I can hear Ever’s voice in my head, clear and ringing:“Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
Donne, I whisper back.As in, we are done and buried.
I wait for the flames. Renard’s name spoken like a spell, his soul unleashed, the devils coming. But there’s nothing. Only the sun beating down, the air thick with sweet, cloying jasmine, the buzz of bees. No cosmic reaction, no opening of Hell. The debilitating guilt I expected is nowhere to be found. In its place, curiously, is a ribbon of rebellion: the sheriff stands beside me so imperiously. I want to leave him frustrated, evaded.
I want to best him.
“We’re working with a fancy forensics center up in New Orleans now that there’s two victims,” he continues. I can feel the intensity of his stare but don’t meet it. “They say the skull’s been in the swamp for ’bout six years, which is around the time Renard’s truck was found abandoned in the swamp. That’s how we figured it was him. We’ll confirm the identity and cause of death soon.”
Red blotches appear on my freckled skin, spreading over my arms like a tell.
“Now, Ruth,” says the sheriff, startling me into snapping off a long, elegant arm of star jasmine. Its beautiful scent sharpens in death. “I made a mistake going public with Fred and the vandalism in the swamp. I’ll own up to that. The town’s up in arms about witchcraft and the Low Man, and it’s starting to put the screws to our investigation. So we’re keeping Renard quiet for now, and I’ma need you to do the same. No stoking this into a furor, you hear?”
I thrust my arms deep into the jasmine bushes to hide the scarlet blotches. Focus on the rhythm of cutting, cutting, cutting, until I realize I need to answer him.
“Of course, Sheriff. I’m very sorry to hear there’s another skull.” It’s too little, too late, but it’s something. “It’s awful, whoever it turns out to be.” I cannot say the name Renard. I will choke.
“Well, Ruth, it’s good to hear you say that. Because back when Renard disappeared—you was still in school—we chalked it up to him meeting a bad end on a trapping trip, on account of that’s how he used to spend his time. You know trekking out into the swamp ain’t for casual fools. We figured he was an outsider, and Starry got ’em. But now that we got two skulls, two signs of blunt-force trauma, our calculation’s different. We’re looking into some things we didn’t look into before.”
I chop and chop. The sun has risen high overhead, and there’s sweat at my hairline. I want the vines to swallow me like the trees swallowed nymphs in Greek myths. I want to be green and inhuman and at peace.
“Turns out Renard was real close to his momma,” says the sheriff. He re-angles so he’s standing in front of me, and I have no choice but to look at his face. “Told her a lot. And one of the things he said was that he’d met a nice girl here in Bottom Springs, a preacher’s daughter with flamin’-red hair. He actually said that: flamin’ red. Ain’t that some poetry? It made the detail stick in his momma’s head, and she told me all about it when I called ’er up.”
I stop cutting, arms still in the bushes. “She’s not lying. I did meet Renard at church. Like I meet everybody.”
“And what was the nature of your relationship?”
It’s going to be okay, I promise myself. All I need to do is say the things I was prepared to say six years ago.
“We didn’t have one. We were friendly at church, that’s all.” I meet his eyes. “You know me. Not much for talking.”
The sheriff smiles. “Yes. A modest girl. Miss Ruth, can you think back to where you were six years ago, on the night of Friday, June 1st?”
“That’s an awful long time ago, Sheriff.”
“Do your best.”
“Well…I was never one for going out with friends. Friday nights back then, you could find me home reading.” I smile tightly. “You can ask my parents. Hasn’t changed much since.”
“I see.” Sheriff Theriot nods, as if he was expecting that answer. “And speaking a’ friends, you’re friends with Killian’s boy, Everett Duncan, that right?”
He knows I am. He just asked about Everett two days ago. I nod warily.
“He ever mention Renard? Either back then or since?”
It’s almost otherworldly how, despite the heat, goose bumps spike on my skin. I clear my throat. “Never.”
“When you was bein’ friendly with Renard at church, did he ever say anything about spending time at Killian’s garage?”
The question is so strange I forget to keep my composure and frown. “No.”
The sheriff lifts his sunglasses so I can see his eyes. They’re brown and bloodshot, but cunning. “Six years ago. Ain’t that about the time you and Everett starting hanging out?”
I step back, shaking the jasmine. “I… Well—”
Something hot and sharp pierces my skin. I gasp, jerking my hands out of the flower bush. A wasp lights up into the sky, buzzing loudly. I’ve been stung.
Tears prick my eyes at the radiating pain. A red welt is already rising on my forearm, a white gouge mark in the middle.
