There had been talk recently that there was something wrong with Darcy Dawson. It was never said outright, but Molly had seen women in the Church whisper behind their hands whenever Darcy passed, had seen members of the congregation give her a wide berth at social gatherings, had seen Rachel Cook watching the woman carefully, concern etched on her face. When the pastor’s wife started paying attention, it usually meant it was something more serious than idle gossip.
Molly hadn’t wanted to listen to the rumors—she had enough problems of her own—but as the slight mania blinked in and out of Darcy’s eyes now, Molly thought there might be something to the talk.
“Girls,” Darcy said, finally tearing her gaze from where Eliza was touching Noah. The smile she offered was a weak twitch of her lips at most. “Eliza, dear, I heard you were at the hearing yesterday.”
Molly’s stomach heaved and beside her Eliza stiffened, though Molly doubted anyone who didn’t know her well would notice. When she spoke, though, she had lost some of the easiness she’d had earlier.
“It was very moving to watch,” Eliza said, in what Molly knew to be a well-rehearsed sound bite. “Uncle Josiah and Senator Hodge talked a little about Rosie. And how strong you are in caring for her.”
It wasn’t unusual for Josiah to use Rosie and Darcy as examples of the ways their community cared for its own children without medical intervention. Rosie Dawson had been born with a degenerative disorder that would have probably led to a lifetime of hospital visits had she not been born into the Church. Whenever Josiah was proselytizing, he always claimed that through her mother’s loving attention, Rosie was thriving in ways that she never would have in institutionalized care.
Molly had always assumed Darcy was all right with being included in Josiah’s little speeches. So the woman’s reaction to Eliza’s offhand mention was unexpected.
In one quick move, Darcy lashed out, grabbed Noah’s arm, and yanked him out of Eliza’s grip, pulling him into her side. The violence of it all left behind a stunned, sour silence where they stared at each other as if afraid to make a move.
Noah watched them, now half-hidden behind his mother, his big eyes so much like Darcy’s. Molly tried to give him a reassuring smile, though she knew it must look weak. He just blinked back, his forehead creased into a deep vee that looked so out of place on such a young face.
“They . . .” Darcy was the first to break the unofficial standoff. She coughed around the word that Molly nearly didn’t understand because of its roughness. “They talked about Rosie? Josiah mentioned Rosie?”
“I . . .” Eliza trailed off, licked her lips. “I’m sorry, yes.”
Darcy pressed the heel of her palm to her temple, her eyes dropping to the floor as she rubbed at the vulnerable spot. A headache, probably, maybe a quick and vicious one, brought on by the mention of the hearing.
Molly didn’t blame her. She wouldn’t want Josiah Cook talking about her kids, either. If she had any. Especially if there was any question about doctors and hospitals and using a sick girl as an anecdote to prove a point.
Eliza glanced over at Molly and then back to Darcy.
“Mrs. Dawson, why don’t you take a break?” Eliza’s voice had turned gentle again, crooning almost, like she was talking to a child. “Do you have a list? I can finish the shopping while you get some water.”
“No, no.” Darcy shook her head along with the denial. Emphatic. But Molly agreed that Darcy looked on the verge of fainting right there in the middle of Albertson’s cereal aisle. She was swallowing air as if she were trying to drink it, and there was something both feverish and pale about her skin.
At Darcy’s side, Noah whimpered a bit, just a small sound of distress that made Molly want to wrap him in her arms.
“Molly, why don’t you take Mrs. Dawson to the café?” Eliza said, motioning toward the small grouping of tables clustered invitingly in the front corner of the store.
Darcy opened her mouth as if to argue, but no sound came out. Molly could have warned Darcy it was pointless anyway. Once Eliza made up her mind, there was no changing it.
No matter the consequences.
Molly nudged Darcy’s elbow after the woman had handed over a crumpled list, directing her toward the café chairs as Noah and Eliza disappeared down the next aisle.
“You must think I’m . . . ,” Darcy started as she accepted the water Molly purchased from the bored barista.
Reaching out, Molly covered Darcy’s free hand, squeezing once and meeting her eyes. “I d-d-don’t think you’re anything.”
At face value, it could have come across as an insult. But Darcy relaxed with a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “Sometimes, I don’t know where my head is at these days.”
“It must be tough,” Molly said, going for gentle. “Raising three kids.”
Everything about Darcy hardened once more, and Molly knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Molly retraced their interaction, from when Noah had crashed into Eliza. Her children seemed to be a sore spot for her.
“I just . . . I just . . . ,” Molly stammered, but it had nothing to do with her stubborn tongue and everything to do with how tight and awkward the silence stretched.
Darcy jerked her head toward the directions of the aisles. From a bit away, Molly could see Noah and Eliza coming toward them, both wearing big smiles.
“Can you not mention this to anyone?” Darcy asked quietly. “Especially not to Pastor Cook.”
The request should be easy enough, but in reality it scared her. It seemed too big, too mature for Molly to handle. She was just a teenager, and she shouldn’t be tasked with these burdens, these fears that were clearly deeper than whatever Darcy was saying. Ones that seemed to align with Molly’s own.
“Of course,” she said anyway. Because that’s what Molly did. She held on to secrets, dangerous ones, terrifying ones. Ones that might get someone killed someday.
She just hoped it wouldn’t be her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LUCY THORNE
Friday, 3:00 p.m.
The Cooks lived in a humble one-story rancher that would kindly be described as well loved.
Lucy parked beside a dull green minivan and studied the place as she grabbed her bag. The poverty in the joints of it was a quiet kind, the kind that knew the paycheck-to-paycheck life too well. Or—in this part of the country—knew the fickleness of modern-day ranching too well.
Still, the property was clearly cared for, the horses sleek and fed, the firewood stacked in neat piles, a tractor and its disemboweled guts contained closer to the barn so that it didn’t block the yard.
A man Lucy guessed to be Josiah Cook stood on the wraparound porch, waiting for her. He was shorter than she’d expected, with a barrel chest and the paunch of a middle-aged man who enjoyed a beer now and then. Where Eliza was light in coloring, this man was dark. Dark hair, dark eyes, skin that veered toward tanned and weathered. There was almost no resemblance between the two of them.
It was easy to guess that the aunt was the blood relative here.
“Come on in, if you’re coming.” Josiah waved her up the steps after she called out an introduction.
The brusque welcome, the stoic mask—they reminded Lucy of Hicks. Lucy had deliberately neglected to tell the sheriff she was going out to the Cooks. She hadn’t wanted any tension Hicks had with members of the Church to bleed into the interview.