The Overnight Guest(86)
Jackson Henley. She had been so wrong about him—they all had been. That poor man had been accused of the most heinous crimes, and he was innocent. He may not have been sent to prison, but he had been tried and convicted by his community. Jackson was a victim too.
“I unlocked the shed and let him out. I tried to explain, but don’t worry about him right now. He’s fine,” Wylie said. “You’ll be able to go home—see your mom and dad, your brother and sister.”
“I don’t believe it,” Becky said, settling gingerly onto the sofa. “It doesn’t seem real.”
Wylie led the little girl to the kitchen. “Are you okay?” Wylie asked, getting a good look at the girl’s clothing, hands, face—all splattered with her father’s blood.
The girl nodded, her eyes blank. Wylie feared she was going into shock.
“Everything is going to be fine,” Wylie said, guiding the girl over to the sink and pouring bottled water over her bloody hands. “We’re all safe now. We’re leaving here, and he will never be able to hurt you again.”
The girl’s chin trembled. “I picked up the gun. I saw it fall out of your pocket. I know I wasn’t supposed to touch it, but when you didn’t come back, I got scared. Then I saw the car come through the barn. I thought you were dead,” she said tearfully. “I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. So I came to find you.”
“You sure did,” Wylie said, gently wiping a damp cloth across the girl’s face.
The girl gave her a wisp of a smile, and then it fell away. “I shot my dad.” The girl’s voice broke. “I’m sorry.”
“You had to.” Wylie tried to assure her. “You saved my life. You saved your mother’s life. Thank you.” Wylie reached out her arms. After a moment’s hesitation, the girl walked into them, and Wylie pulled the girl into an embrace. They stood there for a long time, the girl’s tears dampening the front of Wylie’s coat. For Wylie, there were no tears. Not yet. She would save them for later.
Wylie grabbed an armful of coats and hats and moved to the living room.
Wylie dressed Becky and the girl in layers of clothing to keep them adequately warm for their journey. Becky seemed to be in a daze. Shock probably. Wylie pulled wool socks over the girl’s hands, a stocking cap over her ears, and wrapped a scarf around her neck so that only her eyes were showing.
“Do you trust me?” Wylie asked. The girl nodded. Together they helped Becky toward the door, Tas at their heels. “Are you ready?” Wylie asked.
“Yes,” came the girl’s muffled reply. Through the opened door, the wind had stilled, and the snowy landscape glittered like diamonds.
“Wylie,” the little girl said shyly. “My name is Josie.” And they stepped out into the brittle sunshine.
15 Months Later
Libraries, no matter what state or city Wylie visited, had the same comforting smell, and the Spirit Lake Public Library in Iowa was no different. The books, paper, glue, and ink—all in various stages of disintegration—had a musty, vanilla-like scent that eased her anxiety.
Wylie looked out over the crowd of fifty eagerly waiting for her to read from The Overnight Guest. A year after finishing the final edits, the book was out in the world and Wylie was on tour, making her way across the United States, inching her way toward Burden. Tomorrow she would leave Spirit Lake and drive thirty miles to the tiny library in her former hometown. Wylie was nervous about it. She hadn’t been back for over a year.
After Becky and Josie’s escape in the middle of a snowstorm and the events at the farmhouse that led to the death of Randy Cutter, they found themselves in the spotlight along with the small Iowa town. After speaking with law enforcement and making sure that Becky and Josie were safe and reunited with family, Wylie went home. Went back to Oregon, back to her son. She had a lot to make up for and she spent every minute of the past year doing just that.
Speaking in front of groups of people, large or small, never got easier, but libraries and bookstores did their best to make her feel comfortable, at home, and this library was no exception. All the folding chairs were filled, and more people lined up against the back wall.
As the library director introduced Wylie, she searched the crowd for Seth who had reluctantly agreed to come on tour with her. Now fifteen, Seth had a summer job and a boyfriend.
Wylie understood his reluctance. “I want to show you where I grew up,” she told him. “I want you to see where my story took place. Why I’m the way I am.”
Seth had grown quiet. “Okay,” he finally agreed. “But can we please go see the Dodgers when they play in Boston?”
Wylie laughed. Seth loved baseball as much as she did. “It’s a deal,” she promised.
And there he was, sitting in the back row, head bent over his cell phone. He glanced up, saw Wylie looking at him and gave her his thousand-watt smile. They’d come a long way in the last year.
As the library director finished her introduction, the room filled with polite applause and Wylie stepped to the podium.
“Good evening,” she began. “It’s such a joy to be back in my home state of Iowa, to be here talking with you tonight. As a true crime writer, I’m used to writing about other people’s lives. I write about regular, everyday people who have unimaginable things happen to them. I write about the impact it has on families, on communities, on those left behind. I also write about the perpetrators—try to delve into their backgrounds, their upbringing, their psyches in order to try and comprehend why they commit the terrible acts they do. The Overnight Guest was a very different project for me. It was personal.”