IT’S SATURDAY AFTERNOONand the sky is heavy with dark clouds, as if on the verge of a shower. It’s windless and muggy out, and I’d love the feelof a quick release of rain. Graham is sitting in an Adirondack chair on the back patio sipping a well-earned whiskey sour after my late night last night, and Jack is dashing through the sprinklers, belly-laughing each time the water sprays him.
—
I COLLAPSED INbed after eleven thirty or so last night, and even though I was solidly sober by the time I steered myself home, my head felt leaden this morning when I first sat up in bed.
“Whoa, Annie. Get your gun,” Graham quipped when he saw my shoulder, blackened with a bruise from the kick of the shotgun.
“It fucking hurt.”
He rolled down the strap of my cami, rubbed the area around the bruise in small, light strokes. “But was it fun?”
I nodded. I didn’t tell him about Rusty’s. I wasn’t sure how much I could or should tell, in case he ever crossed paths with Margot or the rest of them. “It was interesting. Sassy women. But I actually shot a skeet! You’d have been so proud.”
“Well done.” He grinned, tracing my lips with his thumb before kissing me.
—
AFTER A BREAKFASTof spinach and mushroom omelets—one of Graham’s specialties—we piled in the Highlander and headed to the farmers’ market in the town square. I ordered us cappuccinos from the coffee trailer and Jack a donut, and we wove our way through the stalls—smelling handmade soaps and candles, trying free samples of baked goods, inspecting giant ribs of squash and zucchini.
“Wanna try a black bean brownie?” a twentysomething girl asked us, her voice coarse but friendly. “They’re vegan.” Her hair was dark and almost waist length. A trail of charcoal-colored tattoos trickled up her bare navel. She was dressed in denim cutoffs and Doc Martens. “They taste better than they sound,” she coaxed, grinning and offering me one with her outstretched hand.
I popped it in my mouth. Grainy, but strangely delicious. “Mmmmm... theyaregood.”
I handed her a ten and dropped two cellophane-wrapped packs in our cart before we headed toward the plants.
I loaded the cart with twenty basil plants, their skunky smell filling the air when I pinched their leaves, while Graham picked out tomato and pepper plants.
“Pot-tee! Pot-tee!” Jack rocked back and forth on his heels. We are in the midst of potty training, but he only likes to use the toilet at home, so we stashed our goods in the back of the SUV and headed to the house.
I’M NESTLING THElast basil plant into the warm, springy soil when the first drop of rain thuds on the back of my neck.
We escape into the chill of the house, wipe our muddy feet on the entryway mat. Rain is now lashing at the windows, and Graham steps into the kitchen to fix me a drink and refresh his own. I lean against the kitchen table, slip my cell from my pocket. No new notifications. Of course there aren’t any; I just checked it moments ago before we came inside.
I know I shouldn’t do this, but I can’t stop myself. It’s driving me crazy that I haven’t heard back from her, so I text Margot directly.
Thanks again for having me out! Had such a blast!
I find the gun emoji and quickly tap send before changing my mind.
—
THE SKY OUTSIDEthe window darkens and grumbles, and I clasp the phone in my hand, willing it to chime a reply, but it staysmute.
One Month Later
THE PATH TOthe clearing is narrow, the surface pocked with jagged tracks from the four-wheelers.
Even with the moon—which was half-full that evening—hanging in the clear sky, the trail would’ve been dark as soot, nearly impossible to see a foot in front of you.
I wonder if she was lured to the clearing that night, with the promise of something fun, something salacious. Or did she go against her will, fighting with adrenaline slinging through her veins?
And if she was lured, did she scream when she knew what was going to happen to her? But even if she did, the damp forest would’ve swallowed the sound whole, muffling hercries.
17
Present
Monday, March 26, 2018
