I wait until I hear Julia snoring before creaking down the ladder.
It’s midnight. Pa and Mom should be asleep, and by this point, I’m desperate to see Luke. As I reach the floor, I can see that the light in their room is off. Good.
But the second I step out the front door, I can hear them, voices raised, bickering on the back porch. They’re trying to be quiet, most likely so they won’t wake us, so I have to strain to catch every other word.
“I didn’t mean for you to actually”—Pa’s even drunker now than he was earlier—“the man.”
Dammit, I wanna get this, so I kick my shoes off, then crawl around to the side, as quietly as I can.
“Oh, and you’re one to talk! Always running around, screwing God knows who!” Mom’s voice is a razor, sharp and deadly.
“Am I not man enough for you anymore? Huh? Answer me!”
So Pa’s not the only drone bee in this house. Mom’s been fooling around, too. With Mr. Andersen. Or so it seems.
I place my hands along the wooden boards of the cabin like I’m scaling a high-rise, then risk a peek around the corner.
“What am I gonna do with you?” Pa’s face is twisted up in pain. His words almost sound like a threat. But then he leans into Mom, takes her by the wrists, lifts her arms, plants them alongthe wall. Starts kissing her. Hard. And she’s kissing him back.
I can’t stand here watching them go at it anymore, so I skulk away, tiptoe down the length of the side porch.
I can’t go to Luke’s cabin now; I’ve lost the mojo for it. Myhead’s spinning too much with Mom and Pa and what Mom may or may not have done with Nellie’s dad.
Disgusted, I slither back inside before they catch me.
68
Charleigh
At dawn, Charleigh rolls out of bed. She hasn’t slept a wink. Bleary-eyed, she pads to the bathroom, tosses water on her face, brushes her teeth.
After a swift cup of Folgers, she slips out before Alexander and Nellie are awake.
She’s desperate to see Monica, to see how Blair’s doing, without any company from either of them.
When Alexander got home from the rifle range yesterday, she told him about the accident. As predicted, he played the whole shocked-denial game. But she could see it in his face—that pinch of concern that went beyond Blair’s well-being—so she set about making dinner, busying herself in the kitchen.
Now she’s making the short drive over to the hospital, taking deep breaths as she weaves through the tree-lined streets.
This morning, thank God, the lobby is empty. Empty, that is, of faces she recognizes.
But as she turns down the hall, her feet stutter, and her heartbeat bangs in her throat.
Standing outside Blair’s room is a police officer, hat in hand. Her radio crackles softly by her side.
This is bad.
Charleigh wants to run screaming from the building, but shecan’t; she needs to find out what’s going on.
She walks toward the room, the soles of her sandals tonguing the sanitized, polished floors. In her arm, the glass vase of white irises she picked up at the hospital’s flower shop wobbles.
At the entrance, she stops, her eyes taking in the room.
Monica sits in a chair next to Blair’s bed, her hand laced through her daughter’s. Blair’s eyes are closed, her head encased in a bandage so thick, she looks like an Egyptian mummy. Tubes snake from her arms, her chest; machines bleat all around them.
Chip’s standing opposite the door, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the windowsill.
Next to Chip, seated in a chair, is Detective Roy Walker—a stout, middle-aged man with a healthy paunch—whom Charleigh recognizes because he’s been on the police force for as long as she’s been back in town. He’s kind, warm, the type who always seems to be offering doughnuts in the break room at church (not that they go very often or anything), making house calls if there’s a key locked inside a car. Pulling over to change a flat. That sort of thing. But today, he eyes Charleigh warily.
