by Penny Reid
“That wasn’t me. I didn’t have my phone,” I said, noting that so far her story matched the one she’d told the police.
“I know that now. But at the time you and Cletus were missing, weren’t you?” My mother lifted a sardonic eyebrow and sent us both a chiding look, an expression I hadn’t seen on her face in ages.
Usually this look flustered me—less now than when I’d been younger—but presently all I could do was smile, feeling relief in the face of her judgmental spirit and reprimand.
“Indeed,” Cletus conceded, sounding almost cheerful. “Then what happened?”
“Like I said, I got a text from Jenn’s phone—I don’t know who sent the text, just that it came from her phone—telling me to meet her in the bakery lot. You can read the message if you want, I still have it saved.”
“Maybe later.” Cletus dismissed her offer. “You left the party?”
“I did.”
“Did anyone see you?” I asked.
“I have no idea. I left thinking I was coming to meet you, I wasn’t worried about who might be watching. So I walked to the lot and—” her gaze dropped, she swallowed like the action was reflexive “—and I saw a man running through the parking lot, running like he was in a hurry. He stopped at a car and walked up to the driver’s side. My mind was working because I was thinking, ‘Wait, is that Kip’s BMW?’ I got mad all over again, thinking he’d come back to stir up more trouble.”
“Did you see the man? Did you get a good look at him?”
“No, not—not really.”
“What can you tell us?” Cletus looked to me and then back to my momma. “Was he tall or short? Big or small of stature? Fat or thin or neither?”
“He was tall, wore dark clothes. His back was to me most of the time, but he had big shoulders. A big frame. It could’ve been anybody.”
I twisted my lips, thinking back over the list of suspects Jackson had given Ashley. Tall, big shoulders. Kenneth Miller, Old Man Blount, Jedidiah Hill—and even Cletus—they all fit this description. Kenneth Miller was heavier set than the others, Jedidiah Hill wasn’t as tall.
“It could’ve been anyone. I was too far away and busy thinking about being mad at Kip for returning. But I did see it happen.” My momma covered her face, her voice breaking, and Cletus backed off, seeming to sense that she needed a minute. After breathing in and out several times, she sniffed and dropped her hands. “I was marching over there, and the man banged something against the rear window, banged it hard. He yelled something I couldn’t make out. Then, all of a sudden, there was a gun, and the man was pointing it at the driver’s side window. I stopped, not sure what I was seeing, or not believing my eyes. He . . . he shot into the car.” My mother’s stare seemed unfocused and entranced, like she was rewatching the events unfold.
“What was he wearing? The man with the gun.” Cletus asked, his voice just above a whisper, like he didn’t want to break her out of a trance.
“He—the man was—a—a suit, I think.”
“What color was it?”
“I don’t know, it was dark. Dark clothes. Maybe it wasn’t a suit. He had a jacket. Everything was dark. I just saw him lift his hand and shoot into a car. I was so startled, I didn’t even scream. I just fell to my knees in the grass.”
“What happened next?”
“He said something. He spoke to Kip. He said something like, ‘Time to come out’ or ‘Get out of the car.’”
“The man in the suit talked to Kip? After he shot him?” Cletus maintained his serene tone.
“I know it doesn’t make any sense, it didn’t make sense to me at the time, but he did.”
A thought occurred to me. “What about his voice? Did you recognize the man’s voice?”
Despite my attempt to mimic Cletus’s gentle cadence, she flinched, her gaze cutting to mine. “No,” she said, her voice firm.
I did my best to keep my features clear of expression because, in that moment, I got a nagging sense that this statement was a lie. I pressed, “But you heard the words?”
“I was too far away, Jennifer. Too distressed.” Renewed anxiety entered her voice and she seemed to be talking to herself now. “Even if I thought I recognized the voice, there’s no way I can be certain. It could have been anyone.”
“I’m not asking you to be certain, just—Momma, who did it sound like?”
Her attention flicked to Mr. Repo, and she gathered a deep breath that sounded unsteady. “I don’t know. I honestly couldn’t say. All I know is the man with the gun told Kip to get out of the car, or that’s what I thought at first. But then someone else opened the back door of the car, the passenger side, and started running away.”
Cletus brushed the back of his hand against mine before I could question her again about the man’s voice, cutting in, “Who ran away?”
“I have no idea. I was too busy watching the man with the gun, afraid to move.”
“Momma, could you tell if the person who ran was big or small? Was it a woman or a man?”
“Small, I think. Small, but real fast. She—she, maybe a woman? She ran like the devil was chasing her.”
Cletus and I shared a look, and he asked, “What happened after that?”
“Um, I—uh, the—the man ran after her. The man with the gun ran after the person who’d jumped out of the back seat, shooting at her. He shot into the bakery, up high, and I heard glass break.”
“Which direction?” Cletus pushed away from the kitchen island. “Which direction did they run?”
“Uh. Away. North, I think. Wait, yes. Of course it was north, past the bakery and into the woods.”
“Okay. North.” Cletus scratched his cheek, his gaze unfocused. “Then what did you do?”
“I waited for, I don’t know, a second, a minute, then I ran to the car and I saw—I saw—” She sucked in a breath, her lashes fluttering. “I opened the door, and I didn’t know what to do, so I pressed my hands to where the blood was, trying to stop it. I thought maybe he was going to be okay, just passed out. But God, Cletus, I knew. I looked at his face and his eyes were wide open, and he was already gone. He was gone and still I tried waking him up, but he wasn’t asleep—”
Mr. Repo reached for her under the table, and his touch seemed to end her babbling. Her head fell forward and she covered her forehead with her palm, whispering, “He was dead.”
“You touched his cheek.” This was a confirmation of an earlier suspicion and I spoke it out loud, my heart twisting. “You were trying to wake him up.”
Even after everything he’d done to her, all the ways he’d terrorized her and us growing up, she’d tried.
“Yes. I shook him, I grabbed his face. I just thought if I could wake him up . . .” My mother heaved a sigh that sounded like it originated from her soul, her shoulders slumping forward.
“That’s where I found her.”
Mr. Repo’s quiet words had Cletus and I looking at him.
He leaned forward, his eyes on me. “She was kneeling outside his car, her hands covered in blood, trying to get him to wake up.”
Each gravelly word out of his stupid criminal mouth sounded like a butter knife scraping along a plate. It wasn’t like me to dislike a person I didn’t know. I couldn’t accurately pinpoint why he irritated me so much other than the obvious: Mr. Repo was a criminal, and if he’d minded his own damn business my mother wouldn’t be in this mess.
Crossing my arms, I returned his open gaze with a glare. “Speaking of which, why were you there?”
If my hostility bothered Mr. Repo, he didn’t show it. His eyes moved to my mother, and he seemed to be considering her. After several seconds, I got the sense he wasn’t considering her so much as considering his words.
Stalling.
Eventually, his attention shifted to Cletus, his stare now hard. “I reckon you know why.”
“Because you wanted to see Momma?” I asked, inserting myself into their exchange. I’d been the one to ask the question. If Cletus
suspected a different motivation, he hadn’t shared it with me.
“Before we go down that road paved with land mines”—Cletus placed his hand on my back and rubbed a big circle between my shoulder blades—“let’s get back to the events of March second. Repo found you outside Kip’s car, Diane. Covered in blood. What happened after that?”
“No, just her hands,” Mr. Repo corrected, sounding tired. “I pulled her away. She was in shock.”
“I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it,” my mother echoed, staring at her palms like they were still covered in blood. “Jason said we had to wash off my hands before anyone saw me. I thought maybe the bakery door was still unlocked—the desserts for the engagement party were in the freezer—so we went there.”
“And you washed your hands while Re—uh—Jason looked for a towel?” Cletus quit rubbing my back and crossed his arms once more.
“That’s right. But then Jackson was at the back door all of a sudden and”—my mother balled her hands into fists—“I panicked.”
“We panicked.” Mr. Repo covered her hand again. “It was my mistake, I misunderstood what I saw in the parking lot. But, yeah, we panicked, and I pulled her out of the bakery. We made a run for it.”
“Which way did you run?” Something about the way Cletus asked the question had me looking at him.
“I guess it was north.”
“You went north.” Cletus kept his eyes forward, his features schooled. I knew him, and in that moment, I knew he had a suspicion he wasn’t yet ready to share. “Why would you go north? Isn’t that the direction the man with the gun ran?”
Mr. Repo seemed confused by this question. “I didn’t know that. I’d parked my bike down the slope, and so that’s where we ran.”
“You didn’t see the gunman or the woman on your way to the lot from the slope?” Cletus pushed, his tone light but his eyes narrowing.
“No. I didn’t see the gunman or the woman. I’d parked my bike hours before and was coming back from the direction of the barn.”
“You were at the barn? Why were you at the barn? I don’t remember seeing you on the guest list.” I didn’t keep my tone light, not caring if I sounded antagonistic.
“Jenn, wait a minute. Before we get to that, let me finish this,” Cletus said, giving me a quick, tight smile. “Let me make sure I have this right: you parked your bike earlier in the evening, walked up the slope unseen, went to the barn—for reasons we shall address later—then left the barn. Why’d you leave the barn?”
“I realized Diane wasn’t there, she’d left. It was time for me to go so I thought I’d find her, say goodbye, and get on my way. Then I heard the shots.”
“And you ran toward them,” Cletus guessed.
“Not at first. I got low, found cover. When they stopped, I ran toward the sound. Like I said, Diane was missing, I worried. I wanted to lay eyes on her, make sure she was safe.”
My mother sent Mr. Repo a cherishing look, a small smile on her lips. The sight unsettled me, and I gave myself a mental kick.
If she’s happy with this tattooed, muscly reprobate, let her be happy.
I’d let her be happy if she were truly happy. But I could not comprehend my mother being happy in a relationship she’d kept secret from her own daughter.
Jennifer Anne Sylvester, stop being sore she didn’t tell you.
I wasn’t.
I’m not.
Cletus was speaking and—since I’d been busy arguing with myself—I only caught the tail end of his recap. “. . .came from the barn. You heard the shots, you took cover briefly. You didn’t see the man with the gun or the woman run into the north woods. You were looking for Diane. You then ran toward the shots. You found Diane at the car with Kip, y’all went to the bakery, washed her hands. Jackson pounds on the door, you take off into the north woods for the bike, having no idea that’s where the gunman and the woman went.”
“And I wasn’t thinking about it, honestly.” My mother appealed to the both of us. “I didn’t think about it. I was so out of it. I just went where Jason told me to go.”
“That’s understandable,” I said, giving my momma a sympathetic smile.
Cletus stroked his beard, a habit he’d picked up recently that made him look very mad-scientist-like. “When did the police come get you, Diane? When did they come to the house?”
“Early in the morning. Then they asked that I come with them to the police station.”
“And so you did,” Cletus said unnecessarily, but it seemed like maybe he was talking to himself.
“Yes, I did. And I called my lawyer as soon as I made it to the station. Jason said not to talk until she was present. Genevieve told me to keep quiet and not answer any questions at all, so I didn’t.”
“You pretended to be overwhelmed?” Cletus said, his tone leading and a little sneaky, like he was trying to catch her in a lie.
“No.” She shook her head, her expression open. “That wasn’t me pretending. Even if I’d wanted to, I wouldn’t have been able to speak that morning. I was so . . .”
“She was still in shock. She was in shock for days.” Mr. Repo’s hand came to her shoulder, squeezed.
“How do you know?” I snapped.
“Because I snuck in to check on her,” he answered evenly, like my tone had been congenial instead of surly. “I’d come in through her window at the back. And I’m glad I did because that surveillance van showed up two days after the murder.”
“They didn’t believe me, it seems. I didn’t kill him, but I guess I did lie.” My momma smiled like she thought this was funny, like we were talking about someone else who’d made a mistake and was now possibly going to go away for a murder she didn’t commit.
Cletus’s gaze fell on me, sympathetic yet firm, even though his words were for my mother. “Forgive my candor, but the story you told the police makes no sense. They know you’re lying. Your alibi is nonexistent. You have motive. They can’t confirm the prints on the door—the partial bloody handprint—is yours, but as soon as they do, they’ll issue a warrant.”
She covered her face with her hands again, breathing out.
He wasn’t finished. “No judge in his right mind is going to give her bail, not with the resources she has available and all the friends she has in this town. Breaking someone out of jail is so much harder than keeping them from it in the first place. Believe me, I know.”
Maybe Cletus thought I needed to hear the words in order to understand how truly trapped she was. To understand only one path remained to her unless we could prove, without a shadow of a doubt, someone else had killed my father.
She had to leave. Now. Before they arrested her and matched her print to the one on the car. We stood there in contemplative silence as the grim and certain burden of my mother’s situation pressed down on us.
Or maybe it only pressed down on me. A weight of frustration and helplessness and dumb, stupid acceptance.
This isn’t fair.
Whether or not my momma’s secret relationship with Mr. Repo had contributed, she’d seemed truly happy these last few months. Happy and content and busy. She hadn’t brought up my father in months. The wedding planning with Ashley, our shared mother-daughter time, the success of the Donner Dairy, the planned renovations at the lodge—my mother had been thriving.
And then my father shows up and ruins it all.
Where remorse at the uncharitable thought might have twisted in my stomach before, before these last weeks of worry and resentment, all I felt now was a stark gratitude that he was dead. My father had shown up that night intent on ruining the evening, but I’m certain he’d never planned to die.
And yet that’s what he’s always done. He shows up and ruins things, even in death.
I ground my teeth, irritated because I felt guilty for not feeling guilty, the constant emotional spin cycle where my father was concerned. I couldn’t seem to break free of it. When would I let go of him? Let go of the expectations he’d never lived up to a
nd the regret I carried that I could’ve done more to help him be a better person.
“We have no choice,” Mr. Repo said, pulling me from my thoughts. He locked eyes with my momma. “We have to go. Tonight. It’s the only way.”
Cletus’s eyes were still on me, like he was waiting for me to say something, to agree. I didn’t meet his gaze, I couldn’t look at my momma. If I did, I’d cry. I didn’t want to cry.
So I looked at Mr. Repo and said around the rocks in my throat, “This sucks.”
His attention lifted to me. Despite all the attitude I’d thrown at the man up to now, he gave me a small smile. “It does. But I know how to run. I promise, I’ll keep her safe.”
Finally, Cletus did speak. “If anyone can avoid police detection, it’s him.” The words low, quiet, imploring, like they were meant only for my ears, a reassurance. But Cletus didn’t touch me. Maybe he knew doing so might make me lose it.
I glared at Mr. Repo even though this wasn’t really his fault. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to defend himself or my mother, didn’t give words of consolation or defend this impossible decision. The man had made his promise to keep her safe and, apparently, that was all he offered me. Features open yet resigned, he returned my glare with a patient stare.
“Jennifer.”
My name spoken from my mother’s lips automatically pulled my attention to her. She’d stood at some point and now faced me. Her eyes wide and rimmed with red, her lips trembling, her hands shaking, she looked terrified.
Abruptly, my nose and eyes stung with the tears I’d avoided until now, and I choked out, “Momma.”
She opened her arms. “Come here.”
So I did. She gathered me in a hug just as my face crumpled. Dammit. I’d been fooling myself, thinking we’d find another way, convincing myself that as soon as she spoke freely and we heard her side of the story, we’d be able to clear her name. I hate this.
“I don’t want to go to jail, baby.” Her throat sounded like it was full of rocks too. She cleared it, but her voice continued to shake. “But if you asked me to stay, I would. I would do anything for you and—and your brother. Anything. I’d go to jail if it meant keeping y’all safe, if you needed me to stay.” I felt the tremors in her body as she spoke.