These Silent Woods: A Novel(68)

I return to the fire, and he settles onto the porch and begins writing, his back propped against the front of the house. He’s there a long time, staring into the night and writing, until at last he rises. “I’ll set this on the table,” he says, disappearing into the house.

He comes back. “Tell Finch—” His scar twitches, his face a constellation of grief.

“I’ll tell her.”

“I’ll come by and get your chickens tomorrow.”

“Wait till the afternoon, if you don’t mind. Give Marie and Finch a chance to clear out of here. It’s just—if she sees you.”

“I understand. Tomorrow afternoon, then.”

I surprise myself. Reach out and place my hand on his shoulder and wish for a moment that I hadn’t chosen to hate him all these years. “Thanks.”

“You take care now, neighbor.”

And then he is gone.



* * *



I fall asleep for a while, and when I wake up, my back and neck are stiff, and the fire has died down to a heap of coals and it’s cold. I drag myself up and stretch. Open the chicken coop and peer in. “You girls keep on with what you’re doing. You’ll be in a new home, but you’ll be all right.” I reach in and pat each one of them on the head, which they don’t duck away because it’s dark and they can’t really see. “Bye now,” I say.

Coop, you crazy old bird. Talking to chickens again and maybe even crying a little bit.



* * *



Marie arrives at first light. Finch is still asleep, but I’m on the porch, waiting. Drinking a hot cup of coffee, French pressed, because this is the last time. Last sunrise at the cabin, the woods turning red and then pink and then all of it yellowing, bright. Last time pumping water from the pump. Last scooping of coffee. Last everything.

She parks the Prius and steps out, and seeing me, runs. Wraps tight around me, body pressed close. I rest my chin on her forehead and breathe her in.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry if I brought this on you.”

“It wasn’t you. Bad luck, that’s all. And some bad decisions, years ago. But I’m gonna settle things. Make things right.”

We stand there, the two of us, and I consider what might have been. How close we’d come to something like happiness, here, that week of Christmas. Its wings had brushed against us: an almost.

I press the piece of paper with the name and address for Finch’s grandparents into her palm. “Judge is a piece of work. Mrs. Judge is worse.” I kick at the gravel. “Tell them you found us here. That she’s been cared for. Loved. All that. And also—tell them I’m sorry. If there’s anything you can do. If you can help me have a chance to see her—”

Marie wraps her fingers around my hand. “Of course.”



* * *



At eight, I say my goodbyes. Kneel down and fold my arms around Finch. She holds the note Scotland left on the table, pressed tight in her hand, but she won’t look at me, just flat-out refuses. Stares straight ahead. I climb in the truck. Pull the door closed, roll the window down. Marie wipes her eyes with her sleeve and waves, and Finch stands there with her face buried in Marie’s skirt. I gather my courage. Turn the key.

I drive away, slowly. Take a mental picture of the whole place in my mind. The cabin, clothesline, well pump, orchard, brambles. This place where I have grieved and toiled and also grown whole again. Marie and Finch in the yard: my second chance at happiness and I have no choice but to drive away from it. I watch it grow smaller in the rearview mirror and then Finch—Finch is chasing after me, all arms and legs. I step on the brake and pull the shifter into park and climb out.

She throws herself into my arms and wraps herself around me, squeezing hard. She nuzzles her face against my neck. Crying hard. “I changed my mind,” she sobs. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Sugar, don’t do this.”

“Don’t go. Please! I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said you should be ashamed of yourself. I didn’t mean it. I was wrong, I take it back.”

“You weren’t wrong, sugar. Casey’s parents. They deserve to know she’s not alive. They deserve to know the truth. And Casey deserves justice. I have to do this, Finch. Not just for them. For you. And me.”

“Marie could go.”

“Even if she did, people will be looking for us. That picture. Finch—there’s no other way.” I try to pull away from her, but she clings tighter. I stand up and she doesn’t budge. Wraps her legs tight, like a clamp.

“Daddy, please.”

She has never called me that, and the way she says it—a plea, deep and desperate, barely a whisper. Makes me pause. Question everything.

Marie walks toward us. She places a hand on Finch’s back. “Finch.”

Finch shrugs her off. “Get away from me,” she hisses.

“Let go now, Finch,” I say gently, trying to keep my resolve. “Be a good girl.”

She is crying so hard.

“Give me a hand,” I say to Marie, and the two of us work together to pry Finch from me and she is screaming screaming screaming. I pull free and Marie has her. Sits down in the gravel and wraps her arms and legs around Finch, restraining her, and she’s fighting hard, bucking and kicking and flailing, every ounce of her. A wild animal, vicious with rage.