Rye walked, turning around only when the light ended. When he returned to the house, it was full dark and the garage door was closed. Had Christine closed it? Had he? When? And what was that sound? Was the car running? Why was the car running? Had he left the car running? How long had he disappeared to the sky and leaves?
Eleanor Christina, his Ophelia.
He’d snatched the garage door up and choked, realizing. Held his jacket collar over his face and opened the car door, reached across a slumped Christine and turned the engine off. He said her name, couldn’t stop saying it. He hollered for Brenna. He hollered for help. And then again. He looked up to see his neighbor holding his phone in the driveway, asking what else he could do. Rye ran inside the house, calling for Brenna. Silence.
And then.
He found her in her bed—tender as a kitten, still and pale and breathless. He covered his crying mouth and sputtered out carrying her. Their Briar Anna, limp and cooling in her nightgown as he gently placed her—and the fleece she was wrapped in—onto the leaves and front grass. He carried Christine’s lissome body, placed it beside Brenna’s. Desperately choked and coughed and attempted CPR on them. The lights swirled through the eternity-black doom as first responders showed up to help. Christine and Brenna were incontrovertibly beyond. Gone, gone, gone. Christine, who should’ve lived well past twenty-six; Brenna, who should’ve outlived him, who would never grow older than three.
The EMTs had to pull him away from them. He was on his hands and knees, sobbing as the rest of the neighbors peeked through their curtains and stepped out into the moonlight.
Eleanor Christina, his Bertha Mason, his wild one in the garage, not the attic. Eleanor Christina, his Sylvia Plath, who forgot the courtesy of sealing off the children’s door. Eleanor Christina, his Medea per accidens.
* * *
Rye talked. Tallie listened, finished her cigarette, kept crying and sniffing. “How do I know any of this is true?” she asked.
“Look it up,” Rye said. And Tallie sat on the bench, pulled out her phone with trembling fingers. “R-y-l-a-n-d. K-i-p-l-i-n-g.”
Tallie typed and scrolled as Rye lit his own smoke. He sat on the far end of the bench, staring at his boots.
“You were arrested for this? You went to prison for this? Because they thought you killed your wife and daughter?” Tallie asked after a moment of quiet reading. She looked up at him, her deep brown eyes wide and wet under the dusk.
* * *
At the police station, his story never changed because it was the truth. Rye had told them he’d left Brenna, asleep for the night, in her bedroom—her lavender lamp shade casting light onto the plush orange rug beneath, the gentle chime of her music box still paling the air. He’d walked past her room on the way to their bedroom to get his socks. He’d looked in on her on the way to the front door, where his boots sat waiting. Christine had followed him stomping, and he’d asked her to be quiet again, reminded her Brenna was sleeping. He told Christine he was leaving. He was tired and angry and needed fresh air. He’d gone, just like that, not turning around to look back at the Honeybee House.
And although he didn’t say it aloud at the police station, it was something he knew he’d never forgive himself for. Leaving. He should’ve stayed. He shouldn’t have left Christine alone. He shouldn’t have left Brenna in that house with Christine so upset.
“She didn’t kill Brenna on purpose. Christine was terrible at science. It annoyed her. She had no idea the carbon monoxide could kill Brenna, asleep in the house.” Rye had cried when he’d repeated it to the officers in that little room—one of them Christine’s cousin.
Bloom, forever swollen with Blooms.
Rye had defended Christine, explaining she was sick but hid it exceptionally well. She hadn’t meant to kill Brenna, and he knew that. He never believed she’d intentionally kill Brenna.
* * *
He’d gone to his parents’ house, planned funerals, and picked out what to bury his wife and daughter in. Christine: the pale peach dress she’d worn the day they’d gotten married. Brenna: a white Easter dress that had been too big for her in the spring. Rye put on the new suit his mother had gone out and bought for him since he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d sat there in the front row of the church, staring straight ahead at Christine’s full-size casket; Brenna’s small one, mercifully blurred in his periphery.
The autopsy reports had shown that Christine and Brenna had both died of asphyxia from carbon monoxide poisoning. There were also alprazolam, clonazepam, and fluoxetine in Christine’s system along with alcohol, but the potentially deadly mix of benzodiazepines was, in the end, unnecessary.
Rye knew exactly what had happened when he’d left the house. Annoyed by how much he’d been pushing her to take her meds, Christine had taken them and taken them and taken them, ferrying the pills down her throat on a warm river of red wine before going to the garage.
Manic.
Overkill.
When the autopsy report was released, Rye was arrested, shocked and numb. Still desperately grieving and barely hanging on. The police accused him of drugging Christine, staging her suicide, killing their daughter.
His and Christine’s shared laptop had been seized, revealing a damaging Google search for the mix of drugs and wine and carbon monoxide poisoning more than a month before. And more searches for carbon monoxide car garage and carbon monoxide death suicide, peaceful suicide, as well as a short video clip from The Virgin Suicides in which one of the characters kills herself in the same manner as Christine.
The town of Bloom was rattled, split right down the middle as to whether he was guilty.
* * *
Rye told Tallie about Miller’s, the lake restaurant. How his family had owned it, but not anymore. He told her about falling in love with Christine there and how he’d cooked in the prison cafeteria, because yes, he’d been sentenced to life without parole for the deaths of his wife and daughter. But then his parents had received a phone call from Yolanda Monroe, an attorney from Release, an organization committed to proving the innocence of the wrongfully accused. Yolanda was the daughter of a longtime Miller’s patron and had contacted them after hearing Rye’s story from her father. She’d been involved in one other suicide-mistaken-for-murder case and told Rye’s parents she couldn’t get him off her mind. Her obsession turned into Rye’s light.
* * *
Bloom had been named after Christine’s family, and they’d worked hard to put Rye away for life. They’d refused to listen to him before, when he’d told them Christine needed help. Things had been bad before Brenna, and they’d gotten altogether worse after. But Christine was reticent with almost everyone in her life besides Rye and Savannah. Christine was an actress, onstage and off, and when she was around her family, she played the role of happy new mother, laughing off any concerns that she was spiraling or overwhelmed. Rye stopped covering the extra shifts to stay home with Christine, to watch over her, to keep an extra pair of eyes on Brenna. And Rye’s parents had been helpful, stepping in to babysit and loaning them money whenever they could, even when Rye refused. He’d return home to a pack of cigarettes behind the screen door (his dad’s calling card) along with a check or cash.
Christine’s family pushed forward as if they truly believed Rye could be cruel, heartless, and evil enough to kill his family, then attempt to fake Christine’s suicide and Brenna’s accidental death. How could they? They’d seen how much he’d loved and taken care of Christine and Brenna. They knew little of him, because they hadn’t tried, but how could they believe he would do something like that?
Her family was completely devastated with no one to blame but him. They’d softened a bit after Brenna was born, because they found her impossible not to love—this beautiful Bloom baby. But they still hated Rye and Christine together. They hated both sides of Rye’s family. They’d gotten their own psychiatrist to claim that Christine’s diagnoses had been the result of temporary youthful problems and that s
he’d soon grow out of them. They’d told the jury she’d been getting better, using two old entries from her seldom-kept journal to prove her flickers of hope.
The sun is shining and I feel a lift somewhere deep inside. I am in love and I am loved. I need to remember this.
Today was good! Only a few dark thoughts! I am trying. Excited about auditions and the small, precious things of the world. I saw a butterfly and two bright yellow birds hanging out in the backyard. They matched the Honeybee House. Yellow makes me so happy and SUNSHINE Baby Briar and Rye do too. I wish everything was yellow.
Her mother, her father, her brothers—red-faced and crying—took the stand against Rye during his trial, glaring at him. He couldn’t look directly at them; every time he attempted to look up, to hold his head there, the room spun. His neighbors testified that although he was quiet and they didn’t know him well, Rye seemed like a decent guy. They testified that they saw him immediately after he found Christine’s and Brenna’s bodies. A neighbor remembered hearing a hush of leaves shortly before, like someone was walking back home through the yard. Another neighbor said she’d been out walking her dogs and had heard a woman scream the day Christine and Brenna died, but it hadn’t worried her until she’d found out what’d happened. Then she remembered that years earlier, night after night, she’d also heard loud arguments coming from their home. Rye knew what those had been: he and Christine, pretending. Running lines from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
* * *
Rye fought hard to take the stand and did, against his attorney’s wishes. But his attorney assured him that even though the Bloom family had pull in the town named after them, it was still highly unlikely Rye would get convicted on such a lack of evidence.
He looked out at his family. Hunter and Savannah, by then Hunter’s wife, were there, too; both of them knew Christine well and believed in him. He could see everyone’s stony, sad faces as he answered the questions truthfully, like he’d sworn to God he’d do.
Did he and Christine argue that afternoon? Yes.
Did he and Christine argue often? Yes.
Was he upset by the problems in their marriage? Yes.
Had he ever considered separating? No.
Had he and Christine argued the evening in question? Yes.
Had he turned his phone off that evening, left it at home? Yes.
Had he used their shared computer to research carbon monoxide poisoning? No.
Had he researched fatal drug interactions? No.
Had he drugged Christine, put her in the car, and started the engine before leaving the house? No.
Had he intended to kill his daughter, too, then stage it to look like an accident? No.
Had he killed his wife and daughter out of frustration and because of financial issues? No.
Had he killed his wife and daughter because he’d accidentally gotten her pregnant and felt trapped and rushed into marriage? No.
Did he have life insurance policies on his wife and daughter? Yes.
When had he gotten those? Years ago, when they were first married.
Did he kill his wife and daughter for the life insurance money? No.
Had he killed his wife? No.
Had he killed his daughter? No.
Christine’s mom wailed in the courtroom. Christine’s dad rubbed her back. His own father was there with his arm around his mother’s shoulders as she cried and wiped her eyes. Rye tried not to shake as he cried on the stand.
No. I did not kill my family. I loved my family. I still love my family. I didn’t do this. I would never do this, he said after willing himself to take deep breaths and open his eyes.
No more questions, Your Honor.
The extent of his criminal record prior to the trial:
—When he was sixteen, he was busted for underage drinking, loitering, and toilet-papering houses.
—When he was twenty-one, he was arrested during a bar fight, although the charges were later dropped.
In a little town like Bloom, being a quarter black meant being not-white meant being one hundred percent black meant being an Other. A threat to white supremacy. A blight, a usurper. It was what they’d all feared. And Christine wasn’t just any white woman; she was a Bloom. That was all the evidence that particular jury needed.
Rye was found guilty of two counts of first-degree murder. On the day of sentencing he stood in that small-town courthouse, in front of the seven white women and five white men who had convicted him, maintaining his innocence.
I loved my family deeply. More deeply than anything else I’ve ever felt. More deeply than the emptiness of the grief I feel now. And I would never harm them. I grieve for Christine’s family, for my family. I am so sorry I wasn’t there for my family in their final moments. That will haunt me forever. All this will haunt me forever.
He was sent to a maximum-security prison a hundred miles away.
* * *
There he wrote letters to his parents, and they visited him. So did Hunter and Savannah before they moved to Montana. After that, he and Hunter wrote each other letters, too. Rye read the art history books in the prison library obsessively, disappearing into them, memorizing everything, a deep love ripening. He went to some of the smaller therapy groups and the church meetings and formed a close relationship with one of the preachers, talked to him about Jesus.
His life had turned into some sort of nightmared misunderstanding. Daring to hope was the only thing that’d kept him alive in there. He tried to stay out of trouble when he was locked up. Kept to himself the best he could, was friendly with the guys he could be friendly with. Was nasty to the ones he knew wouldn’t respect him otherwise.
* * *
(The prison guard is wearing different shoes today. No longer scuffed. He said fucking piece of shit today instead of piece of shit. Modified it. Cell mate is sick. Stomach flu. Today he told me he believed me, that I didn’t do this. He told me he was guilty; he killed a man. The sun was out, the air was cold. One hour went quickly. A fight in the cafeteria. Again. The alarm. Again. Meat loaf, potatoes, rolls. Made the potatoes. Good potatoes.)
Rye’s obsessive mental cataloging helped him organize a world that no longer made sense. He talked to himself about what he saw and heard and smelled and thought, as if he were a playwright like Christine, forever setting the scene. It was how he kept himself from going mad.
(Never getting out. Making a life here. The walls are pale green. The toilet is stainless steel like a fork. Like a spoon. Like a knife. The clear water in it is low. People shit in front of other people here. Making a life here. There is too much life here. Trapped. There is no life here. The sunlight makes it onto the cold floor in the big room. Slit-up light. I am recording these observations to keep from going insane. I am recording these observations to protect my mental health. I am noticing everything I can to busy my mind, to help myself cope. I am recording these observations to keep from going insane. I am recording these observations to protect my mental health. I am noticing everything I can to busy my mind, to help myself cope. I am recording these observations to keep from going insane. I am recording these observations to protect my mental health. I am noticing everything I can to busy my mind, to help myself cope.)
* * *
His attorney had mentioned appealing immediately after his trial, but that was what attorneys always said. Rye’s parents were righteously heartbroken and infuriated, claiming not only that his counsel had blown the case but that the police had botched it, too. He should’ve never been arrested on so little evidence. His parents sold the restaurant to cover Rye’s sky-high legal fees and spoke with the media often. They worked tirelessly with the Release program. Never gave up.
* * *
Yolanda Monroe, along with Rye’s additional new attorney, argued that his trial was unfair since the jury was biased in Bloom because of the pull and power of the Bloom family. There was no hard evidence Rye had done it, and there had been recently discovered video evidence that supported his alib
i—grainy footage from two different security cameras of him walking and wearing what he’d said he’d been wearing. It was proof he’d been out walking for at least two hours before Christine and Brenna died and that he was still walking during their estimated times of death, miles and miles away from their home. Prior to his trial, Rye had begged his old attorney to hunt down video, but he’d been told they didn’t need it.
With the help of Release, he was exonerated after it was found that no crime had been committed. Six hundred and ninety-four days after being incarcerated, he was freed.
* * *
Rye had returned to his hometown, where his wife and daughter were buried next to each other, where the lake restaurant was owned by a new family, where half the people suspected him of murder. He’d let his parents sell the Honeybee House when he was in prison, moved in with them when he got out. He endured the hateful looks and hollers from the people who’d—no matter the evidence—never believe he was innocent. He tried to live there, got a job doing heavy construction working with Hunter’s brother. Demolition. Worked extra shifts to keep himself sore and exhausted, because if he was sore and exhausted, life would feel like punishment, and he deserved to be punished forever for walking away from Christine and Brenna.
* * *
Once he made the decision to end his life, the obsessive observing was like burning everything in a glass jar before he said goodbye. And although suicide had crossed his mind a lot in prison, it wasn’t until he got out that he’d realized his freedom hadn’t been the answer. He still didn’t know what the answer was. Hell, he didn’t even know what the question was anymore.
A day before he met Tallie on the bridge, he’d called Hunter, who was executive chef at a ranch restaurant in Big Sky now. He and Savannah had recently had a baby girl, and Hunter had told Rye he wanted to keep a respectful distance because he knew how devastating it would be for Rye to see Hunter and Savannah and their baby girl when Rye no longer had his wife and baby girl there with him. Rye told him he wanted to hear about their daughter and meant it when he said he was happy for them, that they’d be amazing parents.
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