The Steep and Thorny Way(20)

I released the breath I’d been holding and concealed both the bottle and the note in the drawer of my bedside table. My clothing and hair smelled of smoke from Joe’s lantern, I realized, so I changed into a fresh gray and white dress and sprinkled my hair with talcum powder before twisting it, tucking it under, and pinning it into the style of a faux bob.

A quick glance in the mirror revealed fear in the pupils of my hazel eyes.


WITH A FLASH OF HIS DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS SMILE, Deputy Fortaine stood up from his seat next to Uncle Clyde’s at our dining room table.

“Good morn—” He bumped his thigh on the table’s edge. Mugs of coffee jostled. “Good morning, Hanalee.” His olive complexion reddened, but the smile stayed in place.

“Morning, Hanalee,” said Uncle Clyde, bobbing up from his own chair for a swift moment.

Mama placed her hand against my back and urged me forward, while both men watched me with a kindness that tasted false. I stepped toward them with my hands clasped in front of me.

Deputy Fortaine pulled out a chair for me. “Please, have a seat.”

Uncle Clyde clutched his own mug of coffee and nodded at me to obey the deputy’s orders. The skin beneath his eyes bulged, as if he hadn’t slept the night before.

I sat down with reluctance, and Mama plunked a glass of orange juice in front of me.

“Your breakfast will wait until after the chat,” she said, her hand on my shoulder for a slip of a moment.

Deputy Fortaine sat back down, this time holding on to the table. Mama took the seat across from him.

I fidgeted and rubbed my hands over my skirt, and the cotton stuck to my palms.

“Hanalee”—the deputy cleared his throat and wrapped his fingers around his mug—“as I know you’re well aware, Joe Adder is back in the area. The state penitentiary released him early on good behavior.”

“Yes, I know.” I summoned every ounce of restraint I possessed to keep my head from turning toward the window. Toward the woods.

The deputy took a sip of his beverage, and, after a smack of his lips, he lowered the mug back to the table. I smelled an off-putting potpourri of coffee, orange juice, and the deputy’s musky cologne, the last of which Fleur’s mother probably found arousing. Everything at that table made me sick to my stomach.

“Have you seen him?” asked the deputy, his head tilted to his right, his eyes narrowed.

All three of them—Mama, Uncle Clyde, and Deputy Fortaine—stared me down like buzzards.

I folded my hands on the table, and through gritted teeth I answered, “Why on earth would I be seeing the drunk who killed my father?”

“Hanalee . . .” Mama reached toward me across the table. “I’m worried about the questions you asked me yesterday. I feel your opinion of Uncle Clyde changed the day we learned Joe was back in town. I don’t want any husband of mine feeling unwelcome in his own home.”

I pulled my hand away from hers. “This isn’t Dr. Koning’s home.”

“You see what I mean?” said Mama to the deputy, her voice desperate. “This is how she talks now. She seems suspicious of her own father—”

“He’s my stepfather, Mama.”

Uncle Clyde lowered his face toward his mug, and his knuckles whitened.

The deputy drummed his long fingers on the tabletop. “We need to know where the boy is, Hanalee.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He’s made far too many enemies in Elston, and some people aren’t taking kindly to the idea of his returning.”

I squeezed my lips together and remembered everything Joe had said about himself—his claim that people wanted to hurt him and get rid of him, his fear of surgeons in prison cutting him up and changing him.

I grabbed the sides of my chair. “Did Joe even kill my father?”

The deputy shifted his weight and exchanged a brief look of concern with my stepfather—a look I didn’t care for in the slightest.

“Why do you ask that?” he said.

“Because people shut him up before and during his trial.”

The deputy didn’t blink.

“How did they shut him up?” I asked.

“Hanalee!” Mama grabbed my hand. “You’re not the one who’s supposed to be asking questions.”

“How did they shut him up, Deputy Fortaine?” I asked again, shaking Mama’s fingers off mine by flapping my wrist up and down. “Did you beat him?”

“No, I did not beat Joe Adder.”

“Did Sheriff Rink?”

The deputy breathed a weighty sigh. “Joe was . . . caught in the act of another crime before he crashed into your father. His own actions were used against him. He knew that testifying on that witness stand wouldn’t have done him any good.”

“What other crime?” I asked.

The deputy grabbed the handle of his mug. “That’s not for me to discuss.”

“But—”

“I don’t want that information slipping out into the public and triggering more trouble than it’s already caused.” The deputy took another sip, and I swore his hands shook.

“What trouble?” I asked.

“Hanalee,” urged Mama, “stop badgering the deputy with questions.”

Deputy Fortaine swallowed. “We need to know where he is, Hanalee. I have my suspicions that Joe intends to harm someone around here. I also believe that some people around here might hurt him—badly—even kill him, if they find him first.”