* * *
—
The next morning, I pass your mother in the garden on the way to the barn. She is knee-deep in blackberry bushes, with a determined grimace, spraying them liberally from a red glass bottle with no mask or gloves to keep the chemicals off her skin. There is no denying that the blackberry bushes are dying, but she will kill everything. The whole garden will have to die to save us from blackberries.
The doll is sitting outside the greenhouse, where I left it, but its face is splattered with holes. I wave at your mother as I hold my breath.
After I feed the horses, I look in on Belle Star. She nickers when she sees me now, and I rub her poll and massage her crest.
Your mother drives up on her ATV, bottles clanging, followed by her herd of crooked dogs. They collapse onto the grass as she climbs off the vehicle. I move away from Belle Star, remembering I am supposed to be working, but your mother doesn’t seem to care.
As your mother approaches, Belle Star backs up, tosses her head and trots out into the pen. “She looks better,” your mother says.
“. . . Yes.”
“She should go back in the pasture.” She rests her foot on the red fence.
“But this proves it was the other horses attacking her.”
“If they attacked her, it’s because she’s weak. She needs to learn to be strong.”
“She’s not ready yet.”
Your mother tosses her head, pauses like she’s considering it. I think she wants me to know that it’s her decision. I think she wants me to feel that I am at her mercy. I think of what Jed said about her: She’s punishing me. Suddenly she beams. “Emmett and I were talking this morning. We’re both so happy you’re here. We’d like you to come stay at the house.”
I startle, so caught off guard that it takes me a second to figure out what she means. “Stay at the house? Like, live there?”
“Yes.”
It strikes me as a weird coincidence that now that the staff cabin is clean, now that it is actually livable, she offers me a place in her house. Almost like she knows Jed cleaned it. Almost like she knows Jed was there, with me. Almost like she knows everything. I feel myself flushing. Does she know I was down by the yellow house? Did she throw the rock? Does she want to keep me close, to keep an eye on me? Does she know I slept with Jed? I know it’s none of her business, but I still feel like I’ve betrayed her somehow. Does she want me to feel that way?
“I don’t think it’s safe,” she says, “for you to stay in the staff cabin.” She tosses her head again, an oddly girlish gesture. “I don’t want to scare you, but I think there may be rats.”
There have been rats all along, from day one. Even after being cleaned, the place still stinks of rat shit. They scuttle around the attic, day and night. Sometimes I see them darting between the floorboards, dropping from holes in the ceiling
She leans against the rail, speculative. “You could stay in Rachel’s room.”
My heartbeat quickens. Your room might provide the break in the case I am looking for. And I can sneak down to use the Internet to check Grace’s Facebook account, make sure she really is back in Texas. She has me. I can’t say no, but I can still negotiate. I stretch back from the rail. “I think we should leave Belle here.”
Your mother sniffs, like she knows exactly what I’m doing. She looks at me, her eyebrow arched. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
* * *
—
As soon as I finish work, I pack up my things. I put them in my car and drive across the ranch to your mother’s house. She greets me at the back door, outside the mudroom, where I remove my shoes. Dinner is on in the kitchen. Your father is sitting at the corner desk, humming to himself. After the staff cabin, it’s jarringly cozy. The house is warm, impeccably clean and suburban.
“Why don’t you set your bag down and wash your hands and come help me finish making dinner?” your mother says, smiling as she leads me into the kitchen. I drop my bag in the corner, next to the stairs.
“Good evening. Que será, será.” Your father turns from the computer to wave. It looks like he is shopping for another boat for the lake.
Your mother is cooking and she asks me to chop avocados and tomatoes and peppers, and herbs from her garden. We bring the bowls to the table, where we pray and then we eat. I look around me and I wonder if this was your life. Dinner at the table with the family, a statue of Christ in the living room and, underneath it all, a sense of pageantry, like we have all agreed to play at perfect.
“Isn’t this nice?” Your mother smiles warmly at me, at your father. “I told you this would work out. We’re so happy you’re here.”
After dinner we play a board game with patterned tiles. Last night catches up with me and I am so tired. I can’t remember the name of the game and the rules elude me. I lose every round, and your mother gets frustrated.
“Rachel was good at this,” she says as if I’m not living up to you. But she likes to win, and she and your father smile at the end when the points have been tallied and I have been beaten again.
Then your mother shows me up the staircase. Your father carries my one small bag. I stop in your doorway. The first thing I notice is the telescope, gold and pointed out the window. I remember seeing it before, not realizing it was in your room. Next, I notice the floors, which are littered with papers, all kinds of papers in files and folders and boxes jammed against the wall. Your case notes. They were here all this time, and I allow myself a moment of pride for being patient, for playing my cards right. This is what I need. This will lead me to you.
“This is all Rachel’s mess,” your mother says, as if you are still here, still in high school. “But I washed the sheets.” She moves to the door and looks wistfully back at me, crossing her arms. “We’re so happy you’re here.”
She leaves the door open and goes down the hall. I shut the door immediately. Panic rises up in me, out of nowhere. Nerves bumble along my shoulders. Suddenly, I feel afraid. Suddenly, I want to run.
What am I doing here, living in the bedroom of a woman who has disappeared? What am I trying to do?
I pace, feeling claustrophobic in this space, your space. I stop and peer into one of your boxes. I hope to find case files but I am surprised to find school assignments, going back years, every test, every paper, every note. I am always surprised by people who save these things. Do they ever really look back? Do they ever really need to see them again? And the way they are arranged, in piles in the middle of the floor, makes it seem as if someone dumped them here, although your mother claims they’re your mess.
I start to sift through, but my chest feels tight and my throat feels narrow. I breathe deeply. I sit at your chair, at your desk. I remind myself there is nothing to be afraid of, but then I think, This is instinct. My body knows something my heart doesn’t. Run! Get out now, before it’s too late!