I squinted against the sunlight. Ever’s long, elegant fingers still hadn’t dropped from his face. “You think I’m crazy.”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “It’s just…the voice in my head, Ruth…” He took a deep breath. “It doesn’t whisper to be good.”
I let his words wash over me. Like the small waves here at the shore, I sensed they were only a glimpse of what lay out past where I could see, in the dark, unfathomable abyss.
So I made a decision.
I peeled Everett’s hands off his face. He watched me warily. “Everett Duncan. You will never say a thing like that again. Not to me or anyone. Do you hear me?” I pressed my fingers to his bare chest, over his scar, his heart, and pretended to turn a key. “Never.”
13
NOW
When I leave the library for lunch and spot Sheriff Theriot through the window at the Rosethorn Café, laughing with his nephew, Gerald, and Gerald’s fishing crew, I finally realize what I have to do. Standing there rooted to the sidewalk, my brown bag lunch clenched in my hand, watching the sheriff slap Gerald on the shoulder over some joke, the understanding crystallizes: I need to know who killed Fred, for my protection and for Everett’s, and I cannot trust the sheriff to find out. Not good ol’ boy Tom Theriot, chumming it up over there with his nephew, the same man who got his promotion to captain onlyafterFred’s death; or Gerald’s crew, who Everett once said had been planning a mutiny while Fred was still alive.
All that motive sitting there at the table, and the sheriff’s questioning me. I’d suspected it before, but now I know: I can’t trust the sheriff, or Gerald, or frankly anyone in this town. I understand them too well. Absent the true culprit, I know where their eyes will turn, looking for a scapegoat. Same place they’ve always turned. And that’s a problem.
Once again, I must cultivate a small rebellion, provide a corrective measure. But this time it’s not illicit books, or an independent study, or a dark mission at the stroke of midnight. This time I must find a murderer.
And I know exactly where to start. A place the sheriff and his deputies would never think to look.
Of all the people in this town, perhaps none are more invisible than the Fortenot Fishing wives, women known not even by their names but by their husbands. They live in a neighborhood far from the grand lanes of my parents’. Their modest houses are pressed close together—easier, I suppose, when you need to bring your children over to a neighbor’s to be watched, or borrow a cup of sugar, or commiserate over the absence of your husbands, away to the sea once more.
Since I’ve been as guilty as anyone of overlooking them, I’m surprised when I drive through their neighborhood after work and find it bustling, tree houses and rope swings full of children, shaded porches lined with women in rocking chairs calling to each other as they watch their lawns. And now, sitting at Julie Broussard’s kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee and a thick slice of hummingbird cake, I’m even more surprised by the many sets of curious eyes looking back at me. Between the time I pulled up outside Julie’s house and when she settled me here in her kitchen, fussing over whether I took sugar and cream, three other women materialized, presumably pulled off nearby porches by the novelty of my visit.
It may be the most attention my presence has ever warranted.
I wonder for a brief moment if Everett, who always knew things I didn’t, could’ve told me secrets about the Fortenot Fishing wives that would’ve helped me unlock them. I chose not to beeline to his house after work like originally planned because I was certain he wouldn’t approve of me sticking my nose in this investigation. I can almost hear him:Ruth, what are youthinking?He doesn’t seem to understand thatour necks aren’t off the chopping block yet. So, absent his intel, my fellow women from the margins and I are forced to sit crammed around this table, blinking at one another, not knowing where to start.
Julie finishes pouring the last cup of coffee and settles at the head of the table. She and her husband, Noah Broussard, have attended Holy Fire for long enough that my father recently rewarded Noah with an usher position, which is how I know of them.
“Miss Ruth,” she says uncertainly. “Pardon my asking, because of course it’s an honor to have a visit from the reverend’s daughter, but what can I do for you?” Julie’s my age, maybe a year older, so I bristle at the deference in her voice, the way her cheeks flush pink as she talks. There are toys belonging to a young child strewn all over the house, and her gaze keeps flicking to them. The other fishing wives stare at me raptly, waiting.
“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Broussard.” I finger the warm edge of my mug. The intensity of their looking throws me until I decide that for this visit, I’ll pretend I’m Jane Austen’s young heiress Emma Woodhouse, a woman at ease wherever she goes. I take a deep breath. “I’m sure y’all have heard about Fred Fortenot.”
Four sets of eyes around the table grow wider.
“Course we have,” says one of the wives, who looks to be roughly six months pregnant. Her hair is braided neatly, but she has dark circles under her eyes. “It’s all anyone’s talking about.” She blushes. “Sorry, I’m Laney. Seen you at church, of course. I—we always sit in the back on account of the kids.”
“Right,” I say, folding my hands together. “I came to ask about Fred. Some unresolved questions I was hoping you could help with.”
My words cause an immediate charge of interest, legible in the way the women’s backs straighten.
“No one ever asks us nothing,” another woman says. She’s so fair she’s almost pale as Everett.
The other women nod eagerly, and I stifle a sigh of relief. I’d prepared myself for resistance, a closing of the ranks, since I’m a Fortenot Fishing Company outsider. But it seems the rareness of being consulted is enough to lure these women in.
“Well, that’s a shame,” I say. “I’m sure you have plenty to offer.”
Their faces open like books. I can read their curiosity, their hunger to talk.
“It’s kind of a delicate subject.” I drop my eyes to the hummingbird cake, all those creamy layers studded with nuts, and think back to Everett’s speculation from years ago that whoever got Beth Fortenot pregnant might’ve been in love with her and furious at Fred for making her give up their baby. Or, in a less romantic theory, maybe Fred finally discovered the father’s identity and held the knowledge over his head like a cudgel. Either way, those are two compelling possible motives. Tenuous, yes, but like this cake before me, the possible reasons for Fred’s killing are many-layered, and I don’t trust the sheriff to attend to all of them.
“I know the men who work at the Company spend a lot of time together off the boats, and y’all have a close community. You probably know a lot about what the Company men get up to in their off time.”
So far, they haven’t contradicted me, so I swallow. “Do any of you remember if Fred’s daughter Beth was involved with a Company man?”
Laney, the pregnant one, gasps. “Beth and one of the fishing boys?”
