E.B.
Emma Barrington. Pace and Lee’s mother. John’s wife that died before I was born. This must have been devastating for him.
Another newspaper article is pinned to it. An obituary, detailing the funeral for her.
Why did my mother have these? Did she have something to do with Emma’s death? Is that why John won’t speak about her? Why the town hates her?
The silence is louder now.
Above me, sunlight filters through a crack in the roof, hitting a stack of saddles and an old denim jacket hanging from a peg. I walk toward it, drawn my something I can’t name. The jacket is stiff with dust, the stitching along the color faint but visible.
It carries John’s initials.
My pulse stutters. I slip my fingers under the collar and pull it down. The scent that rises is faint. Smoke, leather, the ghost of cologne. I dig into the pockets and find another photograph. This one is different from the rest.
John has his arms wrapped around a woman that looks a lot like Pace and Lee. The same dark hair and piercing eyes. The same wide smile. They look happy. In love.
I flip the photo around.
Emma and John.
Summer Field Day.
This must be the boy’s mom. John’s first wife. The one that died in the car accident.
Placing the picture back in the pocket, I left the jacket and add it to the pile.
I leave the barn slower than I came in, my body heavy, the air outside blindingly bright. The door creaks shut behind me, the chain rattling against the wood like it is sealing something in.
I can see movement on the porch, behind the curtains of the house—a flicker of someone watching. June, maybe. Or Clyde.
But they don’t come out.
They don’t need to. They know what I found.
I walk back to the truck in silence, gripping the photo and the lighter so tightly my knuckles ache. The horizon blurs under the heat, the road stretching out in front of me like a dare.
I don’t look back.
Not at the house.
Not at the barn.
Not at the ghosts that live there.
But as I drive away, dust curling up in the rearview mirror, I swear I can still hear the faint, broken hum of that lullaby following me all the way down the road.
A lullaby my mother stole.
38
By the timethe Broken Ridge sign appears through the heat shimmer, my nerves are shot. I’ve replayed every word Laurel and Richard said, every photograph, every letter, every ghost I touched in that barn until my head is pounding.
Dust trails behind me as I turn into the long drive. The truck rattling over the gravel. The sun is low enough to glare off the hood, sharp and punishing. The house comes into view, looking deceptively calm.
But the second I pull up, I know how screwed I am.
Pace is already on the porch, arms crossed, jaw set, chewing the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back a whole storm’s worth of words. John stands stoically beside him, shoulders rolled back, chin tipped up.
