The Last House on the Street(101)

In the kitchen, Ellie is cutting vegetables and putting them in the slow cooker, while her mother bends over the sink getting her hair washed by Brenda. The rims of Ellie’s eyes are pink behind her glasses. I’m sure she had a terrible night.

“Hey, Kayla,” Brenda says as she runs the spray head over Miss Pat’s short thin hair. “You doin’ okay after the brouhaha yesterday?”

“I’m all right,” I say.

“Who’s that?” Miss Pat says from her awkward stance as she leans over the sink.

“The girl from down the street,” Brenda says. “You know. Kayla? The one where they found that skeleton yesterday?”

“Oh yeah,” Miss Pat mutters.

I see the tightness in Ellie’s jaw at the mention of the “skeleton.” She looks at me and there’s a question in her eyes: Why are we here? “My father wants to talk to Buddy,” I say, “and Buddy asked me to get some iced tea.”

Ellie wipes her hands on a towel, then opens the refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of iced tea. She hands them to me, then nods toward the living room. “I think I’d like to be part of that conversation, too,” she says, taking a couple more bottles from the refrigerator.

I thank her for the tea. My gaze is on Brenda as she massages Miss Pat’s scalp. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and it’s only as I leave the kitchen that I register what I just saw: a pink birthmark on the inside of Brenda’s right wrist. I’ve seen that birthmark before, and my mind is suddenly on fire as I follow Ellie into the living room.

Brenda is the red-haired woman.

I’m both furious and confused, my hands shaking as I sit down next to my father on the sofa. I set my bottle of tea on the coffee table without opening it. What the hell is going on?

“I’m sitting in on this conversation,” Ellie says, handing one of the bottles to her brother. She doesn’t greet my father and she takes a seat in an armchair across the room, as far from him as she can get. “Have the police talked to you yet?” she asks him.

Daddy nods. He says something, but it doesn’t register in my brain. All I can think about is that the crazy woman who kidnapped my three-year-old daughter is in the kitchen. I sit on the edge of the sofa cushion as if ready to bolt. I should say something. Right now. But what?

As soon as I get out of here, I’ll call Sam.

“So have you thought any more about it, Bud?” my father asks Buddy. “Who else could have gotten my keys after I put them through that slot in your shop door?”

I think Buddy says something about racking his brain, but I really don’t know because Brenda is guiding Miss Pat into the room. Miss Pat, her thin curly hair in damp ringlets close to her scalp, seems frailer than the last time I saw her. She’s shuffling more than walking. She looks small and vulnerable. She sits down in a wooden straight-backed chair and picks up a pencil and the folded newspaper from the table next to her. I can see the square of a crossword puzzle on the paper.

Brenda lowers herself into the upholstered chair next to her. I can’t even look at her. Is she the one who littered my yard with trash? Did she toss dead squirrels into my redbud tree and steal things from Jackson’s trailer? Is she the person who didn’t want anyone to find Win’s body in my backyard? Oh no, honey, you don’t want a fence! That’s what she said to me. Of course she didn’t want me to get a fence! She didn’t want anyone digging holes in my yard.

My father catches my eye. Gives me a quizzical look. I have no idea what he just said, or what Buddy just said, or how I should be responding. My body feels like it’s buzzing.

“Are y’all still talking about that boy’s grave?” Brenda asks. “Can’t we put it to rest? I don’t see why…”

She goes on, but I’m not listening. Her sleeves are still rolled up and my eyes are drawn like a magnet to the irregular pink pattern on the inside of her forearm. She stops speaking, following my gaze to her arm, then back to my face and our eyes meet. She hurriedly rolls her sleeves down, but I can tell from her expression: she knows that I know.

I need to call Sam right now. I could excuse myself. Go outside and make the call.

As I think about what I’d say, my gaze drifts toward the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. I can see the side door, the entrance to the house that Ellie led me through that first day when she made me a cup of tea. I see the faded images of rolling pins and sacks of flour on the ancient wallpaper. I see the old wooden key rack on the wall next to the door, two sets of keys hanging from the knobs. I have a sudden thought.

“Mr. Buddy,” I say, interrupting whatever he and Daddy are discussing. My voice has a shiver in it. “Where did you keep the keys to your car shop back then?”

“In my pocket,” he says.

“Did you ever keep them on that key rack in the kitchen?”

“That ol’ rack!” Buddy lets out a laugh that turns into a coughing fit. We wait. Daddy looks at me, eyebrows raised. He’s catching on. “I made that ol’ thing in a woodworking class when I was … I dunno … fourteen, maybe?” Buddy says. “Been hangin’ there ever since.”

“Did you ever keep the car shop keys on it?” Daddy repeats my question.

“Nah, I always kept them in my pock—”