Suddenly, Myrtle’s command comes barreling back to me. I rush to the cabinet, hastily pulling the jars out, as many as I can hold. Carrying them to the salt bin, I shove them down one at a time, salt up to my armpit. It takes a few rounds to get them all. There must be more than ten. Fortunately, some are quite small. They all fit easily into the container, and while the salt level rises, it doesn’t spill over. When I’m done, I run a hand over the top to hide the indentations where my arm had been, smoothing out the salt. I make sure to shake any excess off my sleeve before leaving the room.
Slowly, I creep down the stairs, using my injured foot as an excuse to draw it out. People are standing around in small clusters, whispering to one another. The man doing chest compressions has moved aside for Myrtle to take his place. The abused womanis sitting with a dish towel full of ice pressed to her face, sniffling quietly. The energy, for all its hysteria minutes ago, has shifted to subdued.
My eyes fall on the dead man. His face is gruesome to behold—staring, tainted eyes and vomit smeared across his chin. The only thing worse than the sight is the smell. Myrtle is right; he’s long gone. But she pumps away, looking up to meet my eyes just once. Her face is unreadable, but I know she’s given up on reviving him. Everyone has.
I find an empty seat and slide down into it. My mind cannot work out the connection. With Don, I knew the pokeweed was to blame somehow. It must have lingered in my system, contaminated my mouth or skin, something he came into contact with during his attempt to rape me. But even so, wouldn’t he only have encountered a trivial amount? An inconsequential trace? Surely not enough to be fatal.
This is different. The pokeweed I ate is long gone, passed through urine and sweat, washing me clean. It can’t be responsible for what happened to this poor asshole.Ican’t be responsible, unless…
Unless Myrtle’s cabinet stash is just as lethal. Unless whatever I devoured during my midnight pica excursion wasn’t harmless but devastating.
My eyes fall on her bent form, the agitated thrusts of her arms, the resignation in her face. Her long, silvering hair is clipped behind her head, falling gracefully over her shoulders even now.We are a family of crows,she told me once as a young girl.Crows feed on what others can’t, including other birds.
I am seeing Aunt Myrtle with new and terrifying eyes.
The sound of a siren cuts through my abstraction. An ambulance rolls into view and comes to a stop. Paramedics leap out and rush into the room, moving Myrtle aside. She explains what happened as they work, what everyone witnessed. I know nothing about saving a life, but it looks like they’re giving him all theusual procedures despite their resigned expressions. They load him onto a stretcher and head outside, the wife or girlfriend tripping behind. “He needs a hospital,” one of them says to Myrtle.
He needs a morgue,I think.
Behind them, two fire trucks pull up, lights whirling. Relief steals over me as the body is whisked away. I slump against the back of the chair, letting out a long, slow breath. I dare a glance at Aunt Myrtle, who looks similarly relieved, leaning against one of the standing tables, a hand to her head as she allows herself a much-needed break.
But a white law enforcement vehicle with green and gold stripes parks at an angle outside the café, and just as quickly as we’d let down our guard, we erect it again. A uniformed man steps out, the brim of a hat obscuring his eyes, and marches inside.
I rise from my chair, my gaze meeting Myrtle’s for a split second before she greets him. “Sheriff Brooks,” she croons, smiling momentarily. “Thank you for coming.”
As he looks up, I nearly tumble back into the seat behind me. Gray, fathomless eyes rake the room before settling on me. His lips part as he removes his hat, the shorn beard tidy along his jaw, and his shoulders strain against the fit of his shirt, a vein in his neck pulsing. It’s Regis, who gave me a ride from the market in Saranac Lake, who made me a grilled cheese sandwich and let me sleep in his house. Who held my hand a beat too long standing at his door. I can’t reckon the misfortune in having shared a night with a cop in between murdering two different men and staging my own death. Everything in me goes icy cold as I recall him noting Don’s ring, which I so recklessly offered for a ride out of town.
Myrtle steps between us. “We haven’t touched anything yet,” she tells him. “But I have a full night of cleaning and sanitizing before I can open this place up again. So, let’s make this quick.”
“Sure, Myrtle,” he agrees with a small smile. “I’m just gonna take a statement and a few photos if that’s okay with you. We can bring you in for questions later if it seems necessary.”
She begins recounting her version of events. Beside her, the two men from the Drunken Moose keep interrupting with their own details, eager to share their stories. Regis glances up continually between the three of them, jotting things on a notepad. Finally, Myrtle snaps at one of the men. “If I’da wanted your help, Terry, I woulda asked for it. Last I checked, I can speak for myself just fine.”
I notice Regis trying to conceal a smile. “Thank you, Myrtle,” he says when they’re done. “Mind if I ask around, talk to some of the other patrons.”
She shrugs. “Be my guest. We all saw the same thing.”
He nods and starts my way.
Uneasy, I begin stacking chairs and pretending to wipe off tables. Myrtle’s right about one thing—this will be a hell of a mess to clean up. I dare a peek over my shoulder and see Regis chatting with a few other people, but it doesn’t take him long to find his way to me.
“Acacia Lee from Near-Austin, Texas,” he says. “We meet again.”
I nod. “You didn’t tell me you were the sheriff.”
“Didn’t think I needed to,” he says. “You commit any crimes in Franklin County recently that I should be aware of?”
I laugh nervously. “Aren’t you a little young for a position like that?”
He shrugs. “Not according to the citizens of Franklin County, who elected me after Sheriff Jackson died five years ago.”
I nod my head, feeling like submission is my best policy.
“I’m from this county,” he says after a moment. “People here know how seriously I take the job. They trust me.”
I imagine his rugged good looks didn’t hurt when it came time to run, but I don’t mention it.
“But I’ll tell you a little secret if you promise it doesn’t leave this circle.” He leans in. “I thought I was a bit young for the job myself.”
