The Devil Casts a Long Shadow- Chapter Eight: Around the Corner

There were many things Joel Klutz-Turner was willing to overlook.

His housekeeper, for instance, had a persistent habit of putting his clothes in the dryer on the highest setting. It ruined the fabric, shrank his shirts, and occasionally rendered an expensive garment unwearable. Turner never complained. Clothing went out of fashion quickly enough that he saw little reason to become attached to it.

His secretary sometimes dropped calls while attempting to transfer them. Turner merely called the person back. The inconvenience amounted to a few seconds of his time.

Even employees who missed shifts because of drunk-driving arrests or domestic disputes rarely provoked much reaction from him. Their personal lives were their own concern. As long as the work was completed and their troubles did not interfere with his business, he saw no reason to involve himself.

Turner considered this a practical approach to managing people.

Others sometimes mistook it for generosity.

He saw no advantage in correcting them.

There were, however, certain matters he preferred to examine personally.

And so, on an otherwise unremarkable Saturday afternoon, Turner made his first visit to the ghost kitchen operating out of a nondescript shopping center at Central and Fourth Street.

He had held a financial interest in the business since its establishment, but until that afternoon, he had never considered it worth visiting.

The storefront offered little indication of what took place inside. Its windows displayed no merchandise, and there was no dining room to welcome customers. To anyone passing through the nearly deserted shopping center, it might have appeared vacant.

Turner parked near the entrance and went inside.

He wore wrinkled slacks and a polo shirt he had picked up from his bedroom floor that morning. His hair, unwashed for several days, was slicked backward by its own accumulated oils. A patchy beard covered his chin, while the dry skin on his lips had begun to flake.

His oversized veneers clicked faintly against his tongue as he looked around.

Turner had never placed much importance on looking wealthy.

He had enough money that he no longer needed to persuade anyone of the fact.

Near the register, the manager was sorting through the day's receipts.

Turner stepped behind the counter and began examining the till.

"Hey!"

Scott, the manager, hurried toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You're not supposed to be back—"

Turner turned.

Scott's expression changed immediately.

"Oh. Mr. Turner."

He withdrew his hand as though he had touched something dangerously hot.

"I'm sorry, sir. I thought you were somebody else."

Turner gave him a mild smile.

"It's fine."

Scott swallowed.

"I didn't know you were coming."

"That's generally the point of an unannounced audit."

"Of course. Absolutely."

Turner glanced toward the office.

"Let's have a look at the books."

Scott hurried ahead of him.

The office was scarcely larger than a storage closet. A battered laptop sat on a desk crowded with invoices, receipts, and an abandoned paper cup.

Scott opened the accounting software and stood beside Turner while he scrolled through the reports.

The numbers were unremarkable.

Turner had expected as much.

The business was profitable enough to justify its continued operation, and he had competent people managing its affairs.

He had not come to examine its finances.

Nevertheless, he spent several minutes looking through the records.

Scott remained standing nearby, visibly uncomfortable.

Eventually, Turner leaned back.

"I'll be a while. You can get back to work."

"Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"No."

Scott hesitated.

Turner glanced up.

"Actually, isn't there an inspection coming up?"

"Yes, sir. Next week."

"Then go make sure the kitchen is ready."

"Right away."

Scott departed.

Turner returned his attention to the laptop.

He had learned long ago that people were often most revealing when they believed nobody important was watching.

A short while later, the rear entrance opened.

Thallea came in from the alley, bringing with her a stale cloud of cigarette smoke.

Ash had collected across the front of her tight T-shirt, which barely covered the swell of her pregnant belly.

She brushed at the fabric without much success.

Scott approached her.

"Thallea, I need you to clean the warmer before you leave."

She stopped.

"What?"

"The warmer. It needs to be scrubbed before the inspection."

"Then scrub it yourself."

Scott lowered his voice.

"Everybody has cleaning duties."

"I'm pregnant, dumbass."

"I understand that, but—"

"Then stop asking me to do stupid shit."

Scott looked as though he were trying to decide whether to reprimand her or apologize.

Thallea folded her arms beneath her belly.

"Jeez. You people act like I'm supposed to do everything around here."

From the office, Turner listened without changing his expression.

Scott began another explanation.

Thallea interrupted him.

"I'm not getting on my hands and knees for anybody. You want it cleaned, do it yourself."

There was a brief silence.

Then Turner emerged from the office.

Scott straightened immediately.

"Mr. Turner. Everything all right?"

"Everything looks fine."

Turner glanced toward the kitchen.

Thallea looked at him with sudden interest.

He offered the employees a general nod.

"Books look good. Keep things ready for that inspection."

"Yes, sir," Scott answered.

"Good work, everyone."

Thallea smiled.

Turner did not linger.

"I've got a few other stops to make."

He walked toward the exit.

The door swung shut behind him before anyone could attempt another conversation.

Scott watched him leave with obvious relief.

Thallea continued staring at the door.

That evening, Jena was cleaning the house after working a double shift at the church childcare center.

Her feet ached.

Her back hurt.

And she had reached the point of exhaustion where even ordinary household noises seemed offensive.

She was lifting a full trash bag when she heard the front door open.

Thallea came inside in an unusually cheerful mood.

Jena paused.

It was such an unfamiliar sight that she momentarily forgot how tired she was.

"What has you in such a good mood?"

Thallea grinned.

"I met Turner today."

Jena blinked.

"You did?"

"Yeah. He came by work."

"Oh."

"He was so nice."

Jena looked at her.

"Turner?"

"Yes, Turner."

Thallea rolled her eyes, apparently offended by the question.

"He told me I was doing a great job and everything."

Jena shifted the heavy trash bag against her leg.

"Well, that's nice."

"I can tell he likes me a lot."

Something about the statement struck Jena as peculiar.

Turner was not known for developing sudden attachments to strangers. He could be cordial

when he chose, but his cordiality rarely implied anything more.

Thallea continued.

"Thanks so much for getting me that job. Seriously."

Jena was almost too surprised to respond.

Thallea seldom thanked anyone for anything.

"You're welcome."

"I think it's going to work out really good."

She disappeared down the hallway.

A moment later, her bedroom door slammed.

Jena stood holding the trash bag.

She wondered what Turner had actually said.

Perhaps he had simply congratulated the staff.

That sounded more like him.

Thallea had a habit of interpreting ordinary courtesies as evidence that other people were particularly impressed with her.

Jena decided there was no reason to dwell on it.

If Thallea had finally found something that made her happy, perhaps the house might enjoy a few hours of peace.

She carried the trash toward the garage.

The following afternoon, Jena returned home to find Thallea waiting near the stairs.

"Sis!"

Jena stopped.

She disliked the sudden enthusiasm with which Thallea used that word. It generally preceded a request involving money.

"What?"

"Can you take me to the salon? I want to get my hair done before Beau comes back this weekend."

Jena frowned.

"Beau's coming?"

"Yeah."

That was news to her.

The last time Beau had stopped by, Thallea had berated him for interrupting his trucking schedule.

He had barely entered the house before she began demanding to know why he was not out earning money for their babies.

Jena could still hear her voice.

You left me here, and now you're back with nothing in hand? What's wrong with you? Get your butt back on the road!

Beau had apologized.

Then he had left.

Jena had hoped the humiliation might finally make him reconsider the relationship.

Instead, he continued sending Thallea money.

As far as Jena understood, most of his earnings were being deposited into an account

Thallea controlled.

He seemed remarkably unconcerned by the arrangement.

Whenever Jena tried discussing it with him, Beau reminded her that Thallea was carrying his twins.

He was not going to become a single father again, he insisted.

Jena had heard the explanation so many times that she no longer knew what to say.

She had once believed Beau was simply too trusting.

Lately, she had begun wondering whether he preferred not to know things that might interfere with getting what he wanted.

"Well?" Thallea demanded.

Jena sighed.

"Sure. I'll take you."

Thallea brightened.

Jena knew perfectly well that the ride would probably end with her paying for everything.

But refusing would mean an argument, and she was too tired to endure another one.

It seemed that nearly every decision in her life had been reduced to choosing which unpleasant consequence she was most willing to tolerate.

The mall south of Meadow Partings had been declining for years.

Most of its storefronts were vacant, their windows papered over or filled with faded advertisements for businesses that no longer existed.

A handful of teenagers wandered through the corridors.

Elderly walkers made determined circuits beneath the fluorescent lighting.

The food court retained the same vaguely sour odor Jena remembered from childhood, a mixture of old grease, cleaning chemicals, and something unpleasantly reminiscent of vomit.

She had never liked the place, even when it was thriving.

The parking lot was perpetually scattered with broken glass, and the stores seemed to specialize in overpriced merchandise that never fit her properly.

A trip there usually meant wasted money, aching feet, and the irritation of settling for something she hadn't particularly wanted.

Thallea, however, adored it.

To her, the half-abandoned shopping center was a paradise of possibilities.

She moved from store to store with an enthusiasm that made Jena wonder where her complaints about pregnancy-related exhaustion had gone.

There was seemingly nothing Thallea did not need.

A purse.

A pair of shoes.

A glittering phone case.

Cosmetics.

Clothing that Jena doubted would fit her for more than another week.

Whenever Jena hesitated at a price, Thallea found some reason the purchase was essential.

Occasionally, Jena suspected that items had made their way into Thallea's possession without passing through a register at all.

She preferred not to ask.

The mall had the air of a place slowly being abandoned by the living, yet Thallea moved through it like a delighted scavenger, gathering whatever remained.

At the salon, Thallea settled into a chair and began directing the staff through an elaborate transformation.

She wanted zebra-striped highlights woven into extensions and sewn into her heavily layered hair.

Her eyebrows were waxed into thin, sharply curved commas.

Her acrylic nails had to be the longest available, decorated with enough rhinestones to resemble miniature chandeliers.

Then came additional waxing appointments, including the tops of her toes, where coarse black hairs had begun to grow.

Jena watched the proceedings with weary disbelief.

Thallea had complained bitterly about standing long enough to clean a kitchen warmer.

Apparently, spending several hours being waxed, filed, scrubbed, and decorated presented no comparable hardship.

Jena settled into a waiting chair and took out her phone.

She began planning another trip to see Nate.

He had shown no meaningful improvement.

His condition remained much as it had been for weeks: unresponsive, dependent upon medical equipment, and subject to explanations that never seemed to answer the questions

Jena actually asked.

The court proceedings had produced another change.

Ivy-Mae, who had previously insisted that every possible measure be taken to prolong

Nate's life, was suddenly expressing concerns about whether continued life support was ethical.

The change had occurred shortly after the ruling clarified her position regarding his financial affairs.

Jena found the timing difficult to ignore.

Apparently, the sanctity of human life became a more flexible principle when money was involved.

Ivy-Mae now spoke of dignity, mercy, and the importance of allowing nature to take its course.

Jena wondered where those convictions had been when she had previously raised concerns about Nate's condition.

She suspected Ivy-Mae's understanding of morality depended largely upon whether a particular outcome would benefit her.

Jena had begun visiting Nate more frequently, partly because she no longer trusted information filtered through his mother.

The distance between Meadow Partings and his facility made it difficult to know what was happening.

Gus, who had initially remained attentive to his son's condition, had gradually returned to his life in New Mexico.

Everyone seemed to be adjusting to Nate's prolonged absence.

The world was continuing without him.

Jena sometimes thought that the man she had known had effectively vanished on the night of his birthday party, even if the machines continued sustaining what remained of his bodily functions.

She disliked the thought.

It seemed disloyal.

Yet she could not deny the practical truth of it.

Nate no longer spoke to her, provided for her directly, or participated in any aspect of their marriage.

The responsibilities remained.

The husband did not.

She looked down at her phone.

Another message from the facility contained little more than the familiar assurance that his condition was unchanged.

Jena put the phone away.

Across the salon, Thallea was admiring her new nails.

By the time Thallea finished, the mall had closed.

The stylist approached Jena with the bill.

Jena looked at the total and felt a small, familiar wave of despair.

She handed over her credit card.

Thallea admired herself in a mirror.

"Don't I look amazing?"

"You look very nice."

Jena had no idea what Beau would think of the transformation.

She hoped he would appreciate it, if only because the expense had come from money she could scarcely afford to lose.

As they drove home, Jena attempted to make conversation.

She also hoped that keeping Thallea occupied might discourage her from lighting a cigarette.

Jena had grown increasingly protective of her car.

With all the traveling she did, it had become one of the few places where she could enjoy a little privacy.

Thallea seemed determined to ruin that comfort as thoroughly as she had ruined the house.

The upholstery had begun absorbing the smell of stale smoke.

Ash collected in the cupholders.

Occasionally, Jena discovered mysterious sticky patches on the door handles or discarded wrappers beneath the seats.

She was beginning to feel that everything she owned was being gradually converted into refuse.

"You must be excited to see Beau tomorrow," Jena said.

Thallea clicked her elaborate nails against the armrest.

"Yeah."

"You haven't seen him in a while."

"I guess I just really missed my man."

Jena glanced at her.

The answer sounded rehearsed.

Thallea was staring out the window, smiling faintly at something Jena could not identify.

"Did he say what time he'd get here?"

Thallea reached toward the radio.

"Can we listen to something?"

Before Jena could respond, she turned up the volume.

The conversation ended.

Jena kept her eyes on the road.

She had the unpleasant sensation that she had asked a question Thallea had not wanted to answer.

When they returned home, Thallea went directly to her bedroom.

Jena was hungry.

She had avoided eating at the mall, partly because of the smell and partly because she resented spending any more money there.

In the kitchen, she searched for something Thallea had not already opened, sampled, or spoiled.

It had become a surprisingly difficult task.

She finally discovered a frozen vegan meal buried at the back of the freezer.

It was a remnant of one of Nate's short-lived attempts to improve his diet.

The packaging advertised nutritional benefits in large, cheerful letters.

Jena suspected that was why Thallea had ignored it.

She put the meal in the microwave.

While it heated, she surveyed the kitchen.

The house had once been beautiful.

Nate had spent enormous sums on its construction and furnishings, selecting materials that were meant to impress visitors as much as please the people living there.

Now the walls bore greasy smears of uncertain origin.

Handprints covered the windows.

Several dishes had been chipped.

The cutlery was scratched and bent from Thallea using it to force food waste into the garbage disposal.

The handcrafted oak dining table had acquired cigarette burns and deep scratches.

Jena ran her fingers over one of the marks.

She remembered how carefully Nate had inspected the table when it was delivered.

He had complained about a tiny imperfection in the finish and threatened to refuse payment until the manufacturer corrected it.

Now the entire surface looked as though someone had been using it to conduct minor acts of vandalism.

Jena gave a tired laugh.

Perhaps she should let Ivy-Mae have the house.

She could make Thallea part of the agreement.

The woman could inherit the property, its expenses, and the permanent presence of Beau's pregnant girlfriend.

Jena imagined Ivy-Mae's expression upon discovering cigarette burns on the furniture and spoiled food in the refrigerator.

It was almost enough to improve her mood.

The microwave chimed.

Jena retrieved her dinner and sat at the table.

She pushed aside several wrappers Thallea had abandoned.

Among them was a napkin covered in handwriting.

Jena nearly threw it away.

Then she noticed what appeared to be dates and times.

She unfolded it.

It was Thallea's work schedule for the coming week.

Jena read it once.

Then again.

Something was wrong.

Thallea had been complaining about the few hours she already worked.

Only days earlier, she had announced that she intended to work no more than one day a week.

She had described even that arrangement as an unreasonable burden upon a pregnant woman.

Now the napkin listed enough shifts to keep her at the ghost kitchen nearly full-time.

Jena frowned.

Had Scott increased her hours?

Had Thallea volunteered?

Neither possibility made much sense.

Thallea had never shown any interest in working more than absolutely necessary.

Jena thought of her unusual excitement after meeting Turner.

He was so nice.

I can tell he likes me a lot.

She looked again at the schedule.

Then she carefully refolded the napkin and returned it to the pile of wrappers.

She arranged the trash exactly as she had found it.

There was no reason for Thallea to know she had been looking.

Jena finished her dinner.

She washed the container and put it in the trash.

Then she went about her evening as though she had noticed nothing unusual.

Over the following day, the matter continued troubling her.

Thallea's behavior had changed too abruptly.

Her enthusiasm for work was inconsistent with everything Jena knew about her.

Her supposed excitement over Beau's visit had seemed equally peculiar.

Jena tried to dismiss her suspicions.

She had enough problems without inventing new ones.

Still, she could not quite shake the feeling that Thallea was arranging something behind her back.

Later, while driving alone, she found herself reviewing the conversation again.

The miles passed almost without her noticing.

She was so absorbed in thought that she scarcely recognized the stretch of road where she had nearly been struck by a speeding car during her disastrous trip to Colorado.

As she approached the dip in the highway, she noticed how sharply the pavement descended before rising again.

From certain angles, the road beyond was completely hidden.

Jena slowed.

She remembered the darkness, the sudden headlights, and the terrifying rush of the vehicle passing within feet of her parked car.

At the time, she had assumed the driver was simply reckless.

Now she realized that the terrain itself had made the situation more dangerous.

Even in daylight, someone approaching at speed might not have seen her until it was too late.

She felt a brief chill.

It was strange how an ordinary road could conceal danger so effectively.

A person could travel the same route a hundred times without understanding what lay beyond the next rise.

Jena thought of Thallea again.

On impulse, she called Beau.

He answered almost immediately.

"Hey, Jen. Didn't think you'd be calling this late. Everything all right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

She tried to sound casual.

"I was just checking to see how you and Thallea were doing at the house tonight."

Beau laughed.

"The house?"

"Yes."

"Jena, I'm about to pass Topeka on my way to Peoria."

Jena tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

"Oh."

"Besides," Beau continued, lowering his voice slightly, "between you and me, I probably wouldn't have answered if I were with Thallea."

Jena could hear the steady roar of his truck in the background.

She stared ahead.

Thallea had specifically told her that Beau was coming home.

She had insisted upon going to the salon to prepare for his arrival.

And Beau was hundreds of miles away.

"My mistake," Jena said.

"I must've gotten the dates mixed up."

"Wouldn't surprise me. I've been running all over the place."

"When are you coming back?"

"Hell, I don't know."

He sounded cheerful.

"Thallea and I talked about it. We figured I'd just keep going until the work dries up or she has the babies."

Jena was silent.

"You know how it is," Beau added.

She did not know how it was.

She could not imagine sending nearly all her earnings to someone who discouraged her from coming home.

But Beau seemed content with the arrangement.

Or determined to remain content with it.

"Well," Jena said, "I hope you're getting some rest."

"Enough."

"Be careful out there."

"Always am."

They exchanged a few more pleasantries.

Jena told him she was approaching an area with poor reception and ended the call.

For several moments, she drove in silence.

Then she reached over and turned off the radio.

Thallea had lied.

That much was clear.

The question was why.

Jena considered the expensive salon appointment, the sudden increase in work hours, and Thallea's peculiar enthusiasm after meeting Turner.

She could not yet make sense of any of it.

Perhaps Thallea had simply wanted her hair done and invented Beau's visit to justify the expense.

That would have been entirely consistent with her character.

But it did not explain the schedule.

Nor did it explain why a woman who considered wiping down a counter an intolerable hardship had suddenly decided to spend most of her week at work.

Jena felt an uneasy tightening in her stomach.

She wondered whether Thallea had developed an interest in someone else.

It would hardly have been surprising.

What troubled Jena was the possibility that Thallea might have found a new way to make herself someone else's problem.

Or worse, that she might somehow make the consequences Jena's responsibility.

Jena thought of Beau driving through the night, convinced that his sacrifices were building a future for his family.

She thought of Sue, who would undoubtedly find a way to defend him regardless of what happened.

And she thought of Thallea, smiling to herself in the passenger seat, her expensive new nails clicking against the armrest.

There were so many things Jena wanted to say.

So many suspicions she wanted to voice.

But she could think of no one who would listen without making her life more difficult.

Eventually, she told herself that she was being foolish.

What more could a wretch like Thallea possibly do?

The question should have comforted her.

Instead, she felt a peculiar sinking sensation, as though something beneath her had given way.

She had spent weeks visiting a husband whose body lay cold and unresponsive beneath the indifferent supervision of machines.

She had watched her finances collapse, her marriage become a collection of legal obligations, and her home deteriorate around her.

She had begun to believe that nothing could be more dreadful than the life she was already living.

Yet as she drove toward Meadow Partings, Jena found herself wondering whether she had mistaken the first circle of her misery for the deepest.

The road ahead disappeared into darkness.

She continued toward home.

And somewhere beyond the reach of her headlights lay consequences she had not yet imagined.