by Mary Gray
Praise for Mary Gray
You can definitely tell that the author did her research on personality disorders ... both personalities are well-thought-out and written distinctively. Very gripping and keeps you on the edge of your seat.
Readers' Favorite, 5-star review
Exquisite tension between the two experiences is well-crafted in a story which delicately walks the line between a psychological exploration and a thriller.
D. Donovan, Midwest Book Review
My Top Read of 2020. Gray boldly takes on abuse, mental health, the small town hive mind, and racism ... with grace and dignity.
Lynn, 2 Girls & A Book
Holy book hangover! Here I am 10 days days later and I am still thinking about this book.
Crystal, 2 Girls & A Book
In a heavily written genre where it can be difficult to innovate, The Girl at the Hanging Tree is a rewarding change of pace.
Jennifer Jackson, Indies Today
The Girl at the Hanging Tree
Mary Gray
Monster Ivy Publishing
Copyright © 2020 by Mary Gray
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Cammie Larsen
Cover image from shutterstock.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Mary Gray
To Toni, for giving me the pieces.
1
Consciousness hits me like a swift creek rolling over smooth and jagged boulders.
Hand on doorknob, back against door. It appears Tansy’s decided it’s time for me to take over.
Salt and pepper shakers go to war in my arms, so I shake them out. Grasp the nearest pillar.
Looks like my alter has left me on the side porch this time.
Settling my nerves, I remind myself, once again, of the few key details I know.
My name is Gemma Louise Coldiron. I live in Deep Creek, Texas, on the dead of a once-thriving Main Street.
Home is here—a boarded-up Victorian with a cupola and an iron fence that keeps everybody out. Tansy remembers everything that happened in our past, while I can barely remember much of anything.
My job is to go out to fetch food every two weeks. Of course, I’d like to come out more than that, but I do understand why Tansy never leaves. She has an extreme fear of the outside world and spends all her time drawing, painting, and embroidering pictures of dead bodies.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find that the second-nearest pillar says our house number is still 199. The holly bushes continue to be a mile high, and our cracked footpath expertly leads guests away from the house to the largest of our “No Trespassing” signs. Tourists like to stop by to take pictures of our house, but we do any and all things to keep them away. Tansy says they give her a migraine.
Well, I’d better get going if I’m going to get my hair done and shop before I return home by 6:30. Hopefully the store still has Tansy’s favorite—split pea soup and lemon chamomile tea.
It only takes me a few seconds to trot down our path and find the key beneath a palm-sized rock under the gate. The pokey iron fence digs into my hand, but it doesn’t take long to lift the corner of the rock and unearth the key.
I jiggle it into the padlock, which pops open. Sure, I could bring the key with me, but Tansy worries I might lose it. So I slip the key back under the rock, click the gate closed, and mostly close the lock.
Darting to the road, I drink in the sun, never more hungry for exercise. Tansy may have bad knees, but I’m able to shake them out well enough. Loosen my ligaments and joints.
Once I reach the railroad tracks, the grackles and I fly.
A newer, white-pillared mansion hunches on the left. The funeral home lurks like a bad omen to the right. The pink granite courthouse is just ahead, and, with its numerous towers and arches, it’s probably another relic from the late nineteenth century.
I jaunt past a sculpture of a pair of giant metal dice while the clock tower on the courthouse bellows out three rings. 3 PM already? Looks like I should have just enough time to finish my run, do my hair, and get the groceries.
My sneakers fit like armored socks; pink running shorts brush the gooseflesh on my skin mid-thigh. I probably look like any average woman on a run, but I tend to memorize every detail in case it goes away.
I love the wreath-adorned windows.
My, how the red, white, and blue Texas flags flap so jubilantly.
The wood-smoke wafting over the square could only come from Sweetie Pie Ribeye’s, and the pin-striped candy canes in front of Hey, Sugar remind me that their truffles are more dangerous than knives.
Three Victorian houses bow like old friends from the north end of the square, alternately painted red, blue, and green. Of course, The Hair Lounge back by Hey, Sugar is where I’m headed once I’m finished running.
Tansy’s idea of grooming is adorning our head with a crown of roses without brushing once—or even washing. I sincerely hope she hasn’t been sleeping with the cats again and gifted us with fleas.
Millwood, with its red brick and stone façade, seems to be waving for me to come over, but I tend to avoid the mental health facility.
By the time I’ve finished my three or so miles, I stumble into The Hair Lounge, covered in sweat and stinky enough to sidetrack a wolverine. Luckily, hair product has a way of covering that up, and Francesca, my hair stylist, is too nice to ever bat an eye.
“They’re putting in a taco joint!” Francesca shimmies back and forth while singing in her rich, alto voice. Squeezing me with her muscular arms, she hugs me like I’m a long-lost relative—or a serial killer she really wants to see die. Calming shea butter lotion wafts off her umber skin, sending me off to a Caribbean beach.
Releasing me from her iron-clad grip, Francesca sashays over to her hair-cutting chair. Stomps on the foot pedal. “It’s about time we got a restaurant with food that’s not barbecue or fried.”
Not about to argue, I take
a seat.
“Back in Atlanta, this cute little taqueria was my go-to place. After a long day, I’d get me fixed up with one of their bean and jalapeño burritos, mmm, mmm.”
“You sure you don’t want to go back to Josie’s?” I wink while she cloaks me with her slick, nylon cape.
The cape goes on a bit tight. Not that I blame Francesca. Josie’s was recently shut down after employees put Miralax on their pizza, mmm-mmm.
“Don’t you go harassing me, Missy!” Humor alights my good friend’s eyes until the moment I tug the elastic from my pony, and both of us set our sights on the undead creature in the mirror.
Long, dark hair streams down a woman’s face; jet-black circles rim her eyes. Her skin’s so pale, you could call her Dracula’s cousin, and the whole town would be on board for a reenactment, county-wide. I suppose this sickly twenty-five-ish creature is me, though it’s a tad hard to believe. I’d rather grab a kayak and float down the Trinity River than be a potted plant, sitting indoors all day.
What is clear is that, once again, Tansy’s failed to brush—or wash—our hair since our last visit. Not to mention the thick, almost black caterpillar growing over our eyes.
Francesca staggers backward. Her enormous eyes canvass all three-hundred-and-sixty degrees of my hair monstrosity. “Gemma Louise, now what’d you go and do? Stick your head in a turbine?”
“I’m a deep sleeper.” I tug a lingering rose petal from my hair. “And I like running.”
“But”—Francesca tentatively dabs at my hair with her palms, like she’s been asked to wrangle a dead porcupine—“it looks like you’ve been trying to tangle it for weeks.”
The back of my head gets itchy, and I reach up to scratch it when Francesca gives me the evil eye. I drop my hand. Best not exacerbate the point.
Huffing, she plants her feet shoulder-width apart and cups her chin with her hand, clearly trying to think how to help me. Nodding once, twice, she seems to decide everything at once when she says, “Don’t you worry, baby.” She glances around like we’ve been surrounded by WWII soldiers, and it’s time to head to the bunker ASAP.
Hair products pile in her arms, including a detangler, tweezers, and about thirty different wax products before she lifts her chin to the back row of sinks. “Ready?”
I follow without question. No more Dracula’s cousin, whoop, whoop! Or even that seedy girl from The Ring.
2
Since Francesca’s Wonder Woman, she has my hair and eyebrows done by 5:29. I’m going to be cutting Tansy’s 6:30 deadline pretty close, so I give Francesca a generous tip and a million thank yous before tearing away for groceries.
Grady Dean’s is on the other end of the square. They accept two dollar bills, which is convenient, since that’s the stack of bills Tansy’s provided me. The split pea soup sits on a shelf at the back, and the middle of the store houses all the herbal teas. Problem is, one of the workers is currently restocking the soup, and he’s not Francesca. Small talk with strangers isn’t exactly my forte.
Avoiding any and all eye contact, I can’t help noticing that the guy’s burgundy uniform, greasy collar-length hair, and long, slender arms give him an uncanny resemblance to Olive Oyl on Popeye. True, I’m able to remember old-timey and current pop culture references, but what I would give to remember one additional detail about my recent life.
Halting a full five feet away from the stranger, I set to work securing the fourteen cans of soup for Tansy. I settle the first in the cart. Make as little sound as possible, but I have to grab another and another—he’s going to want to talk to me.
It would be helpful if I knew how well I’m supposed to know him. In truth, I could have bought groceries from him for eons and have forgotten. Unfortunately, Grocery Boy’s flat gaze clings onto my shirt like iron shavings, and everything from his slouch to his skeevy expression makes me want to wash up in a pool of bleach.
I drop what I believe to be the fourteenth can into my cart and speed away like I’m a driver in a NASCAR race.
Deodorant. I need some deodorant.
I grab some, a few hairbrushes, and Tansy’s herbal tea. I think I may have successfully avoided all contact, when, the second I roll up to the counter, Grocery Boy comes strolling like the king of England past the cupcake display.
His skinny chest does this rattly heave as he watches me place Tansy’s cans, one by one, on the conveyor belt. His fingernails are crusted over with brown and yellow stains. Why are we the only ones in here? Why isn’t anybody else shopping?
I could tell him that the store looks really great, except that the strewn wrappers on the floor looks like he’s just survived a visit from a toddler—or an angry litter of puppies.
“You sure don’t deviate from your usual diet,” Grocery Boy says.
Oh, his voice is lower than I expected. And his chipped upper tooth doesn’t look like it’ll be hanging around much longer than the Fourth of July.
Though I’m sure I shouldn’t be so judgy. For all I know, he’s a really nice guy. Since he knows my eating habits, I must have bought food from him loads of times.
His movements are almost gentle as he scans the next soup can, the machine letting out a mechanical beep. “You goin’ to the tree lighting ceremony?”
I hadn’t even realized it was December already. Then again, the trees didn’t have any leaves. That’s the thing about winter in Texas—it can hand-deliver a blizzard, then, a day after, be in the 70s.
Grocery Boy still hasn’t set down his latest can, so I give him my best reply. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t seem to remember ... remind me of your name?”
Pausing, he continues holding the can while the check-out machine scans the same can at least four more times.
“Olly ...” He furrows his brow and leans forward, reeking of something much worse than engine grease. Whether we’ve had this conversation before, or we’ve known each other for years, I really cannot say. Though “Olly,” really does sound like Olive Oyl, so maybe that’s why I associated him with the cartoon character in the first place.
Regardless, I scramble for my wallet. It’s almost time for Tansy’s money. “I’m not sure if you know, but I lost my memory.”
Olly bares another chipped tooth as he stretches his mouth unusually wide. “Aw, sure you did!” While he chuckles, inky hair falls into his eyes. “‘I lost my memory ...’” He claps like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Ya know, I’d say that, too, if I were like you and wanted to avoid the slammer. You’re a resourceful one, Mrs. H!”
3
I run much faster than the grackles on my way home to Tansy. Doesn’t matter that I’m carrying groceries or that I don’t have time to linger at my favorite bridge. Doesn’t matter that my hair’s already a tangled mess and will probably be in even worse shape when I see Francesca next time.
Avoid the slammer? What did Olly mean?
I must have done something awful before I lost my memory.
Mrs. H?
Am I married? I glance down at my ring finger, but there’s not so much as a tan line where I may have worn a ring.
I know my first and middle names are Gemma and Louise, and Tansy always insists our last name is Coldiron, but maybe the H stands for Hardin—just like the name of our estate. That would make sense, but I always felt like there was a reason why Tansy staunchly avoids using that name. Maybe H stands for something completely different. Harris. Or Harvey.
From a pocket in my running shorts, I pull out a piece of paper with the three foundational rules Tansy wrote for us to live by. Lengthening my stride, I clutch it tightly in my fist, trying to think.
Rule Number 1, she wrote, Stay in Deep Creek. Naturally, this rule is for me. I once ended up lost and disoriented in another town. The police had to bring me home, completely disillusioned, to an extremely worried Tansy. I don’t remember how long ago that was, but Tansy insists it was traumatizing.
Rule Number 2, I know the next one says, Don’t let anyone in the
house. This one’s for Tansy. People don’t exactly understand her macabre style of art. She says she depicts people without their arms and legs because she likes to make sense of unhappy endings, but sometimes I think she creates all that stuff just to get a rise out of me.
Rule Number 3 has big, fat, red underlines. I slow my run. Set my cans on the shoulder of the road to unravel the paper so I can see. In Tansy’s wonky letters, she’s written, Do not discuss our history.
Another rule for me. When I didn’t understand why I had to disappear every two weeks, Tansy underlined this final rule and explained, You have an almost unmanageable thirst for adventure. I know it makes me seem like the villain, but not answering your every question is for your own good, G. You can count on me to keep you whole and safe.
I suppose there’s wisdom in that. Both of us will do anything to prevent the avalanche—even more alters taking root in our already crowded mind.
When I return home, the bronze wall clock in the hall says it’s 6:28. I take off my shoes. Splash some much-needed water on my face.