The Devouring Gray(14)

Mrs. Moore and Mrs. Burnham melted away, gabbling hasty good-byes before Violet could ask them any more questions. Which, Violet sensed, was the last thing they wanted her to do.

“Augusta Hawthorne,” the woman said, holding out a gloved hand roughly the size of Violet’s head.

Violet shook it, expecting her fingers to be crushed, but the soft, cracked leather and the grip beneath it were surprisingly delicate. “Violet Saunders. I think I’ve met your son.”

She would’ve noticed this woman’s resemblance to Justin even if she hadn’t revealed her last name. They had the same handsome, angular features, the same pinkish skin and thin blond hair, the same way of standing, as if they expected everyone else in the room to turn toward them. And maybe everyone did—at the very least, the party’s collective gaze seemed to be boring into Violet’s artificially distressed T-shirt.

“Ah. Justin.” Something unreadable flickered across the woman’s face. “He tends to make an impression.”

“I guess.”

“I’m here to introduce myself.” Augusta flipped open her wallet. A silver shield glimmered inside with a circle of red glass embedded in the center—a badge. “As the sheriff of a small town, I like to tell everyone personally to contact me if there’s ever a problem.”

“That’s admirable.” There was something in the woman’s voice that made Violet wonder what kind of problem she was referring to.

But Juniper appeared at her side before the thought could fully blossom. “There you are,” her mother said to Augusta, sharp, obvious recognition splashed across her features. “I’m assuming this get-together was your idea?”

So Juniper hadn’t planned this impromptu party. Violet felt a rush of satisfaction that her gut had been right—her mother didn’t like people that much.

Augusta inclined her head. “It seemed the thing to do. I mentioned the idea to a few others, and they were all quite interested in catching up.”

“Interested in nosing around my house, you mean,” said Juniper. “If you wanted to catch up, you had thirty years to call.”

“And you had thirty years to visit.”

Juniper’s gaze went as cold and glassy as the eyes of the deer head on the wall.

“I heard you wound up in law enforcement.” Her voice held the same quiet viciousness Violet had heard her use on the phone with unruly investors. “You must love that.”

“And I hear you went into…what was it, finance?”

“Software development.”

“Fascinating.”

Those other women’s knowledge of Juniper had come from rumors rather than experience. But Augusta Hawthorne was different. There was a kind of tainted familiarity here that made Violet realize her mother hadn’t just left a town behind—she’d left a life. Daria was one of her casualties. The sheriff, it seemed, was another.

“I hope you don’t mind if I leave you here,” Augusta said. “I’ve got to check on the dogs. They have a tendency to misbehave in unfamiliar places.”

So the mastiffs belonged to her. Violet wasn’t surprised.

“Of course,” said Juniper.

As Augusta walked away, Violet turned toward her mother. “Who was she?”

Juniper tugged uncomfortably on the lapel of her blazer. “My best friend.”

Violet took a deep breath. “And who was Stephen?”

Juniper went still. The country music seemed fainter somehow. Violet was suddenly conscious of how the dead in this room outnumbered the living: the deer head on the wall, the stuffed foxes in the corner, the nest of pinned-down birds rising between two couches.

She knew before Juniper spoke that her mother would lie.

“Maybe someone else in town?” said Juniper carefully. “It’s been a long time. I can’t remember everyone.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Violet had never seen her mother look so lost, or sound so shaken.

“I’m not doing this here.”

Violet gestured toward the doorway. “Good. This party sucks anyway.”

The hallway was quieter. Juniper’s eyes darted down the corridors of reddish stone, her body relaxing only when she seemed certain they were alone at the foot of the staircase. “I suppose it was wishful thinking to hope this town had moved on.”

“Moved on from what?”

Her mother’s hand clutched her wineglass for dear life. “From Stephen,” she said. “My little brother.”

The words sent a jolt down Violet’s spine. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. “You have a brother?”

Every word Juniper said was clipped and careful, the same way they’d been at Rosie’s funeral. “Had. He died a few months before I finished high school.”

“You never told me.” Violet couldn’t keep the accusation out of her voice. “Is this why you left town?”

Juniper took a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes. Stephen is why I left.”

“Gossiping?” Daria crouched on the second-floor landing like a spider, her eyes gleaming brownish-yellow in the light of the dusty chandelier above their heads.

“I can’t talk about this in front of Daria.” Juniper’s voice slipped, revealing the slightest tinge of panic. “It’ll just upset her.”