“There’s no need,” Aunt Bella cuts in, her voice sharp as slivered steel despite her age.
“There’s not?” Barbie asks, as shocked as I am.
“No,” Bella insists. “There’s not.”
“But killing an innocent is the worst offense a bane witch can commit!” Rose shrieks. “The girl is clearly guilty. She doesn’t deny it.”
“She’s not guilty,” Aunt Bella says, her eyes reaching into mine. “At least not of killing an innocent. Of lying by omission, perhaps. But that is another matter.”
“I don’t believe it!” Barbie spits, crossing her arms.
“He tried to rape me,” I manage. They stop arguing and fall quiet. I place a hand on my stomach, breathe in, let it rise like bile. “That man tried to rape me. He wouldn’t have died at all if he hadn’t forced himself on me, pushing his—his tongue into my mouth after I’d eaten… I’d eaten… berries. Pokeweed. To make it look like I’d killed myself. I wanted my husband to think I was dead, so he wouldn’t come looking. He’s a dangerous man. Like the men you hunt. It was the only way. I might have died, actually. I jumped off a bridge, but the river spit me out. And then I needed a ride, a way out of town, to safety. That man, Don, offered to drive me to DC, but he pulled off the main road while I was sleeping. He wanted sex. In payment for a few bottles of water and a sandwich.”
A ludicrous giggle vibrates up my throat. It’s mad. The whole thing. My story. My life. My death. They’ll kiss me now for sure, bury me in the soft moss beneath the Douglas firs. And I don’t know if I care anymore. I’m so sick of carrying the wrongs of others inside me, on my body. Anger swells hot and salty like brine in my stomach. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know it would kill him. That I’d been feeding. That I had this…power.But I couldn’t have stopped him even if I did. And Ididtry. He was big. My rib was broken. He brought it on himself.”
“You poor dear,” Myrtle whispers.
Words continue to tumble out, as if I need to hear myself say that it was not my fault. “I didn’t knowthatwould happen. At first, I didn’t really understand it. But after the other night, the man in the café, I finally put the pieces together.” I sit on the arm of the sofa, turtling into myself, wanting to disappear. I don’t mention the man I killed when I was only five. Myrtle is keeping this secret from them, and I assume her reasons are good. “I know you don’t trust me, and this looks bad. I know my mother let you down. But I’m not her. Please. You offered to give me a chance—six weeks. Let me prove I can do it differently.” Six weeks was laughable last night. This morning, under the glare of the television screen, the flash of Don’s headshot, it looks downright generous.
What’s more—after the dust of the conclave has settled, after my experience at Beth Ann’s property this morning, the weight of the killer still inside me like a parasite, a real entity needing to be put down—I realize that Iwantthis. I messed up with Henry because I didn’t know. But if I had, I would have laid him down a long time ago. Of that, I am sure. Yes, it is messy and gray and morally questionable, a responsibility and a burden, but it is real—action, solution, permanent. So much more than words. And the victims of these men, the women and children who are hurting, they deserve that.
“Too late,” I hear someone mutter.
“Why?” I spin around, the speaker silent. “Whatever it looks like, that man got what was coming to him.” I jab a finger towardthe front of the room, to the reporter—Nancy—and her immaculate teeth. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time trying to rape the wrong woman. It wasn’t planned, but it saved me. I can’t say Don deserved to die for what he was going to do, had already done to someone else, but I don’t regret it. If it saved another woman after me, I don’t regret it at all.”
They stare at me like owls, eyes shining preternaturally, unblinking.
“I can do this,” I say. “I canbethis. Let me prove it to you.” I’m not just begging for my life anymore, I’m begging for a chance, for a destiny that belongs to me.
“Spoken like a true bane witch,” Azalea says, chin jutting. I see other heads begin to nod, Lattie and Ivy and Tina. I want to fall at their feet.
Bella strokes the chicken in her lap delicately. “Our arrangement stands.”
My head lowers, eyes fluttering to a close, as I blow the anxiety out between dry lips.
“But speak true, girl. Are there any others we should know about?” She points to the TV screen where the news is still playing. “This is not our way.”
My eyes dart to Myrtle’s. She doesn’t move a muscle, but there is a pallor in her face, a tightness to her jaw. I shake my head vehemently. “No, I swear. It won’t happen again. Not like this. Myrtle will teach me. I can be discreet. I can be invisible.”
They don’t know it, but I’ve already had the best teacher. Henry forced me to smile against my pain, to put on a pretty face and hide the mess we were behind closed doors, to scream only on the inside. Now that I understand what’s happening, I can be careful. I can act with intent. I can be the bane witch they need me to be. I can keep myself, Myrtle, and countless others safe.
“It better not,” Donna says, rising to her feet. “Myrtle, we leave it in your hands. Don’t let us down. We’ll be in touch.” She grips the handles of her mother’s chair. “Come along, Mother. We have a flight to catch.”
As Myrtle sees them to the door and helps Donna lower Bella’s chair from the porch, I slump over my knees.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up into Tina’s bright face. “There, there,” she tells me with a wry smile. “The worst is over now. You’ll see.” It’s the first brush of kindness she’s shown me. She crooks a finger beneath my chin. “So much promise. Don’t spoil it like your mother did.”
“Okay,” I say stupidly as she walks away.
They clear the room, each stopping to hug Myrtle goodbye and head out to their respective cabins where they will pack up and prepare for their journeys home. I can’t help feeling like the person who farted at the party. I notice a tray of bagels on the table. I stick half of one in my mouth and begin gathering cups of undrunk coffee to take to the sink. Myrtle finds me there after seeing the last of them out.
“Put those down, Piers,” she says plainly. “We have to talk.”
Now I feel like a kid on the verge of being grounded. I let her lead me back to the living room. She clicks the TV off. “You want to tell me where you were this morning?”
I lower my head, unable to look her in the eye and lie.
She exhales forcefully, her lips forming a grim line. “You’re lucky to be alive,” she tells me, her eyes level and sincere.
