The Familiar Dark(29)

“This was nice,” Jenny said as I made a second attempt to slide off the table. “Spending time with someone who gets it. It’s a relief.” I understood what she meant. Losing a child the way we had resulted in instant isolation. After the initial flurry of sympathy, people gave you a wide berth in case your bad luck, the dark cloud of murder and violence you lived under, seeped over onto them. She smiled at me as I stood. “Why did we never do this before? Our girls were so close and this is the first time we’ve ever really had a conversation.”

I shrugged, looked away. “Just busy, I guess.”

“Well, better late than never. Although I think I did most of the talking. Next time, it’s your turn, okay?”

I forced my mouth into a half smile. “Okay,” I said, knowing, even if Jenny didn’t, that there was never going to be a next time.





TWELVE


When a reporter finally cornered me, I had no one but myself to blame. I’d gone to the laundromat as the sun was rising, hoping to get my laundry done and be back at the apartment before anyone else was stirring. My luck held when I let myself in through the screen door in the back of the laundromat, the smell of perfumed dryer sheets smacking me in the face, and not a single other person in sight. A couple of dryers were full of clothes someone hadn’t bothered to pick up from the day before, but all six washing machines were empty. I filled one with whites, the other with everything else, feeding quarters into the slots without really paying attention, my eyes roaming over the bulletin board behind the machines. Notices about yard sales, offers to babysit with phone numbers scrawled on paper tags no one had pulled off, pleas for the return of lost dogs, and there, in the middle, a picture of Junie’s face.

It was like taking a punch to the gut, completely unprepared for the sharp stab of pain. I flinched as I stared at her gap-toothed smile, her freckled nose, a number for anyone with tips to call printed below. I fought against the sudden urge to rip down the flyer, to hide her away where other people couldn’t gawk at her. I didn’t want her to belong to the whole world. I wanted her to still be only mine.

Behind me, the screen door opened on a squeal of hinges and then banged shut again. I stepped away from the washing machines, tugging my baseball cap lower on my forehead. From the corner of my eye, I saw a woman approach, lugging a canvas bag of laundry behind her.

“Morning,” she said.

“Hi.” I busied myself gathering up my detergent and extra quarters with my back to her, tossing everything into my empty laundry basket for a quick getaway. I knew already that she wasn’t from around here. Not enough twang in her vowels, too many expensive highlights in her hair.

“Is there anywhere in town to get coffee this early?” she asked my back. I could hear her opening a washing machine, the clink of quarters.

“The Bait & Tackle, about half a mile down.” I gestured west without turning around, waiting for her to start loading in her dirty clothes so I could slip out behind her.

She sighed. “Guess I should have grabbed some at the motel before I left this morning.” The nearest motel was five miles east of here, next to a gas station and not much else. Filled now with reporters, which confirmed the sinking feeling in my gut. “I gotta ask, is there anything to do around here, or is this it?”

I pictured Barren Springs the way she was seeing it, a sad collection of buildings nestled right up against the highway. Half of them unoccupied, not even hopeful For Lease signs in the windows anymore. The ones that were occupied—this laundromat, the general store with its half-empty shelves, the sub shop, a tiny bar, the bank—not exactly shouting Come on in to strangers. The Piggly Wiggly a mile outside of the town proper was the biggest draw we had, bringing residents in need of groceries from all over the county. What she would never see was Jackson Creek, where Cal fished in solitude, or the valley near my mama’s trailer, the woods so deep and lush you could get lost ten steps in.

“You lived here long?” she asked, her voice waking up, laundry bag forgotten at her feet as I edged around her toward the door. “Because I’m a reporter. Doing a story on the murdered girls and I’d really love to talk to someone who knows this place. Are you interested?” She moved closer to me, ducking her head a little to get a better view of me.

“No,” I said, not looking at her. I reached out to push open the screen door, and the air in the room changed, tightened on her quick inhale.

“You’re Eve Taggert, aren’t you? Junie’s mom?” She laid her hand on my arm.

I did look at her then, watched her brown eyes go wide at whatever she saw on my face. She took her hand away. I shoved the door open with my shoulder, crossed the parking lot, and tossed my laundry basket in the trunk. She was waiting for me by the driver’s door of my car, blocking me from opening it with her body. “Listen,” she said, voice pitched low and even. “I just want to talk. It doesn’t even have to be about Junie. It can be about anything. Whatever you want. Don’t you have anything to say?”

“Move,” I said, when what I really wanted was to slap my daughter’s name out of her mouth.

She took a single step backward, not enough for me to open the car door. I knew what my mama would do if she were here. Swing that door wide and send the bitch flying. But I took a deep breath, held on to my temper through sheer force of will, hand tightening on my door frame until my knuckles screamed. “Move,” I repeated, fighting to keep my voice calm.