The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [129]
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Lisbeth thought the neighborhood would be a dump. But as she drove west on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard and followed Violet’s directions—past the Home Depot and Best Buy and Olive Garden, then a right on Village Boulevard—it was clear she didn’t need to lock the car doors. Indeed, as she pulled up to the guard gate for Misty Lake—A Townhome Community, the only thing she had to do was lower her window.
“Hi, I’m visiting unit 326,” Lisbeth explained to the guard, remembering Violet’s instructions to not use her name. Of course, it was silly. Lisbeth already had her address—who cared about her name?
“ID, please,” the guard said.
As she handed over her driver’s license, Lisbeth added, “I’m sorry, I think it’s unit 326—I’m looking for . . .”
“The Schopfs—Debbie and Josh,” the guard replied, handing her a guest parking pass for the dashboard.
Lisbeth nodded. “That’s them.” Waiting until the security gate closed behind her to scribble the name Debbie Schopf in her notepad, she followed the signs and never-ending speed bumps past row after row of identical pink townhomes, eventually pulling into the guest spot just outside the narrow two-story house with blinking holiday lights dangling from above the door and an inflatable snowman in the thriving green garden. Christmas in Florida at unit 326.
Heading up the front path, Lisbeth tucked her notepad into her purse and out of sight. Violet was already nervous on the phone. No reason to add to—
“Lisbeth?” a female voice called out as the door of the townhouse swung open.
Lisbeth looked up at eye level, which put her directly at Violet’s dark brown neck. It wasn’t until she craned her neck up that Lisbeth saw the full picture of the stunning 5'10" African-American woman standing in the doorway. Wearing faded jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt, Violet almost seemed to be trying to dress like a mom. But even standard suburban uniforms couldn’t mask the beauty underneath.
“You . . . uh . . . you wanna come in?” Violet asked, her voice shaky as she lowered her head and looked away.
Lisbeth assumed she was being shy. Probably embarrassed. But as she got closer—walking past Violet and entering the house—she got her first good look at Violet’s left eyebrow, which appeared to be cut in two by a tiny white scar that sliced through her dark, otherwise perfect skin.
“That from— He do that?” Lisbeth asked, even though she knew the answer.
Violet looked up, her shoulders arching like a cornered cat—then just as quickly, her posture leveled as she regained her calm. For Lisbeth, it was like glancing too late at a just-missed lightning bolt. Two seconds ago, rage detonated in Violet’s eyes, then disappeared in an eyeblink. Still, like the lost lightning bolt, the afterimage was too strong. Lisbeth couldn’t miss it. And in that moment, she saw the brash, confident, and swaggering self-assured woman that the young twenty-six-year-old Violet used to be. And who she’d never be again.
“I don’t want my picture in the paper. Or my name,” Violet whispered, tugging her bangs over the fleshy white scar.
“I’d never do that,” Lisbeth promised, already kicking herself for pushing too fast. From the plastic pink tea set scattered along the floor and the baby doll stroller in the entryway, Violet had a great deal to lose. No way Lisbeth was getting the story without a softer touch.
“Adorable,” Lisbeth said, heading up the main hallway and admiring a framed family photo of a little white girl running through a sprinkler, her mouth open with her tongue licking the water.
Violet barely responded.
Lisbeth turned. Every parent likes to talk about their kids.
Halfway up the main hallway, Lisbeth scanned the rest of the family photos along the wall. The girl in the sprinkler. Pictured again with a redheaded woman at the beach. And again with the redhead at a pumpkin patch.
As Lisbeth scanned all the photos, she noticed that every shot had white people in it. Indeed, not one—not a single one—had anyone who was black.
Lisbeth underestimated her. Violet—or whatever her name was—wasn