2
mckenzie
Jonah’s truckis already in the parking lot of Pope and Parkes Construction, when Hollywood drops me off for my shift. Coaxed by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, I leave my purse in a drawer at the front desk and head to the communal kitchen.
“Morning, kid,” Jonah says over the rim of his coffee cup.
“Yes, it is.” I rifle through the cabinet for the biggest mug I can find. “I hear Teagan’s bringing the storm to our house tomorrow night.”
He chuckles. “I heard that, too.”
“Any tips for walking out alive?”
“Whatever you do, do not start singingBaby Sharkaround Joey.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Jonah’s a good guy and a fair-minded boss. He doesn’t micromanage, which I appreciate, and he doesn’t throw his hands up and wait for others to do his dirty work. His business partner, Austin Pope, might be the best man I’ve ever known. He commutes from his house in the country, and is usually the last to arrive in the morning unless he has to be on-site for a specific job.
I’m at the front desk with a travel mug full of coffee when our Chief Estimator, Cherise Jones, and her husband, Lamar—our VP of Construction—come striding through the door.
Cherise smiles warmly. “Good morning, McKenzie.”
“Morning, you guys.” I wave to Lamar, who salutes me, looking almost as tired as I feel. “How many weeks left ‘til summer vacation?”
“I think it’s two.” Cherise slides her sunglasses onto her head. “Does that sound right, babe?” She and Lamar have three daughters between the ages of five and eleven, all equally cute and exuberant.
“It’s too damn early for that question, McKenzie,” Lamar says. “I thank God every day for inventing summer camp.”
I greet the rest of the crewmembers as they enter the office. Not because it’s required of me, just...because. I like my job, which is something I never said while working in food service. It’s straightforward office work: answering phones, preparing invoices, responding to emails. I have sick time, vacation days, health insurance. I didn’t even know what a 401(k) was until I started here. The pay is good, and I like the hours, but it’s hard not to feel like Austin and Jonah gave me this job as a favor.
The publicity from the serial-killer case and the trials that followed turned Hollywood and me into celebrities. Photographers and journalists hounded us daily, shadowing us wherever we went. They were insufferable, but it was regular people who made going about my normal business impossible. I’d be at work, serving up burgers and Diet Cokes, and a man at one of my tables would ask, “Hey, aren’t you the hooker that almost got killed by the Tennessee Ripper?”
As soon as one person recognized me, that was it. I was doxed. Out came the phones, and suddenly anyone with even a casual interest in the case knew where I worked.
I was living in a nightmare.
My boss at the time told me my presence was too distracting and let me go. I applied for other positions, but everywhere I went, people knew who I was before I opened my mouth.
Then a small group of us were having dinner at Jonah and Teagan’s house one night. Austin asked me to run out with him to pick up a few pints of ice cream for dessert. On the way to the store, he asked me what was wrong and said I was being quieter than usual. I tried to pass it off as PMS but he wouldn’t buy it, and he wouldn’t let it go.
“Talk to me, Kenz,” Austin said. “You’re not getting any ice cream until you start talking.”
“Who are you, my dad?” My pulse hastened as my filthy mind stepped in to finish the joke.Or my daddy...
“I’ll be whatever I have to be to get you to tell me what’s up.”
Normally when people command me to do things, my natural instinct is to rebel. But I was too worn down to offer any real resistance. My frustration had outgrown its cage, and my body could no longer contain it. I told him everything, about the harassment, losing my job, and the ensuing fruitless job hunt.
A few days later, Jonah called me with a job offer. I knew Austin was behind it, but with no other prospects, I couldn’t drum up a reason—other than my pride—to say no. I told myself it would be temporary, just until I found something better. The morning the first direct deposit payment hit my bank account, I gave up the job search and committed to my role as front-desk girl.
I log into my computer, stifling a yawn. After gulping down a few glugs of coffee, I start replying to customer emails. I make it through half a dozen of them before I open one that tells me I’m going to Hell.
My hand tightens on the computer mouse. As obnoxious as the true-crime enthusiasts can be, they’re benign compared to the harassment I’ve received from the reverend’s parishioners.
Reverend Clyde Davis, the lecherous preacher who lured me to his lake house under the pretense of paying me for sex, had a devoted following before he went to prison. Even after he and his brother, former Tennessee Governor, Jim Davis, were found guilty of turning a blind eye to Jim’s son’s ritualistic killings, the reverend still has followers who proclaim his innocence. They can’t deny the evidence that proves Hoyt killed those girls, so they find other ways to justify the reverend’s actions. They blame the dead for being preyed upon instead of holding predators accountable. In their minds, we’re the desperate, greedy whores who court the Devil. We put ourselves at risk, ergo, we deserve whatever awful fate awaits us.
Except I’m not dead, which means they can say these things to my face instead of spitting on my grave.