by Sharon Marchisello

Carson drives into Cedar Key as the sun sinks beneath the horizon in a blaze of orange and gold reflecting on the bay’s darkening waters. “You have arrived,” announces the GPS.

Really? This is the town? After miles of two-lane highway through scrub pine forests and farmland, he expected more than a marsh with a few last-century houses and shops with peeling paint and rusting fences.

His sources indicated Sara Howell is hiding out in this sleepy Florida coastal town, and he’s come to find her. Carson still isn’t sure if he wants to bring her home or just make her pay.

The beach house he rented over the internet stands on stilts, just to his right, a few yards from the main road. The description, “next to a small marina,” implies water, but most of the boats appear to be in dry dock. He pulls into the carport directly under the structure, then walks into the bait store next door to obtain the key.

“Beach house,” he decides as he climbs the rickety wooden steps with his duffle, is a misnomer. There’s no beach in sight. If he stands on tiptoe, he glimpses a bit of water from the back deck, but it’s the bay, not the ocean. Or Gulf of Mexico, he supposes, since they’re on the state’s west coast. But the glow of the clouds, holding the last vestiges of the sunset, makes him stop and appreciate God’s artistry.

Despite the traffic noise rattling the front windows, the place is clean and adequate for his needs. He won’t be here indefinitely. Once he takes care of Sara, he’ll be on his way back to Atlanta. With or without her.

He sits at the dining room table and pulls out the folder the private detective provided. He can’t believe, after three years, he finally got a break in his search when one of his buddies who works on the police force went deep sea fishing and spotted her here.

Carson picks up an 8”x10” color photo. Sara’s a blonde now; her straightened hair hangs past her shoulders, skimming her ample breasts, which are emphasized by a low-cut, tight-fitting T-shirt. Those perfectly formed boobs he loved to caress…

The last time they made love, almost three years ago to the day, she’d been reluctant, but ultimately, they’d shared in the ecstasy. And then she disappeared without a word. Her ultimate act of disrespect.

Seething from the memory of her betrayal, he turns back to the photo. Apart from a few crow’s feet around her forest green eyes, her skin has a smooth, healthy glow. Perhaps living in Florida agrees with her.

Sara’s making a living as a singer? Carson can’t believe it. She can barely carry a tune; her raspy voice reminds him of a frog’s mating call. He remembers when she briefly played drums for an Atlanta band and tried to sing harmony. The lecherous band leader obviously hired her for her physical attributes, not her musical talent. Once Carson found out how she was making a spectacle of herself in public, warbling on stage, embarrassing him, he yanked her out of that situation. Just in time.

Yet, after all the humiliation she caused herself, here she is, shamelessly performing once a week with a band called the Palominos at a local bar, the Big Deck. No doubt she needs to be rescued before she loses every shred of dignity. If she hasn’t already.

He Googles the Big Deck, careful to spell the name correctly, so as not to accidentally type “the big dick,” which would be just Sara’s style. The bar, a tired wooden dive, painted in Florida pastels, is located a little over a mile away from his “beach house.” They’ve posted their music schedule for the month on their Facebook page; the Palominos are performing tonight at nine p.m. Serendipity. Carson decides to grab a seafood dinner and then head over to the Big Deck for the show. He wonders if the establishment supplies a means for customers to register their disapproval for the worst acts. Perhaps muting the microphones, or beating on a gong like in the old seventies TV show hosted by Chuck Barris. Might come in handy for Sara, if she tries to sing.

###

Carson hasn’t expected the place to be so packed with sweaty bodies smelling of suntan oil and spilled beer. The management is certainly in violation of fire codes, but maybe they get away with it because the walls are like deck rails; the upper portion is open to the night air. Small, tacky colored lights strung across the ceiling illuminate the main seating area.

Electric guitars turned up way too loud reverberate through the room, mercifully almost drowning out the screeching voices on stage. But people in the audience are clapping, stomping their feet, and singing along with the indecipherable lyrics. Clearly, there’s no accounting for taste when the alcohol flows.

And there she is. Sara Howell, banging on a complete drum kit and squawking shamelessly in an off-key, attempted harmony with the lead singer, who prances around the microphone like a poor man’s Mick Jagger. Every so often, he tosses a lock of thick blond hair out of his face and looks dreamily back at Sara. She flashes that mesmerizing smile Carson remembers all too well. Green eyes sparkle like emeralds, full red lips beg to be kissed… Oh, my god. He’s screwing her. That’s why they let her join their band. It’s all Carson can do to keep from jumping up on stage and hauling her off.

Another dreadful song, and he’s had enough. Sara needs help.

Carson pushes his way through the crowd, jockeying for a better position to witness the spectacle his woman is making of herself. A fat ass bends over to reveal an ugly tramp stamp no one wants to see. Because she won’t budge, Carson accidentally knocks over someone’s beer while maneuvering around her, which earns a rude epithet from a big man wearing a cowboy hat. A skinny woman jumps up from the wobbly wooden table and cries out, grabs a handful of paper napkins. Carson slides out of reach before the cowboy’s fist can connect with his nose.

Someone vacates a table near the stage, and Carson edges out the hovering couple who claim they’ve been waiting for it. He now has a clear view of Sara.

As she finishes a refrain and spanks a cymbal, she looks up, proud of herself. Her eyes find his, and they lock.

###

What is that psychopath doing here? A shiver seizes her as her eyes sweep the audience and land on the newcomer. Fists clenched, eyes narrowed to slits, Carson doesn’t look like a man intent on making peace.

It’s been three years since those rough hands squeezed her neck until she almost passed out. Then the hands relaxed as he listened to her pleas. Fearful for her unborn child, she made promises she never intended to keep, showered Carson with compliments about his prowess that made her want to puke. Just when she believed the ordeal was over, that she’d talked him out of his rage, those fingers tightened again. His face darkened as he questioned the sincerity of her words and the integrity of her promises.

Afterward, she played possum until he left her apartment. And then she started packing. Skipped town the next day with no forwarding address, forfeited her deposit, quit her job, unplugged from social media. She canceled all her credit cards and cut ties with anyone remotely connected with Carson.

And now he’s found her. She always knew it would only be a matter of time, but the passing years have lulled her into a false sense of security. The band is doing well; she and David are happier than she ever dreamed possible. He’s a good father to her son, raising the baby as his own. The years of freedom from Carson have taught her that love doesn’t have to mean walking a tightrope over a field of landmines.

She averts her eyes, focuses on keeping time with the music. The band is playing her favorite song, the one they always perform right before a break. It has an upbeat message about searching for love and finally finding it, “like a diamond in the rough.” Corny, but it ends the set on a high note. If only Carson would leave…

###

The rowdy crowd scatters as soon as the band announces a break. Customers line up for the tiny restrooms, refill their beers, or head outside to smoke. Carson loses sight of Sara. He weaves through the sea of smelly bodies, babbling like seagulls, to reach the exit, breathe in the warm, salty night air.

She comes out of the rickety ladies’ room, a cell phone cupped between ear and mouth. “Go to sleep now, honey. Tell Mommy goodnight.”

Carson stops. Mommy? Sara has a child? She’d make a terrible mother! Then he thinks, how old? Could it be mine?

She hangs up and slides the phone into the back pocket of her form-fitting jeans.

So sexy, he thinks. It’s good to see she’s been watching her weight, even without him around to remind her about what to eat. “Sara,” he begins.

Startled, she turns toward him, eyes vacant, denying recognition.

Liar.

“Do I know you?” she asks. Her voice is hoarser than he remembers, probably from straining her vocal cords in her singing efforts. “Are you enjoying the music?”

Music? If that’s what you call it… “I’ve come to take you home. You’re embarrassing yourself here.”

“Excuse me?” She scrunches her face into an expression that has never been attractive. He often told her it made her look like her mother, and that always shut her up, made her relax her features into a more pleasing visage. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“Dammit, don’t play games!” He reaches for her.

She writhes away. “What are you doing?”

Something about her body feels different. Her abdomen is not as taut, perhaps the result of having a baby. Whose baby?

He grabs for her again but misses. She waves the cell phone at him like a weapon, daring him to come closer.

“It’s over, Sara. Time to come home.” Carson is tired of her coyness. It’s not working with him.

“Sara?” She places a hand over her mouth. Her green eyes widen.

His facial features twist. What’s gotten into her?

She whispers, “Are you talking about my sister?”

“Sister?” Carson gapes at the woman in front of him and tastes bile surging up his throat. Crazy Cara? That shyster detective has led him to Cara, Sara’s diabolical twin? The dirty little family secret, the insolent girl who keyed his new Corvette the last time he tried to visit Sara at her parents’ home.

Squinting, Carson studies the woman’s features under the streetlight, partially in shadows. Although she favors his sweet Sara, Cara’s eyebrows are thicker. Her mouth is tighter, giving her a hardened countenance. And she’s crazy. No amount of makeup can camouflage that wild look in her eyes, those windows into a disturbed soul.

He only met Cara twice—two times too many. He knows she tried to turn Sara against him; she intercepted his calls. Instead of giving her sister his messages, she’d hang up the phone. Whereas Sara is docile and soft-spoken, always aiming to please even though she usually falls short, Cara is nasty and sarcastic, with a much louder voice. The last time he saw Cara, she called him a narcissist and said he didn’t deserve a girlfriend like Sara before she slammed the door in his face.

He once asked Sara why Cara’s picture wasn’t in their high school yearbook, why most of her friends didn’t even know about Cara. Sara replied that Cara lived with their grandmother and didn’t visit very often. Carson suspected she’d been in juvie or maybe a mental institution. Cara’s always been bad news; even her family is ashamed of her.

And here she is. That detective will get an earful when Carson returns to Atlanta. He can forget about getting payment for his last invoice.

“Where’s Sara?” Carson demands. Maybe this encounter with Cara won’t be all bad if he finds his woman after all.

The singer lowers her head, and a tear creeps down her cheek. “Dead.”

“Dead?” Carson feels the blood rush from his face. “Sara?” How come nobody told me? Why didn’t I read about it in the papers? Was there a funeral?

“Her boyfriend strangled her to death.” The woman grits her teeth. “Three years ago today.”

“Strangled?” Carson furrows his brow. That doesn’t make sense. Sure, he’d teased her a little, pretended to strangle her, but he never hurt her. Sara liked it rough; fighting made it more exciting for both of them. She was alive when he kissed her goodnight and left her apartment. Sleeping soundly, yes, but alive… Wasn’t she? “But…” He studies Cara’s face. Can he even believe what she’s telling him? Why did no one question him about Sara’s death? Why did the detective take his money when he must know Sara is dead? “Uh… did they ever catch the guy?” He hopes Cara doesn’t remember meeting him. It seems like she doesn’t recognize me.

The woman cocks her chin and looks Carson straight in the eye. “They could never prove it was murder. And they didn’t want to. He had friends on the police force.”

Carson swallows. “So, they’re not…”

She shakes her head. “He caught a break. The coroner claimed Sara passed away in her sleep of natural causes. But I know it’s a crock.” Her green eyes blaze. “And if I ever get hold of that jerk who killed my sister…” She balls her fist while continuing to stare at him.

Feeling a chill despite the warm autumn night, Carson clears his throat. He would have to rethink his plans, do some more investigating. “I’m sorry about your sister, ma’am.” He backs up and makes his way down the sidewalk, returns to his beach house to pack.

###

The Palomino bass player approaches and hands her a beer. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with that guy. I never knew you had a sister.”

She smiles and accepts the beer. Tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder, she wipes the fake tear from her cheek. “I don’t. Never did.”