Everett and I locked eyes. “But you,” I said softly, testing the words. “You could use it to finally get out of here.”
Everett looked at me at that moment in a way I’d never been looked at before: like I was a thousand different people he was sorting through, trying to make sense of. His dark eyes searched my face, his voice husky. “Would you come with me? I finally fixed the old convertible. We could race the whole way up Highway 1 and never look back. I could find work in a garage and you could go to school.”
“Yes,” I said hoarsely. “I’d go.”
Questions swirled in his eyes. My heart pounded. We stood on the edge of a cliff.
Ever looked down at the money. And then at Sam, packing up his book bag, his expression despondent now that he thought we weren’t looking. I could feel his decision. Even before he took a deep breath and turned from me, I could feel it in the air and my heart cracked at the loss.
Ever walked over to Sam and presented the money. I would learn later what he said: it was an anonymous donation. A kind soul who wanted no recognition, only to see Sam succeed.
I watched the first tendrils of acceptance push past the doubt on Sam’s face. Then that acceptance turned to joy as he took the bag, looked into it. I wondered if he thought: It’s a miracle, like Pastor Cornier always swore could happen.
Ever slapped him on the shoulder and walked away, cutting off the gushing Sam was trying to do. Before Everett left, he glanced to where I stood, still frozen behind the Country Corner. He nodded, one sharp incline of his chin, and I knew in that moment that what he’d done had been right, that what was lawful and what was just had been two different things today, and we’d chosen correctly.
So yes, Everett and I had done some things I needed to repress. Yes, we were criminals. There was no getting around it.
But I swear to God—to Christ and the Holy Spirit. In the ways that mattered, I always believed we were good.
16
NOW
It’s barely light outside when I slip out my front door, screen banging behind me, wielding a pair of gardening shears with blades as big as my forearms. The morning’s cool, the sun taking mercy on the flowers in my garden. More mercy than I will show Everett’s back door, the one his father broke in a drunken rage and Ever never got repaired. For years it’s stood bound with a flimsy padlock, a tempting invitation for home invaders if Bottom Springs had any. Though even if we did, they, like everyone else in town, would probably be too afraid of the Duncan house to rob it.
Actually, I supposeI’mthe home invader. The thought makes me smile as I take swift steps across my lawn. I’m shirking my duties at the library to head straight to Everett’s house and see if he’s back—and if not, I plan to break into his back door using these shears and wait for him, however long it takes. There’s a killer out there and the Fortenot Fishing Company is hiding something and Barry has proposed, and altogether it makes me feel like a powder keg waiting to explode.
I’m still smiling in a way that can’t look wholly sane when I hear the crunch of tires and twist to find the sheriff’s familiar brown-and-white Ford Crown ambling down my drive. I still like a rabbit, gripping mygardening shears, too surprised to do anything but watch the car jerk to a halt, a cloud of dust swirling. The sheriff steps out.
“Mornin’.” He tips his hat and adjusts his sunglasses against the glare of the sun. A grin spreads over his face. “Who’s in trouble?”
I blink at him. “Sorry?”
He points to the shears. “Those wicked scissors. Who’s in trouble?”
My mouth goes dry. “My star jasmine. They’re due for a trim.”
The sheriff moves toward me in a showy way, taking big steps that make the holstered gun at his side bounce so it’s impossible to ignore. “Awful early for gardening.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. My long grass, in need of a mowing, pricks my ankles above my Keds. “I thought I’d get it done before work while it’s cooler.” I frown. “It’s awful early for you to be here, Sheriff.”
He smiles. Tom Theriot used to have a single gold tooth, the result of an old football injury, but he got it fixed a few years back at some fancy dentist over in Forsythe. Now his smile is pure white. “Thought I’d catch you before work this time.” He gestures at my garden. “Go ahead. I can talk while you trim.”
With no other choice, I walk stiffly to my jasmine bushes, the sheriff trailing close behind. I begin to cut. Each slash of the blades is satisfying. “If you’re here to ask more about Fred, I’m afraid I haven’t remembered anything new.”
“Actually.” The sheriff takes his time with the word, drawing it out. “I’m here on another matter.”
I pause midcut. “I see.”
“Not sure if Barry’s mentioned, but we’ve been dragging Starry Swamp, searching for more remains. It’s hard, nasty work, but we found another piece. Except this one don’t belong to Fred. Know how we know?”
I shake my head.
“It’s another skull.”
It takes all of my willpower not to drop the shears.
“Our best guess is that it belongs to a man named Renard Michaels. Construction worker who passed through here ’bout six years ago, ’fore Fred went missing.”
