The Stillwater Girls(25)

I haven’t brought it up since, and we never discussed it after that. It seemed pointless and masochistic to give weight to a drunkard’s opinion.

My husband is a forgiving soul and I’ve never known him to hold a grudge for very long, but Davis had crossed a line I’d never known existed for Brant: mocking my desire to care for a child.

Still, though. It isn’t like Davis to go this long without reaching out and asking for “gas money” or for Brant to “slip him a hundred bucks till payday.” Usually we’d hear from him at least once a month. But now? Radio silence. Several months’ worth.

Then again, perhaps Davis has been reaching out to Brant, and Brant has failed to mention it for reasons I can only hope are noble.

As an only child, I won’t pretend to know the intricacies of sibling relationships, and theirs is only compounded by a less-than-ideal childhood riddled with abusive parents, foster homes, and the sorts of things that can snap a human soul in two if you think about them too long.

I place my phone down, nibble my thumbnail, and lose myself in thought long enough to reach a decision—and a risky one at that.

First thing in the morning, I’ll head out to Davis’s place, a check in hand and a few questions at the ready. I’ve witnessed enough over the years to learn there’s not much he won’t do for a few dollars, and if I add enough zeroes, I might be able to get him to squeal on his brother.

Who knows? He might not know a damn thing.

But odds are . . . he knows something.





CHAPTER 19

WREN

That tree’s been taunting me since yesterday—the tree that shades the earth that covers the remains of Daddy and Imogen.

This may be morbid, but I have to know. I have to prove to myself that Mama isn’t a liar. And there’s only one way to find out.

Mama always told me Imogen died before I was born—an accident, she said, never saying a whole lot beyond that because it made her lose her breath and break down into tears every time she thought about it too much.

I don’t remember Daddy, though he had to have been in my life at some point. I was one year old when Sage was born, but it’s the strangest thing because I can’t put a face to my father no matter how hard I try. I used to lie in bed some nights, fighting through the fog of memories as if I could find him if I looked hard enough.

But it never happened.

Mama said most people don’t remember the earliest years of their childhood, and she always told me not to feel bad if I couldn’t picture his face or remember the Woody Guthrie songs he used to sing when he’d entertain us while Mama was cleaning the kitchen after dinner.

Mama said he died in the forest just past our property line, that someone with a gun shot him and left him for dead. She never knew why, and she never knew who. All by herself, she dragged him back home and buried him under the tree alongside their firstborn.

Sometimes I think I remember that time in our life.

Other times I think they’re just those “false memories” Mama always talked about, images my mind created to illustrate Mama’s vivid stories.

I’m supposed to be gathering eggs for breakfast, but this morning I’ve taken a detour to the garden shed in search of a shovel.

Rifling through the garden tools, I find a hoe and a watering can and a hand rake . . . but no shovel.

He must have hidden it, thinking we might use it on him.

Grabbing the hand rake, I march out of the shed, letting the door bang against the side behind me, and I run to the weeping willow tree, falling to my knees in front of the empty flower bed surrounded by rocks the size of my head.

Plunging the rusted tines into the cold, hard dirt, I rake clumps of rock and clay and soil. I’m barely making progress, but I refuse to stop even if the cold air burns my lungs and I have to fight just to take a breath.

Eventually, I toss the hand rake aside, deeming it useless, and I dig into the earth with my bare hands like an animal—wild and determined.

Nothing else matters.

The wind kisses my face, blowing my hair into my eyes, and when I brush it away with my forearm, I’m left with a wet mark. I didn’t realize I was crying.

“What . . . are you doing?” The man’s voice sends a shock to my heart, and I freeze. “You burying a bone or something?”

He chuckles, and for a moment, I think I might be safe—that he’s not going to punish me for taking a detour on my way to gather eggs.

“My father and sister,” I say. “I wanted to see if they were really buried here.”

Glancing up at him, I squint against the sun. He lifts his hand to his face, massaging his leathery cheek.

“You think your mama lied to you?” he asks.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m digging.” I pick up the little rake, bracing myself for the moment he tries to yank it out of my hands.

Without saying another word, the man walks away. I don’t question it; I don’t try to understand it; I only keep digging.

A few minutes later, my dress is stained with earth and my nails are caked with muck, and I stop to catch my breath and examine my progress. The odds of me finishing this on my own without the proper tools aren’t good, but I need to keep going.

Gathering what’s left of my strength, I plunge the metal into the dirt again and again, stopping only when a familiar metallic chink in my ear pulls my attention to the right.