Real bad things, p.1
Real Bad Things, page 1
PRAISE FOR REAL BAD THINGS
“Acclaimed author Kelly J. Ford spins a propulsive, sophisticated, and fearlessly queer tour de force in Real Bad Things. Ford’s richly drawn characters and breathtaking storytelling create an inescapable undertow of menace that will not let go until the shocking final page. This is gothic suspense at its most haunting.”
—P. J. Vernon, author of Bath Haus
“Ford’s follow-up to her devastating debut novel, Cottonmouths, is a moving meditation on misplaced loyalties, love, and the legacy of violence and abuse, all wrapped in a mystery filled with guy-wire tension.”
—John Vercher, author of Three-Fifths
“A powerful, grounded, and dark dose of rural noir, Real Bad Things is a tale of a homecoming gone wrong. Kelly J. Ford evokes the work of superstars like Gillian Flynn and Daniel Woodrell in this story of dark secrets coming back to roost and pulls it all through the prism of her own potent voice. This is a down and dirty crime novel that nods to the masters while keeping both feet firmly planted in the present. I loved it.”
—Alex Segura, acclaimed author of Secret Identity, Star Wars Poe Dameron: Free Fall, and Blackout
“Real Bad Things is a down and dirty, gravel-road-gritty story that pulls no punches while it blows kisses. Kelly J. Ford is the moonshine-soaked voice rural noir has been looking for. Real Bad Things is really damn good.”
—S. A. Cosby, New York Times bestselling author of Razorblade Tears and Blacktop Wasteland
PRAISE FOR COTTONMOUTHS
“Ford’s novel features a lesbian protagonist, yet sexuality is only one facet of her strongly drawn character. Emily suffers from unrequited love, from betrayal, and from a longing for meaning and acceptance. Her struggles, as well as those of her family and community, are universal struggles set in a brutal reality where choices are scarce. Read this debut novel for its ability to go beneath the surface, striking impressive depths of character and setting.”
—Los Angeles Review
“We talk about the need for diverse books in America; Cottonmouths shows us a version of our country seldom given its own narrative. Kelly J. Ford writes with honesty, subtlety, and grace.”
—Patricia Park, award-winning author of Re Jane
“Gripping and atmospheric. A tense tale of the specific gravity of the places and the people we come from and can never fully leave behind.”
—Kate Racculia, award-winning author of Bellweather Rhapsody
“Filled with foreboding and anguished desire, Cottonmouths is a perfectly paced drama of the perils of loyalty, love, and homecoming. A terrific novel by an exciting new queer voice.”
—Christopher Castellani, author of All This Talk of Love
“A compelling story of unrequited love, identity, and the power of letting go.”
—Heather Newton, author of Under the Mercy Trees
“A taut page-turner trembling with desire and regret, Kelly J. Ford’s debut, Cottonmouths, strips away nostalgia for person and place when the return of one young woman reveals the rotting core of a small southern town, unraveling with the ferocity of addiction, and forces a painful lesson—she must learn to let go of her delusions in both love and friendship before it’s too late.”
—Michelle Hoover, author of Bottomland
“A fierce first novel—startling in its grip and authenticity. It’s a novel about desire and desperation and the perilous danger of loving broken people in broken places.”
—Travis Mulhauser, author of Sweetgirl
“Part noir, part southern gothic, Cottonmouths is far more than the sum of these parts, an original story that haunted me after I read it. Kelly J. Ford’s unflinching prose plunges readers into the town of Drear’s Bluff, where what’s familiar isn’t what’s safe and where desire proves deadly.”
—Stephanie Gayle, author of Idyll Threats
“An astonishingly assured debut from Kelly J. Ford, a writer who daringly plumbs the depths of both love and despair in a new and chilling South rendered with taut and pitch-perfect detail. Trust me, this is a book you will remember.”
—Kimberly Elkins, author of What Is Visible
“Cottonmouths is a wonderfully harrowing debut full of shady characters and bad choices—two things that make every novel more satisfying . . . Kelly J. Ford delivers a sharp punch to the gut with this tightly spun modern noir tale. I can’t wait to read more from this author.”
—Tiffany Quay Tyson, author of Three Rivers
“With prose as lyrical and languid as a hot Arkansas summer, Kelly J. Ford explores the myopia of desire—and its tragic aftermath. I found myself torn between wanting to rip through these pages to find out what would happen and a need to slow down and savor Ford’s sentences. A remarkable debut.”
—Lisa Borders, author of The Fifty-First State
“Kelly J. Ford’s Cottonmouths is a heartbreaking debut about the lies we tell ourselves to brave the past—and the truths we hide that hurt us most. An honest, unflinching portrait of yearning and loss.”
—Andy Davidson, author of In the Valley of the Sun
“Cottonmouths is not a love story; it’s a tale of resentment, venomous betrayal, and the wounds hidden beneath familiar surfaces. Through a kaleidoscope of characters, Ford’s dark novel shows us the choices people make when the world denies them good options, and the consequences of complicity.”
—Lambda Literary
“Kelly J. Ford’s novel Cottonmouths captures life in backwoods America like a fish in a frying pan. Ford takes her young, raw, flailing characters and rakes them over the heat of a high-octane plot until their vulnerable insides sizzle on the page.”
—Shelf Awareness
“This debut novel from Kelly J. Ford is sensitive yet brutal . . . A terrific new voice in the genre.”
—Shelf Discovery
“Cottonmouths paints a disturbing picture of deep darkness lurking just below the surface of small-town America.”
—Mystery Scene
OTHER TITLES BY KELLY J. FORD
Cottonmouths
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2022 by Kelly J. Ford
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662500091
ISBN-10: 1662500092
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
For Sarah, who would bury the bodies.
And for Jesse, who would not (but who did ruin his favorite metal Hulk lunch box over the head of my kindergarten bully).
CONTENTS
Prologue
One JANE
Two GEORGIA LEE
Three JANE
Four GEORGIA LEE
Five JANE
Six GEORGIA LEE
Seven JANE
Eight GEORGIA LEE
Nine JANE
Ten GEORGIA LEE
Eleven JANE
Twelve GEORGIA LEE
Thirteen GEORGIA LEE
Fourteen GEORGIA LEE
Fifteen JANE
Sixteen GEORGIA LEE
Seventeen JANE
Eighteen GEORGIA LEE
Nineteen GEORGIA LEE
Twenty GEORGIA LEE
Twenty-One JANE
Twenty-Two GEORGIA LEE
Twenty-Three JANE
Twenty-Four GEORGIA LEE
Twenty-Five JANE
Twenty-Six GEORGIA LEE
Twenty-Seven JANE
Twenty-Eight GEORGIA LEE
Twenty-Nine JANE
Thirty JANE
Thirty-One GEORGIA LEE
Thirty-Two GEORGIA LEE
Thirty-Three JANE
Thirty-Four GEORGIA LEE
Thirty-Five JANE
Thirty-Six GEORGIA LEE
Thirty-Seven JANE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Prologue
Away from the bridge, the river smells of the cottonwoods that grow along the banks. Cattails brush your calves and ankles. A lone whippoorwill calls out. The distant water sounds of white noise, a lullaby for sleep.
Closer to the dam, the song turns.
Closer. Tires thump when they hit different sections of the bridge. The water churns. Closer, closer. The concrete and steel structure sucks the water into its mouth, makes it scream.
Leaves the words, the world that came before, behind.
Oar plunges into the water. Your teeth chatter. Your arms ache. Wind hits the skin. The night warm, the water cold. You navigate the boat past the faded sign warning of danger. Cut across the half-sunken string of red buoys that span from one side of the river to the other like holiday lights.
The current tickles the bottom of the boat, eases it toward the locks. The boat lurches forward. The oar, gone. The roar, loud. Louder.
Jump.
Jump.
Leave the boat behind. Before it’s too late. Before the turbulent water catches and curls its fingers into the boat, ont o your limbs. Yanks you with him, sucks you to the bottom, under the dam gates. Legs and arms kick. Water wants inside your lungs. Terrorizes and tatters your light summer shirt.
Then.
Relief, at the top. Light lets you know it’s there. Your fingers scrape the surface. Your heart fills with hope. Your lungs beg for air. But the light tells a lie. The water pulls you down. Covers your nose. Whispers to sleep as it drowns you with him in the deep, deep, deep.
One
JANE
It wasn’t wise or polite to wish ill of once-loved ones, but there Jane Mooney sat, entertaining violent scenarios in her mind and thinking that oft-thought phrase: I wish y’all were dead too.
At first, the thought had horrified her. But thoughts weren’t actions. They were only words. If he were dead, Jane wouldn’t be on a plane. And she wouldn’t be waiting for Jane in the Maud Regional Airport with words like justice and I told you so spitting out of her mouth like knives.
Those people probably wished Jane dead too.
The single runway lights flickered blue and white. In Boston, there were lights everywhere, except for the edge of land that broke into the ocean. Jane liked living on the edge of the continent. She liked knowing that at any moment she could hop a plane, head east over the Atlantic, and disappear. In Maud, there were scattered lights, like pebbles thrown onto a riverbank. The littlest plane, the littlest airport, the littlest she’d felt in her life, wrapped up in this one place.
When the pilot asked the flight attendants to prepare for landing, she squeezed her eyes and braced for impact. The calm of the night flight gone, along with the soothing baritone of Luke Bryan on the Hot Country playlist she’d put on repeat because nothing really bad happened in a country song. Just tears and beers. Easy enough to switch the pronouns, and she did. He rhymed with she, and them worked just as well as him. Those songs also gave her an education on a standard-issue southern upbringing. Homemade rolls prepared with bacon grease, rope swings launching people into swimming holes, tailgate drinks and dalliances—little details she peppered into conversation with fellow southerners when she felt homesick for a life she’d been denied.
Bits of rain streaked the window. She wound her headphone wires and tucked them into their carrying case. She’d need to be fully present and on guard given who awaited her. As she neared the exit, heat crept inside and nipped at her bare ankles. One step back onto Arkansas soil and she’d be back in this life.
She descended the wobbly plane stairs onto the tarmac. Below the smell of stale airplane coffee and fuel and concrete: rain, grass, wildflowers, and freshness. Country living had its appeal if you could afford the land and no one minded that you were different. Almost instantly, the humidity stole her breath and energy. As soon as she left the tarmac, she peeled off her hoodie and shoved it into her backpack.
She’d seen bodegas bigger than the boarding area. Gate agents yawned. The gestures of talking heads from muted ceiling-mounted TVs screamed. A swarm of belt-buckled and decked-out-in-Razorback-red passengers waited for their long-delayed flight on the plane she’d departed. Panic bloomed in her bloodstream, as it had when she’d received those texts from Diane a few days prior, a hot blur of a barely remembered exchange. As always, her mind wandered back to the blood. The body. The headlines. The nickname.
Jane hoped it had been forgotten by now.
Guess who.
They found him.
I TOLD YOU THEY WOULD.
Time to come home.
Time to pay for what YOU DONE.
Let me know when you’re here.
What’s your flight number?
What time you getting in?
And then the last one: And don’t think about running!
A normal person would get back on that plane. Disembark in Dallas or take off to a new destination. Maybe Idaho, Montana, somewhere desolate and boring. Change her hair. Change her name. Even if she had it in her to run away once more, the math would show it wasn’t an option. The highest balance in her accounts belonged to credit cards, not savings or checking. Over the past month she’d lost her job and her girlfriend, which also meant she’d lost her home. Bad things came in threes. She hoped the lost home would count as the third strike in the equation and that her new home wouldn’t be a cell in McPherson Unit. But then again, that was why she had returned to Arkansas.
In Boston, no one knew about Warren, about the gap in Jane’s life, the hole she filled with lies. When the conversation shifted to family, she typically smiled, said they weren’t close, downed most of her wine, and drowned any convulsive need to confess that she’d been small-town famous once on account of a crime.
They’d all sworn—Jane, Georgia Lee, Jason, Angie—to never tell another soul about that night. Then Jane had gone and broken that promise.
She clutched the handle of her suitcase to steady herself, gathered some air into her lungs, pulled the T-shirt away from her neck.
“You all right, honey?” A woman who looked older than her years due to cigarette lines around her lips offered a look of concern. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” Jane lied. “Thank you,” she added with a smile when the woman was taken aback at Jane’s clipped reply.
Past the security gate, women with large purses and men in bent-bill caps welcomed loved ones with bear hugs. Snatches of that comforting yet assaulting accent met her ears, like the letters shuffled across tongues only to fire out of the mouth once they hit the tip. No one greeted her. But she could swear they did a double take despite her changed appearance, even though nothing had shown up on the local news or social media channels yet. She’d checked.
Jane hadn’t seen Diane in so long she wasn’t sure she’d recognize her. Before the slew of texts a few days previous, they’d rarely communicated; they hadn’t spoken on the phone in years. She wasn’t sure she’d recognize Diane’s voice if she heard it. Her body would know, though. A biological link to her mother, like some primal response to a predator.
She reached the restroom and braced herself. Women startled when she walked into restrooms, as if they’d never seen a woman with short hair and hips not built for birthing. Arkansas being a concealed carry state, she decided not to correct the person should the situation present itself. As soon as she walked into the restroom, the automatic air freshener clicked on and spritzed its floral scent, nearly scaring the shit out of her. But no one else occupied a stall. She considered that good fortune, a sign of things to come. She splashed her face, avoiding the mirror and any desire to compare and contrast the girl she’d been to the woman she’d become. No need. The limp hair and white skin that screamed malnutrition were things of the past. At least, she hoped so.
Her hands shook. She had to pull herself together.
Five minutes later, she’d traversed the length of the airport, from rental cars to baggage claim to ticket counters. No sign of Diane.
Outside the building, she texted: Where are you? She stared at her phone. A notificationless screen stared back. Not that she expected Diane to respond. She couldn’t help but wonder if Diane had no intention of picking her up and had asked for Jane’s flight information just to mess with her. There was a fucked-up comfort in that, in wishing for something from her mom and confirming that Diane didn’t care. That felt like home.
She mapped out her destination. No buses that ran at reasonable times. No Uber or Lyft or cab that could or would arrive in less than an hour. A rental car, out of the question. Over an hour to walk. She’d walked farther, but not with a suitcase and a backpack. And not across the bridge, the one she’d had so much trouble crossing after her release that she’d left town to avoid navigating it altogether. After another glance at her phone, she hefted the backpack onto her shoulders, gripped the suitcase, and stepped off the sidewalk.
Empty fields surrounded the barren service road that wound its way to town. At the four-way stop, she paused. If she took a right, she’d eventually reach the hill towns of the Ozarks, where she was as likely to trip across an artist colony as a blown-out meth trailer. Ahead of her, in the distance, the lights of Maud Proper beckoned with promises of deep-fried savory and sweet delights, a small indie bookstore, brewpubs with live bands most nights. Probably shitty food, she reasoned, to soothe a sudden ache. Any other Thursday night, she’d occupy a bar seat at her favorite restaurant, inhale the warm-hug scent of a Parker House roll, let a fine rare sirloin melt on her tongue, a beefy red coat her throat. Luxuries for a life she hadn’t thought possible when they arrested her at seventeen. She cursed herself for not indulging in one last meal before leaving Boston.
