Truth Be Told

by Kathleen Barber

  And then I did. A small, shuffling noise, so soft I nearly missed it.

  Stepping into the barn, I called my sister’s name again. “Lanie. I know you’re in here.”

  The silence that responded was so deafening, I almost wondered if I’d imagined hearing something.

  “I’m not leaving until you come out,” I said.

  Something creaked above me, and I snapped my head upward, squinting into the darkness. My eyes were slowly adjusting to the lack of light, and I could see just enough to catch a subtle flutter of movement near the ceiling. The loft. I pointed my iPhone skyward, but the weak beam petered out long before it reached the loft. In the dark, I heard a faint humming noise—with a start, I recognized it as the “Brother John” nursery rhyme.

  “Lanie,” I pleaded. “Come on. I know you’re in here.”

  A streak of light erupted from above. My sister stepped to the edge of the loft, holding a flashlight under her chin. The light cast long shadows on her pale face, transforming her into a ghoulish impersonation of my sister.

  “I’m here.”

  “What are you doing up there?” I called, even though I wasn’t certain I wanted to know.

  “Do you remember that time you and I were playing up here, and a bat swooped down at us?”

  I nodded. Lanie and I were eight, that in-between age when we still wanted to play make-believe but were getting too adventurous for our own good. We had loaded knapsacks with dolls and pink plastic teacups and had scaled the steep ladder to the barn loft, intent on hosting a tea party on the bales of hay. Never comfortable with heights, I had always been afraid of the loft—even before the bat descended upon us. It had grazed my head, its leathery wings stirring the air and raising goosebumps on the back of my neck. I shrieked in terror and ducked, my arms clutched over my head. I didn’t recall my sister screaming. Lanie had remembered it right—she really had always been the brave one.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Dad said it wanted to join the tea party.”

  “Remember how Pops climbed up here with a broom to save us? And how he was swinging the thing around? And Grammy was standing there on the barn floor, hollering to Pops to be careful, that he was going to fall and break his neck?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you ever think it’s funny how concerned humans are with their own mortality? Pops didn’t fall and break his neck. He didn’t die that afternoon, but he did die five years later. And do you think that those five years really made a difference, in the scheme of things? A few more harvests, a few more Christmases. A heart attack. And then, bam! Some drunk kid takes you right out of existence.”

  “Five years is a long time, Lanie. And life is a precious thing.”

  “But is it really? What if you don’t do anything worthwhile with your life? What if, instead of making the world a better place or doing anything even remotely redeemable, you’re actually responsible for destroying the happiness of others?”

  “Lanie, why don’t you come down? I’d feel a lot more comfortable getting existential if you were on solid ground.”

  She dropped the flashlight to her side, plunging her face back into darkness. “Sorry, sister. I’m not coming down. Not that way.”

  “Then I’m coming up,” I said, my pulse thundering in my ears. “Okay?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The ladder felt more insubstantial than I had remembered, and I struggled to quell a wave of fear. I allowed myself small comfort in the fact that the wood felt solid, unlike the soft, rotting planks of the front porch. I was grateful for the darkness as I ascended the ladder; it kept me from seeing the ground. I was only minimally more comfortable once I had pulled myself up onto the loft, the forgotten remnants of ancient hay whispering under my feet. I couldn’t bring myself to approach the edge where Lanie stood. As children, she loved to stand at the edge and stare down at the busy barn below, like a queen surveying her kingdom. I could never stand beside her; I was too scared. It always struck me as unfair. We were twins. How did the ability to withstand heights fail to imbed itself in my genes? In time, I would come to realize that it wasn’t just heights; my sister wasn’t afraid of anything.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “What are you doing here?” she echoed back.

  “Looking for you,” I said, wanting to take a step toward her but finding my feet unwilling to move.

  “You weren’t supposed to,” she said, lifting one foot and dangling it over the void. My heart leapt into my throat. “Didn’t Ann give you my letter?”

  “She did. Can you please stop doing that with your foot?”

  Lanie met my eyes and leaned forward slightly, daringly. Even though she said she didn’t want me to find her, part of me wondered if she had been waiting for me. She knew I’d look for her. Maybe she wanted me to save her. Maybe, after all those times when I had done exactly that, she expected it.

  “Lanie,” I begged. “Don’t.”

  She sighed and put her foot back where it belonged. “I don’t know what to do, Josie. I’ve made such a mess of everything.”

  At one point in the not-too-distant past, I would have agreed with her. Lanie was the emotional equivalent of a bulldozer: nothing—and no one—was safe. She had consistently abused our long-suffering aunt, driven our delicate, tormented mother into the arms of a cult, and destroyed my relationship with Adam, robbing me of any sense of stability in the process. For nearly a third of my life, I had blamed my sister for everything—but I was starting to realize just how unfair I had been. Adam had played more than a passing role in his betrayal, our mother had emotionally abandoned us long before Lanie put that pillow over her face, and my time abroad had, in the end, probably been good for me. The only thing that Lanie was responsible for making a mess of was herself.

  And so I extended a hand to my sister and said, “That’s not true. Come on. Let’s go home.”

  “I can’t go home.” She aimed her flashlight over the edge of the loft, to the hard ground that I knew existed beneath the cover of darkness. “I’m sorry.”

  “Think of your daughter, Lanie. She needs her mother.”

  Lanie’s face twitched. “She’ll be better off without me.”

  “That is absolutely not true,” I said, summoning all my courage and taking a reckless step toward her with an outstretched arm.

  Lanie whirled toward me, moving so fast that she wobbled. I stopped short, choking on fear while my sister regained her balance.

  “It is true. A girl needs a mother she can look up to, someone she can emulate. She needs a role model. That’s not me. I can’t be that person. I’ve tried—oh my God, have I tried—but I can’t do it. I’m a bitter, unhappy mess, and all I can give is pain and suffering.”

  “Lanie, no. You might be unhappy right now, but you won’t always be. Trust me. You have people who love and care about you, people who will help you. You have me.”

  I reached for my sister’s hand, and this time she didn’t jerk away.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your life,” she said softly.

  “My life is just fine,” I said, squeezing her hand tightly. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

  “I ruin everything.”

  “Stop it. That isn’t true.”

  She tugged her hand away from me and switched off her flashlight, receding into the shadows. “You don’t know everything I’ve done.”

  Do you think Lanie might have pulled that trigger? Adam’s words materialized in my head, pulsating and bloodred. If Warren Cave didn’t shoot him, what other reason would she have for saying he did?

  Swallowing my fear, I said, “Then tell me.”

  There was no answer, and I swept a hand in front of me, looking for my sister in the pitch-black. The small flame of a lighter flared suddenly, and I startled backward.

  “Cut that out. Think of the hay. It’s a fire trap in here.”

  She ignored my warning, inhaling audibly and making the tip of a cigarette glow cherry-red i
n the darkness.

  “Lanie,” I insisted. “Please. Let’s get out of this barn.”

  She said nothing, the up-and-down movements of the cigarette the only evidence I had she was there. Then, on an exhalation, so quiet that I almost missed it, she said, “I don’t think it was Warren Cave.”

  “What?” I demanded, sure that I had misheard her mangled words. “What did you just say?”

  “I don’t think it was Warren Cave,” she repeated more clearly. “I don’t think he killed our father.”

  My blood went cold in my veins. If Warren Cave didn’t shoot him—

  “Wait,” I said, interrupting my own thought process. “You don’t think? You mean you don’t know?”

  “No,” she whispered. “I don’t know. I used to be certain. But now everything’s all mixed up. I don’t think it was him.”

  “Who was it?” I asked, barely daring to breathe.

  She shrugged slightly.

  I exhaled; my blood thawed and began to travel sluggishly through my body once more. This wasn’t going to be a confession; this was confusion.

  “Lanie,” I said carefully, “tell me the truth. Have you taken something?”

  She sniffled and dropped the cigarette, its glowing tip disappearing under the blackness of her foot. “That’s not what this is, Josie.”

  “When was the last time you slept?”

  “You don’t believe me,” she said, her voice incredulous in the dark. “I’m finally telling the truth, and you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you,” I said, worried that I was about to lose her again. “I believe you when you say you’re not certain anymore. But I also believe that you’re extremely tired and possibly not entirely sober right now. Let’s just go home, and we can talk again after you’ve had some sleep. I promise.”

  “I can’t sleep yet, don’t you understand? Everything is a mess.” She grit her teeth audibly. “On the one hand, I have this really clear memory of seeing Warren Cave walk through the back door. I remember his big black coat, his dyed black hair. I remember seeing him put a gun to the back of Dad’s head, and I remember hearing him say, ‘This is all your fault.’ And then I remember him pulling the trigger.”

  Something sparked in a recess of my brain. I opened my mouth to ask Lanie to repeat herself, but she’d already moved on.

  “But then sometimes that memory isn’t quite as clear. Sometimes I think he said something else, something . . . something about a pearl. Sometimes I can see his hair, but not his face. And then sometimes it’s more clear, but clear in a way that I know can’t be right. Like, sometimes I can see his hand on the gun so clearly that it’s like a photograph. But I can also see this flash of gold on his hand.”

  “Warren could have been wearing a ring,” I said. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “Except,” Lanie said slowly, scratching at her chest with her nails, leaving angry little welts down her skin, “I can see the ring because it was facing me. I was standing to his left. The ring was on his left hand. It was a wedding ring.”

  I blinked. “A wedding ring? You mean like what Melanie might wear?”

  “Was Melanie left-handed?” she asked. “The hand with the ring was the hand holding the gun.” She paused to gulp. “And Warren was right-handed.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Remember how he spent most of the trial with his head bent over his notepad, scribbling? I stared at him so much during that trial that I’m certain. He was writing with his right hand.”

  This is all your fault.

  “You know—” Lanie started.

  This is all your fault, and you will answer for it.

  “This is all your fault,” I interrupted. “That’s what you heard? Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I am about anything.”

  “But it’s not new, right? That you think that?”

  Confused, Lanie shook her head. “No, I’ve always thought that was what I heard.”

  “Melanie Cave,” I said confidently. “She left a voicemail for Dad the day he was killed. She said, ‘This is all your fault.’ ”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, something akin to hope flickering through her eyes.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure. Poppy played it during one of the podcasts.”

  “Melanie Cave,” she said quietly. She exhaled a sigh that sounded like relief and switched on her flashlight, blinding me suddenly. “It was Melanie Cave all along.”

  Discussion thread on www.reddit.com/r/reconsideredpodcast, posted September 30, 2015

  The Melanie Voicemails (self.reconsideredpodcast)

  submitted 8 hours ago by jennyfromtheblock

  Can we talk about those voicemails Melanie Cave left for Chuck Buhrman? “You will answer for it”? That seems incredibly damning right? Why didn’t anyone bring that up at trial?

  miranda_309 72 points 7 hours ago

  Because Melanie was the one paying the defense attorney.

  attractivenuisance 30 points 6 hours ago

  But zealous advocacy! Source: second-year law student

  miranda_309 49 points 6 hours ago

  You’re cute.

  Source: practicing attorney

  attractivenuisance 12 points 6 hours ago

  Are you suggesting that Warren’s attorney was violating ethics rules? And that she was doing so on purpose?

  jennyfromtheblock 81 points 4 hours ago

  MELANIE CAVE, GUYS. Come on, stay on topic.

  chapter 22

  I coaxed Lanie into the passenger seat of the rental car, promising we could return for her vehicle later. On the ride back to town, she sat so silently I thought she might have fallen asleep, but when I glanced over at her, I saw she was staring out the window at the moonlight streaming across the flat, empty fields. Her face was like a mask, betraying no emotion. I wondered what she was thinking, if she was replaying that horrible night in her mind’s eye and now recognizing the perpetrator as Melanie Cave.

  “I don’t want to go home just yet,” Lanie said as we crossed the city limits. “Take me to Aunt A’s.”

  “Are you sure? Adam is really worried about you.”

  “I’ll call him and let him know I’m all right.”

  “Lanie—”

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning, Josie. Coming home at this hour would upset Ann. Besides, I don’t want her to see me like this. Not until I’ve had some sleep, or at least a shower.”

  “You’re her mother, Lanie,” I reminded her softly. “She loves you just as you are.”

  “I know,” she said, still gazing out the window. “All the same. I don’t want her to worry about me the same way we worried about Mom.”

  • • •

  Aunt A’s house was dark and quiet, the sole sound the steady ticking of the hallway clock. Bubbles was the only inhabitant who was awake, and he greeted us by weaving circles around our ankles, rubbing himself insistently against our shins until Lanie scooped him up.

  “Do you want me to make up the daybed in the craft room for you?” I offered.

  Lanie shook her head. “I’m not tired.”

  I regarded her suspiciously, cataloguing the dark circles under her eyes and the tension in her jaw. “When was the last time you slept?”

  “Fine,” she conceded. “I’ll try to sleep, but I’m not promising anything. Don’t bother with the daybed. I’ll just stretch out on the couch.”

  “I can stay down here with you,” I offered, uneasy with the thought of leaving Lanie alone in such close proximity to the door.

  “I’m not a flight risk, Josie,” she said softly. “I’m going to be all right. Go upstairs and sleep in your own bed. You look like you could use the rest, and I’m probably just going to end up watching TV.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” she said, kissing my cheek. “Now go to bed.”

  Upstairs, I crawled into bed beside Caleb. Still mostly asleep, he murmured something ind
istinct and threw an arm over me, pulling my body snugly against his. With Caleb’s heart beating against my back and the comforting knowledge that Lanie was safely in the house, my body finally began to relax, and I fell headlong into the deepest sleep I had gotten in weeks.

  • • •

  “Josie.”

  I blinked into the darkness, unsure whether hearing my name had been a dream, unsure whether I was even actually awake.

  “Josie,” my sister’s voice hissed. “Are you sleeping?”

  “Mm,” I murmured, coming awake. “Lanie?”

  “Get up,” she whispered, clutching at my hand. “I need to show you something.”

  The urgency in her voice tripped an alarm inside me. I eased out of Caleb’s embrace and followed Lanie down the front stairs. The hallway clock chimed four just as Lanie led me into the living room, where the UPS box of our mother’s things sat open on its side. Beads, scarves, photographs, and other objects had all been removed and heaped into small piles arranged in a circle on the floor.

  “You were supposed to be sleeping,” I reminded my sister.

  “I told you I wasn’t tired,” she said. “So I started going through Mom’s things.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Have you seen this?” Lanie asked, snatching something bright yellow up from the floor. She held it out to me. The Official Handbook of the Life Force Collective.

  “Yeah.” I frowned, remembering our mother’s notation. Best. What had she meant by that? Getting away from us was the best part? Or leaving us was for the best?

  “You’ve read it?” she asked, her voice turning shrill. “And no one bothered to tell me? You didn’t think I’d want to know?”

  “Whoa, calm down. I didn’t know that you cared about the handbook. I’m sorry.”

  Lanie paused, peering at me curiously. “How far did you read?”

  I shrugged. “Only up to the first chapter. Aunt A got pretty upset, so we stopped.”

  “There’s something I think you should see,” she said somberly. “Start at the back.”

  My skin prickled as I took the handbook from her and flipped to the end. I was so surprised by what I saw that I cried out. The last pages of the handbook were blank pages titled Space for Notes—and they were covered in our mother’s handwriting. It was cramped, shaky, and upside-down, but I could recognize her distinctive scrawl, the little flags she put on her ks and hs.