Everything We Didn't Say(89)

But the farm is quiet. I falter in the darkness, squinting at the curved drive. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing there. No mysterious trucks. No one slinking through the shadows. If Betsy is outside, she’s found no need to bark, and the rest of the pastoral acreage is equally hushed. Every couple of seconds I can hear the faint retort of the fireworks, but when I check my watch and realize it’s almost ten thirty, I know that they’re nearly done. I was sure that if the Tates were going to do something, now would be the time. With everyone’s attention fixed elsewhere, it would be the perfect moment to strike. But I was wrong.

Except, it’s unusually dark. It takes me a moment to realize that the light pole near the old chicken coop is conspicuously dim. It should be lighting up the whole yard, but the bulb isn’t just faded, it’s out. I wonder briefly if it fizzled out on its own or if it was helped along by a rock or a pellet gun. But now that I’m here, my suspicions seem almost silly and I dismiss them out of hand.

For a minute or two I stand just outside the raspberry field and try to catch my breath. The high cloud ceiling is changing the weather, and I can feel the humidity rising. I’m unbearably hot from the run and the sudden shift in pressure, and for a moment I consider walking down the hill to the farmhouse to ask for a drink. There are lights on inside—I can see silhouettes moving behind the windows—but I’d probably scare Cal and Beth half to death.

I’m about to turn and go when a breeze lifts the hair off my shoulders and blows the barn door open. It slams against the side of the large building, making me jump, and causing Penny to snort and neigh in alarm.

Before I can consider what I’m doing, I lope down the hill in the direction of the barn. It’s so dark out that I don’t worry about anyone seeing me trespassing on the Murphys’ property. The only light comes from the glow of the farmhouse windows, and everything else is layer upon layer of shadow and black. But I can make out the bulk of the barn, and even if I couldn’t, I know the way.

At the door of the barn, I pause. What if someone is in there? What if it’s Jonathan? Or Sullivan? I gasp a few shallow breaths and force myself to take the last several steps. I’m pressed tight against the side of the building, head cocked and ears craning for the slightest movement, the slightest sound.

I hear the shuffle of Penny’s feet in the hay. The creak of old wood in a rising wind. A hoot owl in a nearby tree.

Nothing more.

My breath leaves me in a hard exhale, and I lean against the open door, spent. This has been a waste of time, and I will clearly be the butt of every joke forever. I can almost picture the Tate boys and my beloved brother holed up somewhere and laughing at my expense. At the way that they have all strung me along and made me see a specter in every trick of light. I swallowed it all, hook, line and sinker, and greedily gulped down the lie that Sullivan could want me. Could maybe even love me.

Tears sting my eyes, but I won’t let them fall. Not for Sullivan and not for the Tates. Not even for Jonathan, because my almost-twin has proven himself to be no brother of mine.

I’m about to retrace my steps when the sound of a door opening draws my attention to the house. For just a moment I can see Cal framed in the warm rectangle of light, then he pushes Betsy back inside by her nose and shuts the door with a bang. He must have heard the barn door too. Or he remembered that he left it open or he has other work to do. Whatever the reason, I’m stuck standing against the rough wood with nowhere to go. If I run for it, there’s a chance that he’ll see the movement and panic. I’m obviously much bigger than a raccoon or a possum, and for all I know, he’s carrying protection because of the harassment he’s experienced.

The thought sends a chill right through me. Farmers have guns. Period. Rifles for hunting and handguns for fun or for nuisances around the farm. Law has dispatched many a skunk with a little silver pistol that he keeps in his bedside drawer, and he even let me shoot it when I turned twelve and he wondered, briefly, if I might show some interest. I didn’t. But if I were Calvin Murphy, and people had been driving onto my property at night, spraying my grass, keying my car, poisoning my dog, and otherwise making my life a living hell, you’d better believe I’d tuck a little something in my waistband.

He’s getting closer—I can hear the melody of his whistle, but I can’t make out the tune—so I make a split-second decision. I duck into the barn and press myself against the wall behind the open door. There are two doors, of course, double wide so they can be swung open to admit equipment and animals, and I pick the side that’s open so that I can wedge myself in the sliver of space between door and wall. A smaller back door will be my escape when the time comes, but if he steps inside and turns on the lights, I don’t want Cal to catch me racing through the barn as if I have something to hide. A couple of minutes. All I have to do is keep still for a couple of minutes.

My whole body is pressed tight against the wall, and I can feel the prickle of the splintered boards against my bare legs and arms. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to regulate my breathing, hoping that the wild beat of my heart and the ragged gulp of each inhale isn’t a dead giveaway that I’ve taken sanctuary in the Murphys’ barn.

But after a few minutes I realize that the footsteps I expected have faded away instead of come closer. I hold still and struggle to hear, but I can’t make out a single noise above the songs of crickets and the complaints of the old barn. Turning, I press my face against one of a thousand gaps in the boards and squint into the inky night.