse. She instead was my bane. Not your typical socialite, mind you, she preferred more secluded pursuits. Like humping her lover somewhere in enough seclusion that I didn’t know it was happening. Neither did the tabloids. Her very public murder in front of me made page one of every tabloid and every newspaper, every blog, every social imaginable. I found myself utterly sick of the social, of society.

---

I set off the morning with a shower that ran cold for nearly half an hour. Remembering, I had not brought in my luggage, I stumbled into the crisp, cold, morning air. I had rented a car, I wasn’t looking for my Cadillac. It wasn’t hard to find. It was the only car in the parking lot. The summer chill was punctuated by the light breeze that blew against my cotton twill pants. In Los Angeles, the temperature would already be in the 70’s. It wouldn’t reach that for another few more hours here. I return to a steamy motel room. I showered, changed and headed off further into town. The streets are two lane roadways. I suspect there wasn’t much traffic in the mornings.

I spoke with a cop who recognize me as someone ‘out of place’. I asked about rush hour traffic in the mornings. He said that ‘happy hour’ is in the evenings at some of the local restaurants, there wasn’t a ‘rush hour’ not that he could figure. He couldn't understand my giddiness at the banishment of rush hour traffic.

I asked about houses in the neighborhoods in the area. Trying to get some information about potential areas to ‘hang my hat’. He didn’t seem busy. He had a radio on his belt that you wouldn’t know it was ‘on’ until he called to check-in. The radio chirped back with a voice of acknowledgment. He even offered to show me around the town and meet his wife for dinner in the evening. I politely declined as I only set to find a realtor here before I made my way back to California. He gave me his phone number and said to look him up when I returned to town. “We don’t get too many new people into our community and it could get harsh here in the winters if you didn’t have anyone looking out for you.”

I extended my hand in thanks, his gloved hand grasped my barehand. “You know you could use a decent pair of gloves. You may want to look into that before you leave town.“ Odd that that would be something I needed, not a coat, scarf, or perhaps even a hat. Gloves.

---

A realtor wasn’t too hard to find. There was only one that people in town really referred me towards. The phone book listed several but only one was really active in the area. Most of the rest, commented one gent, had long since passed away, moved or wasn’t really active. The fact that the phone book in the motel was a good 7 or 8 years old and ‘still good’ gave me a sense of calm I hadn’t felt in a while.

I met with Alicia Stein, a forty something woman who wore a crisp white skirt suit. The golden rose on her lapel and her wedding ring were the only adornments to her. We spoke for a bit about what I was looking for in a home. I had explained that it was just for me and that I probably wouldn’t need something too large. Perhaps a two bedroom home, three, one room as a ‘study’? She asked what I would do for income and I assured her that I was ‘comfortably’ retired and that I needed a place that would offer some ‘privacy’. She agreed to send me some listing we could look over. I had informed her that I would be heading home but returning in a few weeks for a much longer stay.

---

I made my way back towards the motel. I wanted to see if I could pick up some gloves at the pharmacy or the Dollar Tree. I passed by the little shop I remembered yesterday. The curious man was closing the curtains to his back room. Sees me and again mouths the words “not time, yet.”

The man strikes me as someone who has his own time. I shake the thought from my head. I must make it a point to visit here when I return. A comfortable pair of gloves can be found in of all place the Dollar Tree. I bought two though I can’t imagine what would possess anyone to sell these at a discount store. They were a bargain. I purchase a rocks glass for my whiskey from the minimart. The solo cup from the motel was not ideal for keeping whiskey cold.

---

I return to my room. The sun setting faster than it did yesterday. Or I may have perceived it that way. I pour a glass of whiskey. Realizing I didn’t bother to get ice, I grab the bucket and head to the ice machine. It fills it as I wait. A young woman's cry can be heard as I walk down the hall back to my room. I wasn’t aware that anyone else was staying at the motel. As I make my way down the hall I could only hear the woman’s sobs grow louder. I come upon a door that is slightly ajar. the woman voice is a siren’s call. I know I should have gone back to my room. I should have finished my whiskey. I should have left the woman in her sorrow. Instead, I knock on the doorframe and await an answer.

---

---

---

It had been a long time since I had been in this room. I look forlorn at the bottle of whiskey on the table and carpet I thought I’d drown in. Whiskey, I can’t touch the stuff. Too many memories and that was another lifetime ago.

I stare at the talisman in the box before I seal it. I know it’s the last time I will ever see it again. Odd, that it would be the first time I’d had seen it as well. Master Chigiri had taught me so much, but I learned so very little. My heart aches at what I have to do. I have to set him on the path I’ve already followed. Jack Clay. The irony was that so long ago, I was trying to find myself. I didn't know from the other side of the door, I would.

The life I’ve lead since has brought me such pain and such joy. I’m not sure I would trade it for anything I had or would have had.

The end, is where it began, a woman handing her 'self' a talisman. One he would not see for another year. A master who would make him wait and learn. A student who should have listened. I’m crying now for the lives that I ruined. My son, Graham; my daughter, Emily; my husband, Marcus; and my friend, Alyson. They can not forgive me. I would first need to forgive myself. But, it’s not time, yet. One day, it will be and JC Salinger’s life will begin again.

I hear the knock on the doorframe. What did I say? I can’t remember. Come in? Enter? Who is it? “Go Away!”

“Miss, I believe you are in my room. Are you alright? I heard crying. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to forgive me. It’s been a lifetime. But, I have to give you something.” I hold out the box knowing he takes it. “Don’t open it. Just bring it to him, please and tell him, I’m sorry?” The tear roll down my cheeks again.

“Who?”

“You’ll know, just as I did. He will tell you when it is time. Please, listen to what he has to say? He’s wise beyond OUR years.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand."

"And in the end, you still won’t.” I know he doesn’t follow my warning—to listen, I didn't, but the fates need this to happen. Our destiny is intertwined. “I have to go… It’s wearing off now.” I fade from this reality. My journey is at its end. His… will begin with a box and an old man.

---

---

---

What the hell just happened?  Did she just vanish?  

The box in my hand was square, though much larger that my palm.  The box is rigid, but covered in velvet or something similar to it.  Burned into the cloth were markings which I could not decipher.  I’ve had a chance to learn some, but not many foreign languages.  Kyūjitai? Kanji? Hangul? No, the markings were none of these. While my curiosity was biting at me to open the box, I thought of the woman’s warning and that she implored me to seek ‘him’ out.  Him?  

My thoughts only gravitated to one man.  The old man in the shop.  The one who had twice, mouthed the words ‘not time yet’ or so I thought.  Was this what we were all waiting for?  Some strange woman offering me a box to bring to the old man?  What was I supposed to listen to?  His advice?  There was enough caution in me to keep me from running to the shop and delivering this ‘offering’.   I needed to know more before I proceeded.  Walking into a shop where the owner had some strange ability to know my presence and warn me to keep my distance, was enough for me to embrace my caution. Especially, with what I had just witnessed.   

I looked at the bottle of whiskey, the glass which contained the liquor I had poured prior to seeking ice down the hall.  Was I remembering that right?  Part of me could not let go of the thought that I did not actually pour it.  I did? Didn’t I? I take the glass bring and it to my nose.  A sensation turned in my gut.  I take the glass and the slowly melting ice and pour it into the sink.  I look at the bottle and pour the remainder of its contents down the drain, watching the whiskey melt the ice into this pale brown pool that slowly circled down the drain.  I was becoming paranoid.  

I latch the chain on the door, wondering if that simple lock would do anything to keep anything ‘supernatural’ at bay.  I sit atop the bed, my fingers tracing the inscription on the box.  Who would know what these mean?   I was convinced that the man in the shop would know.  Or would he?  She, the woman who intruded into my life, seem to know him.  More than that, she seemed to have a rueful affinity for the man.  Like the affinity a petulant child would have for the parent who just punished them. 

She was a somber looking woman who look like life gave her all that she could handle and stole all the joy that her soul once contained.  There was an almost apologetic quality to her.  Her look and her demeanor were the bright colored warnings of the poison she would deliver.  It was as if she knew that this would lead to the turmoil she, herself, had the misfortune of living through, but was compelled to act in spite of it.  Why me?  Was I just some random guy?  No, she was sure that I would know what to do with this ‘gift’.  She trusted that I would deliver it.  What if I don’t.  What if I just left the box on the bed when I checked out and left it for someone else, maybe the maid to deal with?

Without alcohol to lull me into slumber, I stared at the box and the inscription.  My mind wandered into the unknown.  The old man in the shop may just thank me for dropping it off.  I don’t have stay and listen.  

---

I approach the shop.  It's early and I had been restless the night before.  I peer into the window, clutching the box in my hand.  There is nobody in the shop.  I pull the door and it opens.  The shop is bigger than it appears from the outside.   There are several shelves full of curiosities that range from elegant to the mundane.  The old man emerges from a backroom.  

A formal greeting is in order. “Nín hǎo” I assume he speaks mandarin.  Somewhat presumptuous, but I at least I tried.  The old man smiles at my greeting.  He’s waiting for me to say more.  I hold up the box in my hand.

“You were told to bring this to me. Yes?”

I respond affirmatively.  I watch him take the box.  He doesn’t even open it.  There is an empty space on his shelf where he sets it.  The square dust imprint fits perfectly.  Was it there to begin with?  I ask him what was in the box. 

He smiles at me.  “Not time, yet.”  

A chill runs down my spine.  “Okay, well I’ll be seeing you.” 

He turns and walks back to the back room.  I’m left standing in the shop.  I look through the shop at all the diverse items on all the shelves.  I feel my hand vibrate as they approach some of the items.  Like touching a live wire though not painful.  I browse from shelf to shelf look at item after item.  I come across an empty space where it would appear that a pair of shoes had once occupied.  They must have been sold recently.  Moccasins?  My hand swipes at the image.  I could see what was once there.  That’s impossible  

The old man returns with some tea and something compels me to stay, not him, but something within me, a force? A need? A desire?  

"It is not time yet, but you will one day know, this is right."

"I'm Jack Clay." I smile and introduce myself.

He smiles warmly back.  "You have been. You are, but you need to be more."

He places the tray on the table and motions me to a chair.  "I have to get going." I say.  But I move towards the chair.  "I have a flight home later this afternoon and a long drive."  I sit.  I reach out for the cup of tea.  My hand is slender.  It didn't used to be.   I'm in a trance.  My hair is honey blonde and shifts forward into view when I pull the tea towards my lips.  This all seems so familiar.  I place the tea cup on my lips.  I feel peace within me.  A calm I had never experienced in my tumultuous past.  I breathe in the steam rising from the cup.  The tremor that vibrated my hand now shakes me from my heart to my fingers and toes. I drink the tea.  The calm inside me warms me.  I moan as I release the remaining tension within me.  I place the cup down on the tray. Reach for my hair. It's gone.  My hands and fingers are back to 'normal' though they are foreign to me now.  

"Not time yet. But when you are ready, she will be waiting."

"Who?"

"You've already met."  His eyes glance over to the box.  

"I..."

"Have a drive and a flight home." He says. 

"Yes, I need to prepare to move here."

"Return with only what you cherish, you will find what you need later."

"I... thank you for the tea" 

He smiles, stands and show me the door.  

Everything within me screams for me to stay.  I fight myself to the doorway.  By the time I reach my car.  Everything is silent.  The turmoil in my heart and mind returns.

Not time yet. . Are the last words that flow through my mind as I start the engine and drive away.

---

I returned to Los Angeles, the coroner’s office had finally released Sophie’s body to the mortuary. I had to take on the bitter task of burying the woman who I loved, but had to really question whether she really loved me. I entered my condo. A couple boxes of fan mail were waiting for me. Somehow, I all just seemed trivial. I looked at my home. The words ‘take only what you cherish’ came over me. I looked to over all the decorative pieces in my abode and felt nothing for them. The photos of me and my wife. I felt hollow. I look at the pile of manuscripts that had worked so diligently for the better part of two decades as a struggling writer. I thought at least they would have some value to me. Nothing. I walked over to my bar. A 30 year old bottle of Glenfiddich awaited me. I open the bottle. The aroma would normally perk my spirits. It turned my stomach. I hear a key inserted into the lock on my front door and it the door opens.

My agent walks into the room, another box full of fan mail in tow. He places it on the table and heads for the door to exit.

“Camron? You we’re going to say ‘Hi’?”

The aging man turns in a fright. “Jack! When did you get in?”

“This evening, well this afternoon, actually.”

“So, did you find what you were looking for in ‘Foggy Mountains’?”

“Smoky Corners.” I say plainly.

“Right. Smoky Corners. You know that place isn’t even on a map?”

I smirk, “Yeah, but that’s the way I like it.”

“You’re serious about leaving all this?” his hand waive over the now three boxes of fan mail. “That’s just this week.”

“Yeah, besides aren’t you ready to give it up too?”

“Me, heck no! Though since you’ve been so lucrative, I can be selective about the authors I represent. I’m working with a few now that are ‘diamonds in the rough’ you might say.”

“Anyone I’ve heard of?”

“Nah, this one, smart girl, grew up in orphanages. Loves to write, but nobody gave her a chance. I wanted to steer her away from that YA stuff. Quick money, but I think she could be something special.”

“Perhaps, a scholarship then? Or something to help ends meet while she writes.”

“She won’t accept money or anything like that. Odd kind of girl. Reminds me of you; in a way. Actually, her name is Jaycie. Tragic story, her parent’s were killed in some sort of accident. She survived, very little in the way of memories though. I checked up on this girl. No relatives, no birth certificate, school records, nothing. Like she came out of nowhere and that was 10 years ago. She’s about 16, now. Maybe you could teach her at thing to two about writing?”

“I’ve got some time this week, maybe we could arrange a meeting?”

“She’s raw talent. I’d trust her with you. Not sure that the home she is in would be as trusting. She’s easy on the eyes and a bit naive. So they’re real protective.”

“How’d you find this girl?”

“One of the girls in the house she’s in, passed the word to me that she might be some talent. She had Jaycie enter one of the essay contests you sponsor at some of the schools in town.”

“She won?”

“Nah, honorable mention. Winners probably had ‘help’, I could tell she didn’t. Her writing was subtle though. Grows on you. I asked to see some more of her writing. Her English teacher gushed about her. Takes a creative writing class after school too. Program, you sponsor too, actually.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, where the heck do you think all your money goes?” he says with a chuckle.

“Don’t know. You donate a lot of it right?”

“Well this is one of those. Don’t you even read any of your own press releases?”

“No, I figured you took care of all that. I rarely had anything scandalous, so there was nothing to worry about.”

“Do you walk on water too? I thought you’d at least revel in the good press.”

“Alright, Camron, enough of that. I’m not a saint.”

“No, but the way you’re going you’ll probably end up a martyr…”, an image flashes in my head of the gun barrel pointed directly at me, then to my wife as the loud bang echoes out. I hear the crowd scream in panic. A second shot rings out. I feel the blood rush from my face. “Sorry… I… Didn’t mean that…”

“Yeah. I just need to sit down for a minute.” I walk over to my couch.

“Did you call the therapist I recommended?”

“No… I… I just need a moment.”

“Hey, you don’t look so good. Want me get Doc. Seele?”

“Cam, I think I’m fine.”

“Now, I know you’re lying.”

“What, because I said ‘I’m fine?’”

“Hey, just sit tight. I’ll get you some water and get Doc on the line.”

Camron grabs my a glass of water from the kitchen. I was feeling light headed and found myself lying on my couch when he returned.

“Yah Doc. He’s was feeling a bit out of sorts. He’s on the couch now. Hold on.”

“Hey Jack, when was… Jack… JACK!”

---

“I’d be more comfortable if he actually went to a hospital.” That sounds like Mitchell Seele.

“You know how he is about all that, Doc.”

“You know you two should wait until I’m dead before you talk behind my back.”

“Jack! Glad you finally came around. Doc here was going to call the ambulance or the mortuary to get you.”

“Not funny, Camron. Not funny.” I try to shake the cobwebs out of my head. Doc examines me while I continue my conversation with Camron. “So we were discussing this one new protege of yours. This ahhh…”

“Easy there, Jack. We can talk about her after the doc decides you aren’t heading for another spell.”

“I’m alive an kicking aren’t I?” I say with my head still halfway in an out of consciousness.

“Well alive at least… Whatever you’ve got is doing the kicking. Really, I’d like to get some bloodwork from you at least. I’ll take it to the lab later.”

“Fine, Doc. Make it quick.”

Five vials later… “Gee Doc, were you planning on leaving him any?” Camron chides.

Doc. Seele gives Camron a grimace and slides the vials into a pouch. “Clocks ticking on these. I’ll head to the lab. Results should be ready in the morning.”

“Thanks Doc.” I’m starting to settle back into slumber.

“Yeah, Thanks for getting here so quick. Just bill me as always? Thanks for making a house call.”

Camron escorts Doc out the door and helps me over to my bedroom. “You know, I’m not planning on following you up to that Smoky Corners town you’re planning on getting lost in. You going to manage okay? I can get you some help, but you really shouldn’t leave the city.”

“I’ll be fine Camron. Just help me get set up there and I’ll take care of the rest.”

---

“Anemia” Doc’s voice over the cellphone is hollow.

“What?”

“Bloodwork came back. You’re anemic.”

“Alright Doc, so now what?”

“Would you do it even if I told you?”

“You know me too well.”

“I gave all the info to Camron.” I hear him grinning over the phone. “He’s making the arrangements. Nothing major just supplements and another round of blood work in 2 months. I hear you may be leaving L.A.”

“I needed a change.”

“Anything I should know about?”

“Need to know only.”

“Well alright. Hope you’ve got someone lined up that makes housecalls.”

“I’ll be fine, Doc.”

“You worry me Jack”

“Gee Doc, you’re all heart.”

“I’m serious. Have you ever been alone before?”

“I don’t need anyone keeping an eye on me or holding my hand if that is what you’re thinking”

“You’ve got Camron, but he’s not following you. Sophie she took care of you. Anna before her. Your mother before her.”

“What’s our point, doc?”

“Jack, your wife is dead, you’re leaving your friends behind, you’ve got no kids. What’s waiting for you at that place in Montana Camron was telling me about? That Smoky Corners place?”

“Something, I can feel it.”

“I’d say you really should give it some thought before you head for the ‘northern lights’. Beautiful up there, but it gets really lonely.”

“Are you hitting on me, Doc?”

“Alright fine. Just… just give it some thought?”

“Like I said Doc, ‘you’re all heart’.”

---

“She’s a peach, you’d like her.” Camron say while driving his beat up Ford Bronco. I’m wondering how the car stays together as it rattles down the road. The cloth seats have worn so thin, powdering foam escapes like sand through a sieve. I look through the cracked windshield, wondering how he could be worth millions. “Trust me, she’s a nurse and someone that could easily kick you into gear.”

I throw a glare at, my agent. “Geez Camron, I can take care of myself.”

“Girl like her, you won’t have to.”

“Alright let’s get this over with. She’s willing to move to Montana?”

“She lit up when I said that’s where you’re headed. I think she said she has family up there. Besides, I was hoping you’d give writing another chance. She could be some inspiration maybe? That reminds me. I’ve got that meeting lined up.”

“What meeting?”

“The girl? The orphan writer I was talking to you about? Jaycie?”

“Oh right, the one surrounded by people who think I’m a child predator?”

“Easy there Jack. I said they’re protective.”

“So why am I meeting her?”

“She’s talent, I thought by meeting with you, she’d be eager to sign on with me.”

“I don’t know Cam, she that special?”

“Like I said her writing reminds me of yours. A lot like yours actually. She’s a too young to have that ‘perspective’ and I think she may be worth it.”

“Fine Camron, let’s meet this nurse you found me and get this over with. How’s tomorrow sound for a meeting with this new girl of yours.”

---

“She’s great isn’t she?”

“Great? She reminds me of my old gym teacher! That bit about getting me in to shape? I think I saw sadistic grin on her when she told me that it would be ‘good for me’.”

“Hey, I figured you needed someone that could motivate you, get you out of the doldrums.”

I look through the top of my readers at Camron. “Motivate me? I really thought I made it clear I wasn’t going to write anymore.”

“Look, I’ve known you for what fifteen, twenty years? Six best sellers and three movies. You can’t turn it off. You just have to get past… You just need to find your muse again.”

“The meeting tomorrow… This new talent you’ve got your eyes on. Is it her that you want to bring into the fold or me?”

“Just meet with her. I’ve already got it set up. We have to met her at the home though. Like I said before, the people that manage the home are ‘protective’.”

---

The house embodies neglect. Between the boarded up window and the tarp on the roof I can’t imagine that anyone would live in these conditions. Camron leads into the living room, the couch looks as worn as the seats in his car. Oddly, there’s no television. The house is eerily silent. The floors have no covering, no rugs or tiles. Just plain concrete that has been polished over years of wear. The walls are a dingy yellow. A girl, sits at a country style wooden table reading a book, two others have pencil to paper with a few open books in front of them opposite her. Homework.

“Geez Camron, are we in the right place?”

The girl reading the book is about to ‘shhh’ me when her eyes fixate on Camron. She lights up with a smile. “Mr. Gotleb! It’s great to see you again!”

“Jaycie! There’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Jack Clay, the author I was telling you about.”

She stands and approaches me. She’s blonde and beautiful as Camron said. Slender, gaunt even. Her fair complexing complementing her cream floral sundress. A gold chain hangs from her neck. The neckline of her dress covers what is suspended by the chain. It is the only piece of jewelry that she has on. I feel a tremor radiate through me.

“Jack this is Jaycie, the girl I’ve been telling you about.”

She extends her hand and I watch her eyes go from ‘warm and inviting’ to ‘fear’ as my vision begins to fade to black.