I’m lying and she knows it; she must know it. I could lose everything now. I could lose everything for this mistake. You and my job and my place here and my tenuous grasp on your world. All because I wasn’t careful. I feel thick with the guilt. I have let you down.
Your mother sits back. She exhales deeply. “I didn’t want to tell you this.” She leans forward. A light steam curls under her chin. “My daughter.” My vision sharpens: the wooden chairs, the table and the paperwork piled on the desk in the corner, the lights over our heads break into a dozen hard shapes. “Was murdered.”
“Murdered?” I can’t believe it. Your mother said it, but I still can’t believe it. “How? By who?”
“A gang.” She nods slowly, soothing herself. “Down by the creek. That very creek.”
“But what do you mean, ‘a gang’?”
“They’d been harassing her for years.” You never mentioned it.
“Who?”
“They had a big black truck. They dressed all in black. They wore balaclavas.” I thought this was an unexpected word. “And white surgical gloves.” It is like she is trying to block me from asking for evidence. She stops for so long, I think the story is over. Then, “My daughter was a great hostess. She was great with the guests—the guests all loved her. She was the kindest person. She was my best worker.” She wipes at her eyes but I don’t see tears. She doesn’t look sad, but her face radiates terror; it positively glows with it. “She didn’t want to make a ruckus, even when they—” She gasps and moves her fist toward her mouth, overcome. “They threatened her. They stalked her and harassed her until she was terrified.”
I am shocked. I can’t believe this happened. I can’t believe you never told me. All this time you were trying to save other people when you were the one suffering. How could you not tell me? How could you keep this to yourself?
“What did the police do?”
“The police?” Her eyelids squeeze out the light. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“She couldn’t describe them, because their faces and their hands were covered.” This is both convenient and incredible. “The police said there was nothing they could do.”
“How could they do nothing?” Yes, we are familiar with police error, the mistakes and the cover-ups and the conspiracies, but to do nothing?
“They told her to get over it,” your mother spits. “That’s what they’re like out here. They don’t care. They don’t care about us.” She adjusts her grip on her teacup. “This happened. But my daughter is strong. She wasn’t going to let them run her off the land, her home, so she stayed. She refused to carry, even though Emmett and I begged her. She was so brave. But they came again and again. They attacked her by the creek. They followed her when she was driving. They ran her off the road. She tried to be strong, but it kept on happening.”
“But who were they?” I interrupt, confused. It is as if your mother has taken your narrative, dragged it in a new direction, a direction I didn’t anticipate. Maybe a direction I didn’t want. A faceless gang? It’s too far-out. It doesn’t sound real. You told me, there is a tier: first the husband, then the family, then the lover. Those are the primary suspects. Not faceless gangs in the middle of nowhere. Not strangers with no motive. “I don’t understand. She must have known them. Why would they target her?”
“I told you. They don’t like us. The people in town don’t want us here. Never have.”
“But why? Why her? Who are these people?”
She shakes her head. “We don’t know.”
I squeeze my aching knuckles. “But this is a small town. What about the truck? She must have recognized the truck?” I find it hard to believe that you wouldn’t have noticed the details, that you would have been terrorized and not known by whom. You are a true-crime expert. You would have followed the clues.
“She didn’t know,” she hisses. My questions are irritating her. And I don’t mean to victim blame. I just want answers. I just need to understand how all this could happen and you never said, you never told me anything.
“What happened next?” I grip my cup and the warmth turns to burning on my skin.
“They killed her.” It gushes like cold water all through me, like I have been dipped into the Klamath.
“Was there a body?” My question is so clinical, it jars us both, but these are the questions, these are the questions we have to ask.
Your mother takes the hit and collects herself before she says, “I don’t need to see a body to know my daughter is dead.” A rush of relief. No body. No body means no crime, not yet. There’s a chance you’re still alive.
“Have you—have you looked for her body?”
“Where?” she says like there’s nowhere beyond this house, beyond the perimeter in this place she doesn’t trust. In here, we are alive. Beyond us, nothing is.
“Everywhere. Anywhere. You should be looking. Everyone should. If you truly believe she was murdered, the police should be involved.”
“They don’t believe me.” She folds her arms, lifts her chin and shakes her head. “But a mother knows. A mother knows her child perfectly, the way God knows all of us.” The way she says “God” gives me the creeps. “It’s not safe out here.” Her eyes dim and her chin drops. “That’s why you should never go down to the creek alone. That’s why you shouldn’t shop in the stores or go into town. They could be anywhere.” My instincts tell me “they” is a concept she constructed to control me. A way to keep me here inside the perimeter, the way she did with you, the way she made you feel like you could never leave. She knows that thoughts are contagious out here, and she wants me to catch her virus. “You’re safe on the ranch, but you’re not safe anywhere else. Do you understand me?”
I nod my head. “I’m so sorry. . . . I can’t believe it.” She sits back in her chair. And I slide closer. I put my arms around her, going through the motions. “You poor thing,” I say. Her body stays rigid as I hold it against mine. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
I don’t believe you are dead. I can’t believe it. I need to go beyond the perimeter. I need to talk to the people she doesn’t want me to talk to. I need to find out what happened, and fast. I don’t believe you are dead. But I do believe you are in danger.
* * *
—
I lie in bed and listen to Episode 37: Your best friend should carry a list of names, a list of people to question, if something happens to you. And I think, Who is your best friend? Who carries this list? There is no one here. I don’t trust your mother, and I don’t think you would choose her. There’s your father, but I sense it is someone outside the family you would turn to. You never mentioned Jed. You never mentioned anyone outside of your immediate family, and I suppose I always thought you were like me: alone.