Chapter 30
Libby
The pain in her shoulder was almost unbearable. Voices screamed. A hand pressed something against the knife wound. She saw stars—literally—from her position flat on her back, blinking up at the night sky. Her head was cradled between two hands.
“Come back. Come back.” The murmur was low. Even. Comforting somehow.
Shouts.
A hand patted her cheek. “Don’t go. Stay with me.” She could almost open her eyes again. Almost. Her body jostled and she screamed, the pain searing her shoulder muscle.
“Get her to the motorcar!” someone shouted. Distant. Commanding. Elijah.
Arms shifted and lifted her. She sensed the man who hoisted her against his chest stumble beneath the awkward weight of her body.
“Help my daughter!”
Mitch.
“Papa . . .” she muttered. The old endearment so rusty, so rarely used.
“Shhh.” Mitch’s voice in her ear. But then he moved away.
The chugging of the automobile. The grinding of gears. Whoever held her cradled her head in the crook of his elbow while pressing down on her knife wound. The body beneath hers absorbed most of the bouncing from the motorcar hitting ruts and crevices in the dirt road.
Her vision went black. The stars went out.
It was the night everything changed. Libby knew that now, and she imagined years later she would look back on the fear, the trauma, and wonder if things might have been different in another life. She had done something she had never done before. This time she’d not run, not abandoned. Instead, she’d saved. The knife wound in her shoulder was the throbbing reminder that she’d saved Jacobus Corbin’s life.
Now she rocked in the rocker on the front porch of her home. Her mother had brought her a quilt and wrapped it around her legs. A cup of tea sat on a circular end table. In her hand, Libby fingered her watch. The one she’d pinned to the tailored jacket of her dress the night of the tent meeting. The one that had deflected Ralph Hayes’s knife, making her injury a deep cut instead of a gouging stab that would have damaged her far worse.
Libby stared at the face of the watch. The hands had stopped at 8:36 p.m. The frame was dented where the knife had struck. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the watch, yet it seemed as a treasure to her now. It told her the moment she’d saved Jacobus Corbin’s life. The man who seemed to know everything about her—though even Libby wasn’t quite sure why she was so certain Jacobus knew her darkest secrets—and yet, still, she’d saved him.
Libby was not heroic. She never had been. Her fingers closed over the watch. Somehow, at 8:36, she’d become as indelibly linked to Jacobus Corbin as she had been to Elijah Greenwood that evening at dusk so many years before.
The screen door opened, and her mother exited, her skirts swishing against the whitewashed floor of the porch. Stiff, crisp navy blue, with a starched white blouse with little adornment. She was the dichotomy of Mitch. His impulse and headstrong passion ran into his wife’s pious righteousness like a motorcar crashing into a brick wall. Libby still didn’t understand how they’d ever married, or how Mitch had ever convinced her mother to front a large portion of her dowry to buy out Paul Darrow’s paper.
“You haven’t touched your tea.”
Libby glanced at the teacup. It was cold now. She was cold. Gossamer Grove had evolved into a dark place.
“I’m sorry.” Her apology seemed to soften her mother. The woman sighed and reached for the cup.
“Well, I must say, you’re looking better this morning. Such a fright from two nights ago.”
Libby watched a carriage roll by on the brick street. The white picket fence that lined their yard was like a border. If she crossed it, she would return to chaos. Yet, staying here, staring at the rosebushes, the green lawn, the violets and dandelions springing up between the grasses . . . it was an illusion of peace. It always had been. Libby had just become very good at ignoring the shadows.
She looked up at her mother. “I—”
No. Confession to her would not end well. There would be no grace. It was why Libby had fostered the secret deep inside for years, why she’d idolized Elijah for his own silence, and why Jacobus’s words had opened the scab that had grown over the infected wound.
“Did you read the paper this morning?” Mother ventured. Apparently, she hadn’t heard Libby’s attempted start. Libby sealed her lips and shook her head.
“Your father and Paul—they will forever be at odds. That horrible paper.” With rigid posture, Mother moved back inside, taking the teacup with her.
A robin hopped in the yard, distracting Libby for a moment. The screen door opened again, and her mother left the house while snapping open the paper.
“I don’t know what those two men are thinking! I’m certain your father will not be pleased after today’s issue. Paul undermines him every step of the way.”
“Well, it used to be Paul’s paper,” Libby mumbled, a momentary pang of sympathy extending to the shrewish newspaperman whose financial straits had led him to selling the bulk of the ownership.
Mother stared down her nose at Libby. Libby matched her stare. Finally, Mother pursed her lips and redirected her attention to the paper.
“Your father wrote an article about the twins’ behavior causing riots, and Paul printed letters to the paper in defense of the Corbin twins. Thank the good Lord.” She snapped the paper again as if it would portray her angst to the newspapermen who printed it. “I have personally attended several of the Corbin twins’ services and find them of great value and much needed in this town. But apparently your father wishes to continue riling the citizens against them.”
“What did he say?” Libby knew her mother wanted her to ask. She was too tired and too sore to withstand her.
Her mother began to read. “Your father writes, ‘The decent and self-respecting citizens of Gossamer Grove deem it time to put a halt to the Corbin twins’ meetings, specifically after the debacle that left a few injured, several arrests, and the Corbins afraid for their lives. One might suppose, though, that the brothers have lent to the outcry against them due to the forthcoming and vulgar preaching from the once-respected pulpits of this community. Nearly every woman has been insulted with their language—language so low it would be ill of this paper to print it and would make this paper liable for publishing obscenity.’”
Mother stopped. Libby didn’t even know how to respond. Mitch’s article, while sounding properly offended, had a double entendre. He was stirring up the town, and Mitch knew it. Selling papers on outrage when only days before he’d monopolized on the deaths of Deacon Greenwood and Dorothy Hayes, the front page also splashing the announcement of death threats against the Corbin twins.
“It’s outlandish.” Mother’s voice cut through the silence. “And then, the letters to the paper. This one is from Old Man Whistler himself, whom I never believed would take the side of a preacher.”
Libby raised her head to look at her mother as she turned the page. “What does he say?”
Whistler was the elderly version of her father. Rabble-rousing, gossiping, and doing whatever he could for attention.
“He writes to the paper—quite uneducated, I might add—‘Yo mene dirty editor, I hope the twins will brake yor hed.’”
Libby’s brows rose, and she met the censoring gaze of her mother’s eyes over the paper.
“You see?” Mother snapped. “This paper will be the death of us. I’m sure Paul allowed this letter to go to print.” She continued to read. “‘Them twins don my sole good. If yo sey any mor mene things about them twins, yo paper best be lookin’ out.’”
“A threat? Whistler threatened the paper?” Libby frowned. It was all getting out of hand. Fast. If her father ever saw the obituaries for Deacon Greenwood and Dorothy Hayes—the ones submitted but never printed—it would make matters even worse. This righteous crusade was going to cost more lives if her father—and Paul—didn’t stop waging th
eir own personal war against each other and stirring up a tornado of trouble.
Mother closed the paper. “As I said, this paper is filled with opposing views.”
Libby hesitated. Jacobus. He didn’t seem vulgar. He didn’t use words that offended. Unless one countered that “being damned to hell” was offensive. It certainly did rattle the senses, but so did truth. Why did Jacobus even side with his brother? They were so different . . . weren’t they?
“Anyway”—Mother’s voice broke through Libby’s thoughts—“it’s a blessing Calvin knew what to do the other night. Considering his . . . condition. The boy is slow, but he certainly is devoted to you, Libby.”
Confusion riddled through her. “What are you talking about?”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “Calvin,” she stated, as if Libby should know, should remember. “He carried you to the automobile. He held you all the way to get help. He pressed the cloth to the wound to stop the bleeding.”
“Are you certain?” Libby breathed, her throat closing. Calvin, saving her life. Holding her, tending her. It made her eyes sting with tears. Guilt-ridden tears.
Mother folded the newspaper. “Of course I’m certain. They could hardly get Calvin to leave your side.”
It was as if the nightmare had become worse. Calvin. He was ever her faithful friend, her companion. And she didn’t deserve it. She had made him who he was today. She had stolen his future from him, and yet he’d given hers back.
Libby eased onto her chair at the newspaper. Mother had argued that she wasn’t fit to return to work. While her shoulder was still stiff, the fact the knife had not buried into her muscle but rather slashed the skin had been a relief to all. It wasn’t devotion to her job, to the newspaper, or even to Mitch that drove Libby to return. It was guilt.
She hadn’t slept last night. The shaky sensation in her body from lack of rest only compounded the feeling of swollen, achy eyes and a stomach twisted into anxious trails of theories and assumptions. Not to mention the memories. The cold fingers of reality that squeezed her heart, bringing back all the terror of that night. The terror, and then the dread, and then the years of guilt. Guilt, every time she heard Calvin call her Lollie. Off-putting her shame into hero worship of Elijah for shielding her had worked. For years. Now Libby sensed it was all crumbling, and when it did, she would be exposed.
Libby turned to the pile of mail on her desk. Apparently neither Mitch nor Paul wanted to mess with menial tasks. She opened the first two. Letters to the editor. Skimming them, she cringed. One was threatening to burn down the Baptist church if the Corbin brothers didn’t leave town. The second was lauding the message the Corbin twins had brought to Gossamer Grove and stated it was time that the sinful practices of the town be brought to task.
They would need to go to Mitch’s desk.
Libby stifled a sigh. She was reaching for the next letter when her fingers stilled. Stopping the tremor in her hand was impossible. The envelope. The typeset. Her name.
Libby Sheffield
Sliding the letter from its casing, Libby’s breath quickened. She skimmed the words, her heart beating faster.
Sins must be atoned, for God requires blood.
Only now do I see you have danced around the edges of your own darkness.
Be assured.
Your sins will go unpaid no more.
Libby shoved the paper away, across the desk. The words mocked her. Yes, she danced around the edges of darkness, just as she’d danced when she was fifteen in the Newmans’ abandoned barn with Calvin. Just as they’d shared their dreams, young love, with Calvin gently stroking the back of her hand. Just as she’d closed her eyes as he kissed her, then more passionately, and then Elijah Greenwood had found them. Their scramble apart, the hurt on Elijah’s face when he saw her with Calvin, and her elbow knocking over the lantern, lighting the hay on fire. She’d been so torn, even at fifteen, with her infatuation with Elijah that seemed to be mutual, but her deep friendship with Calvin that warred against it. And that night? It had been Calvin, only Calvin, until the fire. The dry straw and hay in the old barn had burned with fury. Elijah and Calvin, teenage young men exchanging punches, and her screaming that they needed to run as the barn became enveloped in flames.
Libby’s eyes slid shut against the memory, but that only made the images in her mind brighter, more ferocious. Calvin landing a solid fist into Elijah’s gut. Elijah stumbling back and then leaping aside as the barn’s wall whooshed into flame. Their shouts ensuing. Elijah, grabbing her arm and urging her to run. Calvin yelling her name. Elijah hadn’t looked back, but she had. She had! Calvin’s overall strap was snagged in the back by a hook on the stall’s wall. He’d yelled for her to help. Elijah had shouted for her to duck. In that moment, that split decision, she ran. And then came the crash. The horrible crash as a falling beam struck Calvin in the head, changing the course of their lives forever. His life. Her best friend, and he was gone, in that moment, as she ran from him. Left him. Hours later, after Elijah had braved the fire to drag Calvin out, Libby was already home, in her room, in the dead of night hiding her shame. No one knew she’d been there that night. Only that Elijah had rescued poor Calvin Mueller, whose head injury had almost killed him. She’d planned to apologize when Calvin regained consciousness days later, to beg his forgiveness. It was then they knew. The entire town knew. Calvin Mueller would never be the same again.
Now Libby scrambled for a handkerchief, fighting back a sob. The inkwell tipped in her frantic grasp for the cloth, and instead of wiping the tears that coursed down her face, she tried to blot the ink from marring the desk permanently. She pushed the offensive typewritten note away. It floated back and forth before finally resting on the wood floor.
Whoever had selected the paper to be their voice of judgment knew her shame. The years of harboring the horrible guilt was coming to an end.
The door to the back alley behind the newspaper was already open. Libby surged through it, gulping in deep breaths of fresh air. It was laced with the scent of must, and manure, and the dank moisture that collected in an alleyway. But the brick buildings rose above her, the cobblestone path beneath her feet, and a row of trees parallel to the newspaper office. Shelter. It was a hiding place of sorts.
Libby closed the door and looked to her left, down the short flight of stairs leading to the basement. The basement door was open, its green paint chipped and worn. It was never open. She took a step toward the first stair out of curiosity, then paused, her toe hovering. Libby withdrew. The chilly air from the open basement doorway drafted up the stairwell like the breath of a ghost. There was nothing inviting there.
Libby startled and leapt back from the stairwell as a crash from inside the basement echoed up the stairwell. A muffled curse. A bang. Another curse.
Paul.
She hurried down the steps as if obligated to ensure he was all right. Ironic. Libby blinked. If she had only realized her obligation to help Calvin . . .
Libby braced her hand on the doorframe. Her nose twitched with the thickness of dank mold. The foundation was fieldstone and insulated the cavernous inside with cool air. It was pitch-black save for a small spot of light in the far back corner.
“Paul?” Libby ventured. She lifted the hemline of her dress. Its practical green cotton didn’t deserve to be dragged across a filthy floor. “Paul?” she called again. This time she could hear her heart pounding in her ears.
She crept deeper into the basement, toward the light. Wooden filing drawers rose on either side of her, creating a maze of walls that blinded her to the basement’s vastness.
“What are you doing down here?”
Libby screamed, clamping her hand over her mouth and stumbling into a cabinet. The jarring of her shoulder against the wood sent a spear of pain through her wound.
Paul stepped from the shadows, a kerosene lamp lofted so he could see her. Its light made pockets of shadows on his face, turning his eyes ghoulish, his twisted mouth mean, and his cheeks hollow.<
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“I asked what you’re doing here,” he repeated, hissing through his teeth.
Libby backed away toward the door, toward freedom and the daylight that promised escape. “I—I heard a crash.”
Paul stepped toward her and she retreated some more. She’d never been frightened by him before, but now she trembled.
“I dropped a crate,” Paul reasoned. The whites of his eyes were huge and glaring. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why?” Libby held her arm across her waist, supporting it with her other arm and trying to ease any stress on her wounded shoulder.
“Because,” Paul said. “Now go!” He waved her away.
“But why—?”
“Get out of here!” Paul’s sharp command made Libby spin and flee for the door.
She burst into the light and ran up the stairwell. Her shoulder was pounding. Her heart was keeping time with the beats of pain. Libby didn’t stop. She half jogged, half walked as fast as she could down the alleyway. The heels of her shoes made her ankles twist on the cobblestones, but she didn’t care.
When she finally reached the end of the alley and broke out onto the street and the boardwalk, Libby looked both ways. Motorcars, carriages, and a few bicycles wove in and out amongst each other. The sun broke through the clouds as if to taunt her. It reflected her own life. Her own secrets. The dark basements of her soul she wanted no one to see into compared to the bright sunshine of a pleasant disguise. It masked the truth of what lurked in the shadows. But by three o’clock this afternoon, the sunshine would illuminate the alleyway, exposing it. If it hid anything, it would be discovered in the light.
Sometimes the daylight was more frightening than the dark.
Chapter 31
Annalise
This is absolutely nuts,” Annalise hissed as she tiptoed behind Christen. “You’re going to get us killed.”
The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond Page 23