by Laura McHugh
The mist was turning to snow as I rounded the curve of the Sullivans’ driveway. It coated the fields in a soft white dust. I was relieved not to see anyone in the circle drive out front, until my headlights glanced off Shane’s Firebird parked beside the barn. I drove up next to it, skidding dangerously close, but didn’t see anyone inside, so I pulled up to the house and got out. One of the double front doors hung open, the wind dragging it nearly shut and then slamming it against the wall.
I climbed the porch steps, which were edged with ice, and eased into the house. “Hello?” I called. “Mr. Sullivan?” A cellphone lay on the floor in the entry, the screen splintered, but there was no sign of anyone. I knelt to pick up the phone and saw, on the polished wood floor, a single drop of blood. I ran to the staircase, calling for Charlie, but the house was silent. I went back outside to check Shane’s car, hollering Charlie’s name, and finally heard a faint reply.
“Sadie.”
His voice wisped down from above, and I looked up into the falling snow, scanning the barn and the silo, where I spotted Charlie’s pale face in the dark. I broke for the staircase and bounded up as fast as I could, circling higher and higher, my hands clutching the frozen rail. The snow thickened, falling in clumps, swirling down to melt on my face and wet my hair.
When I reached the platform, breathless, Charlie was alone.
“What are you doing up here?”
“I was with Earl. Raymond went in the house after Jason. I think he took off.”
“Raymond Pettit? Where’s Earl now?”
Charlie shook his head, dazed. He was shaking. “I just wanted him to tell me what happened to her.”
He turned to face me, and I saw the shotgun held loosely at his side. My stomach lurched.
“You shot him?”
“No—I just wanted to scare him,” Charlie said. “It’s not loaded.” He was sobbing now, his shoulders heaving up and down.
“Charlie! Did he fall?”
He wiped his face with his coat sleeve. “He closed his eyes,” Charlie said. “Like he was praying. And then he went over the rail.”
“Did you call 911?”
“He said they were already coming,” Charlie mumbled. “That they’re on the way.”
“Come on.” I grabbed his sleeve and dragged him down the stairs, leaving him at the bottom while I circled the silo to find Earl. Halfway around, I nearly tripped over him. Earl was splayed on the frozen ground, unmoving, and the snow was working to shroud his body. Grateful that it was too dark to get a good look at him, I knelt by his side and tried to find a pulse with half-numb fingers, but couldn’t. My hand came away dripping blood and I scrubbed it in the snow until my skin stung. I still didn’t hear sirens, so I called for an ambulance myself, told them Earl Sullivan was unresponsive, hung up as they started asking questions.
I ran back to Charlie, who clung to the railing, half dazed, the gun at his feet. I picked it up. “Do you have a blanket in your car? Something to cover him.”
“Uh…yeah. I think so.”
We hurried back to the Firebird. Charlie unlocked the trunk and pulled out the old tarp that lined the bottom, handing it to me. As I laid his shotgun down in the trunk, something caught my eye. A small lock, embedded in the floor. Looking closer in the faint light, I saw the outline of a panel. The tarp slid to the ground, my hands shaking. I hesitated, thinking of Earl, but there was nothing to be done for him aside from covering his body. That could wait.
I took out my keychain and grasped the key Shane had hidden in the pie safe. It slid into the lock and turned, and I lifted the metal panel. Shane had fabricated a shallow storage compartment, presumably when he’d rebuilt the car, and inside it lay a rifle. My heart felt as though it was being squeezed in an unrelenting fist.
“Is that the one he made?” I asked Charlie.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice hitching.
“Listen to me,” I said, folding the key into his palm. “Get out of here now, as fast as you can. Take the back way, away from town. Tomorrow you need to turn this gun in to the police. Don’t touch it. Tell them where you found it, in Shane’s car. That’s all. Nothing else. Don’t say anything about tonight. You weren’t here. I’ll take care of this.”
He stared, mute and trembling.
“Tell Leola you changed your mind and didn’t come here. You just went for a drive and headed back when the weather turned bad. Understand?”
He nodded.
“Go.”
I watched him leave. The snow came down in sheets, swept by the wind, working quickly enough, I hoped, to mask his tracks. I didn’t know for sure that Charlie was telling the truth, that Earl had leapt to his death, but I had made the decision in an instant: to believe him, to protect him, to give him a chance, like Shane would have done. Once I’d mapped out the lie, it was too late to turn back.
Sirens screamed from the direction of town, lights flashing against the snow, and I ran to meet them, waving my arms to direct them to the silo. Later, Kendrick or one of the others would ask why I was here, how I had come across Earl. I would tell them the truth, that Leola had asked me to look for Charlie, that I’d gotten worried when I found the door open and no one at home, had followed tracks to the silo. Called for the ambulance. I didn’t know what had happened to Jason.
My teeth began to chatter, my hair stiffening as it froze. I wondered if it was only by chance that Shane had given the car keys to Charlie, knowing the Firebird would go to Mom, hoping the note and the key to the gun box would find their way to me. Drawing us together, his disparate families. It couldn’t have been an accident. He must have known something was coming, that he might not survive, and he wanted us to discover the truth, whatever it was. He had given Charlie the key, trusting him like he trusted his own blood. The one person he should have trusted most of all had no part in it. Crystle. His wife.
The sky was clear, the moon extravagantly large and mottled with bruises, a wolf moon or blood moon or some such thing, she couldn’t recall. It appeared, from her spot on the riverbank, to be just out of reach, balanced atop a skeletal crown of cottonwoods. Her throat burned, her breath was ragged. The bitter cold knifed through her, paring away the pain and exhaustion and fear. It cut down to the bone, revealing with sharp clarity that the only thing she truly wanted was to live. To keep breathing, to feel the crushed weeds digging into her back, the solid earth beneath her.
She had awoken in the car, roused by the creak of the door hinge but too disoriented to understand what was happening. She’d gasped when the blanket that had been covering her was whisked away, not sure whether she should lie still or try to run, and then the door slammed shut and she was alone. Her breath was too loud, her throat on fire. The door stayed shut and she decided that running was better than waiting, even if she wouldn’t get very far, because she already knew what he would do if she waited. She pushed herself up from the floorboard, staying low in case he was right outside, wanting to see where she was, what she could run to. Jason had left the driver’s side window partly open, and she could see the stars, feel the night air shushing in, clearing her head. For a moment, she didn’t even realize that the car had begun to roll. She didn’t have to think about what that meant. The knowledge was innate and incontrovertible, that anything she was moving toward wasn’t something she would likely come back from.
Panic lit up inside her as the car gained momentum and she understood. There were only so many hills like this in Blackwater, and one common thing they sloped down to. She scrambled to get into the front seat, to reach the brake. The nose of the car pitched forward over the riverbank and she tumbled into the dash, rolling back as the rear of the car slammed down. Fear pinned her to the seat as frigid water rushed in. She felt around for the window crank as the river sluiced up to her neck and the Skylark began to sink, and then she took a breath and closed her eyes. In the darkness
, she could hear the muted gurgle of water filling the empty spaces, air bubbles escaping to the surface.
She remembered the sweltering summer day when Jason had taken her to the bottom of the river, crushing her against his chest until she surrendered and went still. She forced herself to focus. Her lungs were already burning, but she’d had enough air to reach the surface that day in July, and she could do it again.
She thought only of the most urgent and immediate obstacle; the hardest part was pulling herself through the window as the car sucked her downward, and then the hardest part was navigating blindly through the freezing current as her body numbed, and then the hardest part was trying to surface undetected—in case he was watching—when she was desperate for air.
She failed at the last part, thrashing out of the water choking and gasping, but either the river had carried her downstream or Jason had already fled.
She climbed the bank and lay at the river’s edge, watching the moon float up from the trees, and after some time the stars came into focus, the rush of wind and the distant scream of coyotes replacing the ringing in her ears. It hurt to swallow. She rolled onto her side, wincing as she realized that her hair had frozen to the ground, and pulled herself up.
Her head whirled at first, and she stood still, choking down shallow breaths, until she could make her way to the crest of the hill to get her bearings. The lights of Sullivan Grain winked in the distance, a more useful guide than the stars. There was no one around, her phone lost in the river, but she knew which direction led home. She clamped her jaw shut to stop her teeth from chattering and set off through the fields.
* * *
—
When she got to the farmhouse, she drank from the kitchen faucet and slid down to the floor, shaking. She struggled to peel off her damp clothing with half-numb hands and then curled up near the radiator in her underwear, exhausted. She wanted to sleep for days and days, dig through Missy’s bathroom drawer for a pill that would knock her out and make her forget. She closed her eyes and willed her mind to drift, but she thought of Jason’s hands at her throat, and the fear she had staved off as she’d stumbled through the fields crashed down on her in an unrelenting torrent, and she scrambled through the dark house to lock the doors.
She had no phone and no car, no way to reach anyone unless she went back out into the night and walked toward town. She could hole up and wait for dawn, but what then? Would the police believe that Jason Sullivan had tried to kill her? What if they didn’t arrest him right away? What if he’d taken off and they couldn’t find him and she had to go to sleep every night knowing he was out there somewhere, that he might come back for her? Her uncles would try to keep her safe, but they had their own mess to deal with right now and needed to lie low.
Her entire body was beginning to ache. Henley rubbed her thawing hands together, the friction painful but necessary, and climbed the dark staircase to her room, which she’d said goodbye to hours before. She layered on warm leggings, a thick sweater, and an old parka from the back of Missy’s closet, a stocking cap to hide her hair.
Her family thought she’d left town. Jason thought she was dead. Earl’s money was mostly at the bottom of the river, stowed in the Skylark’s glove box, though Raymond had warned her not to keep all her cash in one place when she was traveling. She dug into the pocket of her discarded jeans and found the small zippered pouch and the hundred-dollar bills she’d folded inside. It would be enough to get away, to disappear. She would cut through the north field to the truck stop on the highway. Ellie Embry had told her once that if she ever had to hitchhike, female truckers could be counted on to give a girl a ride, and they weren’t near as likely to kill you. Most of what came out of Ellie’s mouth was bullshit, but Henley hoped this once she was right.
“They found it,” Hannah said, her voice wavering over the phone. “They found the truck at the salvage yard. Part of it, anyway. It was burnt, half crushed, but they think it’s Roger’s.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I was happy for her, that her wait might soon be over, though I wasn’t sure what it would mean for Shane. I didn’t know how I’d face Hannah if he was the one who had taken her child away.
“Do you want me to come over?” I offered.
She hesitated. “My mom and dad are here with me.”
“Oh. Good,” I said. I was glad that her parents were there to support her and hoped it was a sign that their relationship could be mended. They’d largely shut her out when she was struggling with her addiction, and I knew how much that had hurt her. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t alone.”
I didn’t want to be alone, either, waiting. Gravy was with me, but I was worried about him. He had stopped eating, and not even Gravy Train could get him to do more than twitch his nose and sigh. I’d called Theo, who warned that it could be the beginning of the end, and he promised to come over after work, to see if there was anything he could do to help.
I wasn’t ready to give up. I dug through the pie safe, taking out all the remaining food to see if there was anything Gravy might find appetizing. As I pulled the cans out, I spied an unfamiliar container at the back of the shelf that I knew hadn’t been there before. I took it out, a sleek metal canister with engraving across the front. DREAM BIG, HENLEY, it read. CONGRATS FROM CRYSTLE AND SHANE.
I could feel the blood squeezing through my heart, in one chamber and out another, my heartbeat vibrating my rib cage.
It had been a gift for an important occasion—graduation, I suspected. Shane must have made it himself, and as I turned it over in my hands, admiring the craftsmanship, I heard something rattle inside.
I removed the lid and tilted the cylinder, and a pill bottle slid into my hand. The prescription was made out to Shane. The label said Percocet, which he had taken when his back was acting up, and several tablets were nestled inside.
I thought of Henley at the funeral, her eyes catching mine for a brief moment, a flickering connection. I imagined her jimmying the sliding glass door the night before Thanksgiving, slipping into the house, and leaving the canister for me in a place she thought I would find it, but not before she left town. Henley had wanted to help, to do what she could to make things right for Shane.
I pictured him working in his shop, cutting her name into the metal, placing cash inside, maybe, or a rolled-up check, something ephemeral, the package itself the real gift, the part that would last, a keepsake that would survive them both.
I grabbed my things and rushed out the door to see Kendrick, calling Becca on the way to come sit with Gravy.
* * *
—
They’re counterfeit, Kendrick said, when the test came back. Laced with fentanyl. A single pill could have been enough to kill him, and if he believed he was taking his regular Percocet, he might have taken more than one. Someone had switched out the pills, someone close to Shane. The Pettits had long been suspected of involvement in the local drug trade, according to Kendrick, though there had never been any firm evidence against them, no informant willing to utter the Pettit name.
It took one of their own to turn on them. Dex, Crystle, and Junior said nothing when Kendrick questioned them, and they were caught off guard when Raymond decided to talk. He might have done it to ease his conscience, or maybe because he was already in custody for the attempted murder of Jason Sullivan. The police had called Earl on the night he died, telling him that his son was a suspect in Henley’s murder and they were coming out to see him. Raymond had gotten there first and taken Jason down to the river, where he beat him barehanded to the verge of death, leaving him in the snow to die, his body half in the frigid water. He was pulled over later with Jason’s blood freckled across his face and beard, his shirt soaked through, hands stained red. He never said anything about Charlie being at the Sullivans’ that night.
Jason was still alive, in the hospital in Kansas City, the fingers on one
hand lost to frostbite, a section of skull removed to ease swelling in the brain. They didn’t know if he would wake up, but he wouldn’t likely be the same person if he did. Sympathy for him was in short supply, while all of Cutler County grieved the loss of Earl and blamed his son for driving him to his death.
With Raymond’s cooperation and the mangled truck and the fentanyl pills looming over them, the Pettits talked, one after the other, each one trying to scurry out from under the shadow of blame, eager to shove someone else in their place. Junior wasn’t willing to protect Dex, claiming his idiot nephew had brought the pickup to him and he hadn’t wanted to help, hadn’t wanted any part in it, but the vehicle was empty by then, the Calhouns already gone, he didn’t know where. Dex ripped out the seats and burned them and Junior crushed the truck.
Dex caved next, pointing his finger at Crystle. The way he told it, Crystle went to collect Shane’s money from Roger, because Shane was too much of a pussy to do it. Roger cussed her out and shoved her off the porch, claiming his daughter was with him for the weekend, that it’d have to wait. She took Dex with her the next night, and Shane’s rifle, waiting for Roger to come home after dropping off Macey. They came out of the darkness, approaching Roger’s truck in the driveway and spooking him. He said he didn’t have the money, that the lawyer was bleeding him dry and he wasn’t near done, and then he saw the gun and asked Crystle what the hell she was doing, calling her a string of foul names, a bitch, a liar, a whore.
Dex’s and Crystle’s stories diverged from there. Crystle said Roger got out of the truck and she raised the weapon in self-defense, while Dex said she aimed the rifle before he came out after her. Crystle wasn’t one to let a man talk shit about her, according to Dex, and from what I knew of her now, it wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d shot Roger for that reason alone. I wondered whether Crystle had lied about the nature of her affair with Roger—if she had been the one pursuing him, and he’d shut it down because of his friendship with Shane. That could have fueled her anger, put more pressure on her trigger finger. Roger wasn’t around to ask, and Crystle wasn’t likely to tell the truth. Dex claimed that Roger had hollered, as he exited the truck, that Macey was asleep in the back, but Crystle said she didn’t hear him.