Nicole called Audrey on Thursday night. "I'm driving down Saturday. You coming?"
"Pick me up at 8:00."
"Bring fruit. Mama said no flowers. She says hospital flowers look like funeral flowers."
Saturday 8:00 a.m. Nicole pulled up in her silver Lexus RX. Audrey got in. Black fitted T, jeans, sneakers. Nicole in a red summer dress, sunglasses pushed up on her head. They argued about the playlist before they even left the driveway.
"If you play that podcast again, I'm jumping out of the car."
"It's educational. It's 3 hours of a man whispering about mushrooms."
Nicole turned up the radio. Audrey rolled down the window. Georgia heat poured in thick and sweet, smelling like cut grass and hot pavement. 2 hours on I-75 South, then a right turn onto a two-lane road through a town called Grayfield. Population 4,000. One traffic light, one diner, one gas station.
Nicole glanced at the fuel gauge. "I need to stop."
"Make it quick. Mama's expecting us by noon."
Nicole pulled into the gas station. A quiet pump, a quiet lot. A pickup truck parked in the corner. An old man inside the convenience store staring at a lottery ticket. And across the road, a police cruiser, three officers inside, watching.
Nicole pulled up to pump number two and killed the engine. The gas station was the kind of place that looked like it hadn't been painted since the '90s. Cracked concrete, a faded sign that read 'Grayfield Gas and Go' in letters that used to be red.
Audrey stepped out and stretched. The heat hit her like a wall. "How does anyone live out here?"
"People live everywhere, Audrey."
"Not by choice."
Nicole swiped her card at the pump. Audrey walked toward the convenience store. The door chime was broken, made a sound like a dying bird. Inside, an old man stood at the counter scratching a lottery ticket with a quarter. He looked up when Audrey walked in, looked her up and down, then went back to scratching. The woman behind the register didn't say hello.
Audrey grabbed two bottles of water and a bag of grapes. She put them on the counter. The woman rang them up without a word. No eye contact. No 'have a nice day'. Just the total on the screen. Audrey paid, walked out. She was used to it. Small towns in Georgia had a way of saying everything without opening their mouths. The silence was louder than any slur.
Back at the pump, Nicole was leaning against the car, phone to her ear. "Yes, Mama. We're close, maybe 40 minutes. No, I didn't bring flowers. Yes, I brought fruit. Audrey picked grapes. I know you wanted strawberries. Take it up with her."
Audrey could hear Eleanor's voice through the speaker, thin but still bossy. Still Eleanor.
"Tell her I said the grapes were the only ones that looked fresh," Audrey called out.
Nicole tilted the phone. "She says, 'I heard her. Tell her she's cheap. And tell her I love her.'"
Audrey smiled. It felt like every visit might be the last one. Eleanor never complained, never talked about the cancer like it was winning, but her voice was thinner every time they called. And the silences between her sentences were getting longer.
The pump clicked off. Nicole hung up, put the nozzle back, screwed the gas cap on. "Ready?"
"Yeah, let's—"
Audrey stopped. She had that look, the one Nicole had seen a hundred times. Eyes narrow, head slightly tilted, like a dog that just heard something no one else could hear.
"What?" Nicole asked.
"Cruiser across the road, three guys inside. They've been watching us since we pulled in."
Nicole looked. A police cruiser sat in the shade of an oak tree on the other side of the two-lane road. She could see the shapes of three officers behind the windshield.
"So, we're just getting gas."
"I know."
"Audrey, don't."
"I'm not doing anything." Audrey took a sip of water, casual, but her left hand drifted to the pendant under her shirt. "A habit. Like checking for your keys before you leave the house."
Nicole shook her head. "You see cops everywhere."
"I investigate cops everywhere. There's a difference."
Nicole got behind the wheel. Audrey opened the passenger door. That's when the cruiser pulled out of the shade, slow. No sirens, no lights, just a slow roll across the two-lane road straight into the gas station lot. It parked behind the Lexus, blocking them in.
Three doors opened. Three officers stepped out. Sergeant Wade Thornton, Officer Brett Lawson, Officer Kyle Greer.
Thornton looked at the Lexus, then at Audrey, then at Nicole in her red dress behind the wheel. He said something to Lawson low enough that only the three of them could hear. Lawson laughed. Then Thornton put on his sunglasses, even though he was already standing in shade, and walked toward them.
Thornton reached the Lexus first. He didn't say hello, didn't say good afternoon. He slapped the hood twice with his palm like calling a dog. "Out of the car, both of you."
Nicole turned off the engine and stepped out slowly. Audrey was already standing by the passenger side, water bottle still in her hand.
Thornton looked at the Lexus, then at Audrey, then at Nicole. He took his time, eyes moving from Nicole's red dress to her sandals to her face. "Registration and license, now."
Nicole reached into the car and pulled out the documents, held them out. Thornton took them, looked at the name, looked at Nicole, looked at the name again.
"Nicole Shaw." He said it like he was tasting something bad. "This your car?"
"Yes, sir."
"Paid for it yourself?"