by Laura Kemp
I had just grabbed a red-hooded sweatshirt and a pair of athletic shorts when my ears began to ring. Gripping the banister, I tried to sit down but felt my body twist on the staircase as I fought for balance—the sound of the crash that ended Karen’s life and forever changed the men who loved her fresh in my ears.
FIGHTING MAKES IT WORSE
HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?
I LEARNED THE HARD WAY
“What?” I asked, but I had no idea if Adam heard me, no idea if I was speaking at all or if my brother had the same kind of visions I did as a picture of Dylan flashed before me.
He was in the same sweatshirt I was wearing now, walking between the window and the bed, pausing once to pull back the curtain and look out, the letter from Karen in his hand. And then he moved, picked up his cell phone and answered it.
I tried to close my eyes but couldn’t.
Shoulders hunched, face covered, I saw Dylan go to his knees, the phone falling from his hand. I’d never seen a man cry, never been privy to such emotion from my father or Brad but I didn’t look away. Instead, I let it flow over me as light passes through a leaf and shades the ground beneath. I watched as Dylan mourned the death of the woman he loved, absorbed the graphic beauty of his grief.
And like a silent deer passes through the woods unseen, the vision left and I found myself bunched in a graceless heap at the top of the staircase.
“Geez,” I mumbled while trying to sit up. A headache was beginning to pulse just between my eyes. This was going to get old real fast. But Adam was right, fighting had made it worse.
You’re stronger together…
My legs were weak as I stumbled to the kitchen, intent on making myself another cup of coffee. After witnessing what he’d gone through the night Karen died, a babbling basket case was the last thing Dylan needed when he came home. And I needed to start locking my doors. And charging my phone. And calling when I said I would.
Stick with your brother…
That seemed like a damn good idea.
Chapter Twelve
“Hey, Pam.”
I was standing on the threshold of the house she shared with her son, early afternoon sunbathing my neck, feeling twisted in a million directions, wanting to jump in the lake and drift down the stream to wherever my father had gone in his silver canoe.
“Come in,” she offered, stepping aside and I saw her house was plain and comfortable, a brown sofa just to my right. “What’s up?”
“I need to talk with my brother.”
I saw her face stiffen, saw her step back.
“You’re his daughter,” she finally said. “I could tell by your cheekbones. And your nose. He said you took after him in that way.”
I felt my own face stiffen. “He told you about me?”
“Of course.”
“And Mom?” I continued.
Pam’s eyes went to her shoes. “He said they were having some problems.”
It took a moment to process her words, to come to terms with the fact that she’d known about us, but once done I had to fight the instinct to flee as quickly as I’d come.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about you.” She moved aside, motioned for me to sit on the couch.
I did as she asked, then took a closer look at the room. Pictures of Adam as a baby lined the walls and spider plants decorated the windowsill, thriving in the sunlight and I imagined she had a green thumb herself, like all the women Dad loved.
“We never meant to hurt you or your mother,” she began—twisting the fingers on her right hand.
“Dad loved her, you know.”
“I know.”
“We were a family.”
She smiled. “Why wouldn’t you be?”
Because Robert Cook hadn’t wanted to settle down. He’d wanted to paint pictures and tame horses and maybe steal a car or two. Float from town to town like dust seen only in the sunshine.
And maybe he’d begun planning his escape the moment he found out Mom was pregnant with me.
STOP IT!
I looked up, unaccustomed to being yelled at by someone who couldn’t speak and saw my brother staring at me from the open doorway, Jamie close behind.
“Adam?” I asked.
“Justine,” Jamie said. “What a surprise.”
“A good one, I hope,” I tried to laugh, but the sound died in my throat.
“That goes without saying.”
Adam started humming, rocking back and forth as his fingertips went to his ears. Jamie turned to Pam, asking about some canoes that needed to be cleaned out and I took my opportunity.
WHERE IS DAD?
I DON’T KNOW
SO, YOU CAN TALK TO ME IN MY HEAD BUT YOU CAN’T SEE WHERE OUR FATHER IS?
YOU’RE TALKING TO ME. DO YOU SEE HIM ANYWHERE?
WHO WAS IN MY APARTMENT?
SOMEONE WHO WANTS US DEAD
WHY?
BECAUSE WE’RE SPECIAL
NO SHIT!
I put a hand to my mouth, ashamed to be talking to a ten-year-old like that, but Adam just smiled.
PLEASE JUST TELL ME WHAT’S GOING ON
I’M TELLING YOU WHAT I KNOW. YOU HAVE TO DO THE REST
I CAN’T DO SHIT, ADAM…I’M JUST SOME STUPID GIRL FROM DOWNSTATE
He began making noise, the hum of an engine set to low speed, and Pam was instantly at his side. “He’s upset about something.”
Jamie’s eyes flew to mine, and I couldn’t hide from the accusation I saw in them.
HE DOESN’T HAVE A FACE
I wanted to scream at him, tell him to stop talking in riddles but his voice stopped me cold.
ODESSA TOOK IT AWAY
I couldn’t walk out now, not with her name hovering between us and Jamie watching as though he could listen in.
WHY?
Adam’s gaze didn’t waver.
SHE WANTED HIM TO DIE. SHE WANTED THEM BOTH TO DIE.
The air seemed wet and heavy as I waited for Adam to explain himself. Instead, he retreated to his bedroom and shut the door. I took a step as if to follow but felt Pam at my elbow.
“I have to check on him.” She muttered, lightly touching me as she maneuvered around. “This isn’t normal.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll go.”
She didn’t try to stop me, didn’t beg me to stay so she could explain what had happened between her and my father, so I opened the door, walked down the steps and across the yard without looking back to see if Jamie was following.
I should have known better.
“Justine—”
I spun around and found him behind me.
“I can’t talk to you.”
“Just hear me out.”
We were in front of the Jeep now, and I wondered if he recognized it from a stolen moment from his past. Karen climbing inside, another man at the wheel. “I’m sorry about the other night.”
I gripped the door handle, ready to yank it open if things got hairy.
“Locke and I go way back,” he began, searching my face for any kind of reaction. “Do you know I pulled him out of the river once? Back when the current was fast after spring thaw? Stupid lug reached over to unhook a fish and fell right in.”
I tried not to let my emotions show, the thought of Dylan almost drowning as disturbing as the thought that Jamie had saved him.
“They wrote it up in the paper and everything.”
I looked away. “I guess I should thank you, then.”
“No need,” he paused. “Think of all the cats that would be stuck up in trees if he hadn’t made it out.”
I tightened my grip on the handle.
“Nowadays Do-Right won’t give me the time of day unless it’s one o’clock in the morning and I’ve got you in my truck.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Ingrate.”
One motion and I was inside the Jeep. “I’ve gotta go.”
Jamie continued as if I’d never spoken. “He knew what day it was, knew I’d be out of it and he
went ahead and pulled that little stunt just to show off in front of you.”
“Jamie—”
“Did he mention you look like her?”
I felt my eyes narrow, unable to fight the cauldron of emotions his words stirred in me. The pictures it painted in my head of Dylan’s hand sliding over mine for the first time, wet with blood. And his blue eyes, wide with surprise, thinking he’d seen a ghost.
“I knew she was into him. Knew she was planning her getaway but I took care of that, didn’t I?”
I flinched, tried to pull the door closed but Jamie held it fast, his knuckles white.
“But he doesn’t know how hard I fought to save her—how much I wanted her to live, even if it meant giving her up.”
My eyes met his for the first time. “It was an accident.”
He laughed hard, his mouth open and suddenly I noticed how strong he was, how he could break my neck out here in the middle of the woods where no one could see.
As if to prove me right, he reached over and took my wrist. Turning it, he examined the blue veins on the underside of my arm. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem like you’re real.”
I tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let go.
“And I feel like it’s happening all over again.” He reached inside the Jeep, put his other hand on the steering wheel and my eyes flew to the main lodge, praying that someone would come outside.
“I should’ve let him drown.”
I didn’t hear another word because one moment he had me trapped in the Jeep and the next I had him pinned, face down against the hood. Only the barest of ties to my former self kept me from beating his head into a bloody pulp.
“Shit,” he mumbled, his face smashed against the metal. “What the—”
“Shut up,” I whispered, more to myself than to him, unable to understand how I’d gotten out of the Jeep and into my current position. And I felt the power seep into me, the awe at being able to make things exactly how I wanted them when I wanted them.
“Let go and back away,” he instructed, quite calm, and I waited, feeling his pulse on either side of my grip, wanting to squeeze and end the beating.
“Justine,” he began again. “I want you to let go and back away. If Pam sees you she’ll fire you.”
I thought about what he said, knew it made sense and released him.
Standing up, he shook free as if to remove all traces of my touch, his amber eyes holding mine with new appreciation. Then they dropped, took in the scar that split my left kneecap.
“What just happened?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, my hands shaking. “I was mad.”
“I’ll say.”
Five minutes ago, I’d been a girl who’d never won an arm-wrestling match, and now I was pinning a man against the side of a Jeep. But things had changed, and I needed to get away before my head exploded.
“I’ve gotta go,” I muttered. And Jamie didn’t protest, didn’t say another word as I climbed back into the Jeep and started the engine. He simply took another step back and watched me from a distance.
I was lost in troubled thought when I saw the sign for County Road 449.
The angel on my right shoulder told me it might not be a good idea to visit the scene of a gruesome, unsolved homicide.
The devil reminded me that it didn’t really matter at this point.
I tried to remember if Dylan had told me specifically not to come out here, feeling guilty the next because my actions would cause him to worry.
Not that he needed to if that little stunt at Three Fires meant anything.
I smiled when I thought of all the times I’d wanted to throw Brad over my shoulder and beat his head against something hard and inanimate.
If only I’d known.
The road was widening now, the forest thinning when I came upon the lawn of what used to be Back Forty Farm. The tilting remains of a weathered homestead stood front and center, and behind—a field of overgrown lavender that stretched towards the horizon.
I imagined Mrs. Ebersole tending the garden, her black hair tied back with a white handkerchief and her husband coming in from a long day in the fields atop the horse his murderer had stolen.
I stopped the Jeep, got out and listened. Everything was silent, and so I spoke my own name and heard nothing and knew it was happening. Knew I could make it happen if I wanted to. And I wanted to.
I circled my way towards the back of the house. A lawn patched with weeds stretched before me, reaching for the lavender and I did not doubt it would eventually have its way. I took another step, saw the murdered woman pin her collar with a cameo brooch only to have it removed by the hand of the man who loved her. A man who was not her husband.
They were in the lavender now, hidden amongst the flowers, her pale skin glowing in the sunlight as he slowly undressed her.
I could almost smell the adrenaline as they fell to the ground together, their naked bodies entangled, watching every moment for the hired girl who had a loose tongue and would spread gossip in town. Gossip they couldn’t afford.
I listened as a sharp whistle met my ear and the breeze caught flight, scattering my hair.
Turning slowly, I caught sight of an ancient oak standing tall against the edge of the lawn and knew Jonas Younts had been hanged from it. My gaze travelled the length of the thick trunk, followed the path of branches as they held the summer sky—autumn leaves still clinging—fresh and red.
Caught fire but never burned.
My father had been right. And if I wanted to find out what was happening to me, I needed to start here.
Chapter Thirteen
“Gonna give it another go, Flats?” Mallard asked as I walked in and threw my purse under the till.
I shrugged, my mood contemplative. “I made good tips last night.”
Mallard’s gaze dropped to my chest, obscured behind the red sweatshirt I had yet to part with, and laughed. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
After discovering the oak tree behind Back Forty Farm, I’d quickly left for the apartment, wondering why my father had warned me about it.
Was treasure buried beneath? A doorway to another dimension? Jimmy Hoffa?
Holly hadn’t been home and that made things easier. Joey was AWOL too…but obviously had used the litter box.
Pet care aside, I charged my phone and made my way to my bedroom. Nothing was out of place save the covers I’d thrown aside two mornings before and my present, placed nicely on the bed by whatever cop Dylan had asked to swing by the place.
Nothing indicated that it had been tampered with, but the thought was enough to ignite a protective inferno in me, and so I carefully picked up the box and held it against my chest.
“Flats!”
I snapped to attention, the memory gone.
“I’m callin’ it a night.”
“Huh?”
“Gotta learn to fly sometime, little bird,” he grinned, his gaze seeking that of a young woman who had just taken a seat in front of us. “Besides, it’s my old lady’s birthday,” stealing another glance, he caught the girl’s attention and extinguished his cigarette. “Might be her last for all I know.”
“Oh, but—”
“Don’t let any assholes in after two o’clock,” he ordered while grabbing his black leather jacket. “Including me.”
He walked out seconds later, not bothering to ask if I had any questions and the place seemed desolate without him. One by one the customers thinned out as I worked on automatic, hoping no one would order a drink I couldn’t deliver.
An hour passed with no new bodies to fill the barstools. Then two. I was just starting to consider closing shop early when the door opened and an old woman sauntered in. I did a double take as she sat down and ordered a Bud Light with tomato juice.
“Iris?” I asked, unable to figure out why she’d driven to a dive bar so late at night when she should be home knitting afghans and baking apple pies. “How did you get here?”
“Horse and
buggy.”
She was laughing at me, along with a couple of other regulars who seemed to know her quite well. Small talk kept her occupied for some time while I stayed busy behind the bar, pausing once to pour her a fresh draft.
Finally, the regulars began to filter out, save Shaw, who had scooted down to get closer to Iris. I sensed a connection but tried not to eavesdrop while catching choice phrases like “Thanks for watching my dog,” “Like to keep the home fires burning,” and “Drop by the Methodist Bazaar on Monday night.”
I was just wondering what a hot date on the senior citizen circuit looked like when she called out, “Jack on the rocks.”
“Oh,” I muttered, surprised to find us alone in the bar. “You sure? That’s kind of a strong drink.”
“I was born sure,” she smiled, reminding me of the woman I’d met in the perennial garden, a woman who seemed as far from this antiquated barfly as was humanly possible. “Mr. Jack Daniels and I go way back, and I can assure you he’s always been a gentleman.”
“I hope you’re right or I may have to drive your buggy home.”
She smiled, watching as I mixed her drink, then curled three long fingers around the glass and took a demure sip. Moments later she went to check out the jukebox. Her selection made, she returned to her stool, stopping once to draw a finger down the side of a pool table as though looking for dust.
“So,” I said, thinking I’d take a shot at small talk since the bar was empty and looked to remain so for the rest of my shift. “Did you run this place before your daughter bought it?”
“Place wasn’t here,” she took another drink, staring at me over the top of her glass. “Wasn’t much of anything out this way save for Back Forty Farm.”
“I went there today.”
I had no idea why I said that, but Iris did not react to my admission. She simply set her glass down and smoothed the napkin beneath it. I noticed her fingers, how straight and slim they were, how the nails were painted with pink polish.
“Look under the till.”
I wanted to ask why but went to the drawer instead and gave it a little tug. Sitting on top of a pile of burger baskets was a book with a glossy cover.
I opened the front page and sneezed as a cloud of dust kissed my nose.