“Well, you sound like you know it but still don’t believe it,” Darcy said.
Michelle sulked, feeling trapped in an endless loop.
A short while later Darcy pulled into a service station. Michelle got out to stretch her legs. The day had clouded up as night approached. “I think it’s good we’re heading back now,” Darcy said, tilting her head back at the sky. “Looks like they’re in for more snow up here.”
Michelle looked up, then over at Darcy. Darcy had four-wheel drive and good tires. They wouldn’t get stuck. Michelle wished Darcy would stop with the excuses. Michelle had let it drop and couldn’t understand why her sister hadn’t.
“Besides, I can’t depend on Anna to manage things at the store for more than a few days,” Darcy added.
“It’s okay. Let it drop,” Michelle said to Darcy, who was busy pumping gas. Michelle walked around to where Darcy was holding the pump handle, reminding her of Darcy’s gun, the one Cliff used to kill himself. How could he have done that?
I have to go back, Michelle thought. I have to go back one last time. After that, I never want to see the cabin again.
Darcy finished with the gas, screwed the cap on, pushed the cover shut. She stared at the gas pump, at the receipt slot, waiting.
“This is my last chance, Darcy,” Michelle said. “I have to go back. I have to face what Cliff did. I have to be there one last time.”
Darcy ripped the receipt from the pump, spinning toward her. “What am I supposed to do, Michelle? Wait around until you take off again? Cliff called me the night he killed himself, Michelle. He told me everything you did, everything you said. When is this over?”
“Wow, how long have you been holding that in?” Michelle said. It was the first time Michelle had ever felt that her sister blamed her for what was happening, blamed her for everything. It was a shock, as Darcy had always been of the new age thought that blame was for victims, a game for the feeble-minded, serving no real purpose other than to keep one stuck in a hopeless cycle of powerlessness.
After stuffing the receipt in her purse, Darcy turned toward Michelle, her expression much softer. “Let’s go home, Michelle. You can live at my place until you figure out what to do with the house. You can work at the store, reassemble your life. We’ll face everything together. Just like growing up. This is me, Chelle. I love you. You have to trust me.”
“I can’t remember Cassie’s death, Darcy. Do you have any idea what that’s like? I don’t want that to happen again. I don’t want to forget what happened to Cliff. I want to keep it straight in my mind, then maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?”
“Then . . . I don’t know . . . maybe everything about Cassie will come back.” Michelle couldn’t believe she’d spoken the words, wasn’t sure if she believed them or if it was a ploy to coax Darcy into driving her back to the cabin. What scared her most was the small voice inside her saying it was true, that if she faced Cliff’s death, she would remember Cassie’s death as well. The notion weakened her knees, left her hollow. You have to trust me. Her sister’s words lingered near the back of Michelle’s eyes, as if at any moment she would be able to see the truth as some solid object with shape and dimension, something she could put in her pocket, and bring out when she needed reassurance. She recalled the pale fright in Charlene House’s eyes; the truth had definitely not set her free. If anything, it had imprisoned Charlene more, forcing her mind to establish alien connections, accept them as fact, rebuild her life upon loose and shifting sand. Charlene had seemed more at ease not knowing who she was or where she belonged than trying to trick her mind into embracing a life that didn’t feel like her own.
Michelle looked past Darcy to a Toyota Sequoia that pulled up to the pump.
“Do you want anything from inside?” Darcy asked, removing the keys from the ignition. “I have to pee.”
Michelle shook her head. “I’m good.” She hadn’t missed that Darcy took her keys with her.
A Toyota with a mountain bike on the roof pulled in across from Darcy’s Explorer. A young man in shorts and a bright yellow jacket slid his credit card into the reader and started pumping gas.
“Hi,” Michelle said to the young man. “Are there good places to ride around here?”
“Yeah, for sure. The Tsali trail is awesome,” the man glanced at his bike, then back at Michelle. “I wasn’t riding today . . . just getting some work done on my bike. The snow has made it impossible to get to the trail right now, but it’ll melt pretty fast this time of year.”
“Hey . . . thanks for the info,” Michelle said. “Uh . . . I was wondering, are you headed in the direction of Ardenwood right now?”
Chapter 32
Pink folded the newspaper at his desk, fuming at Ramsey for running such a dumb thing. Private humiliation was something Isabelle seemed immune to, but public humiliation was a different beast altogether. If Isabelle saw the photo and recognized Pink and Claire nearly naked on the bridge, she’d be angrier than a butt-shot bear. And then there was the part about the “anonymous witness” who took the picture, but couldn’t leave his name because he was, “too disturbed and embarrassed.” Disturbed and embarrassed my ass, Pink thought. How could Ramsey be so stupid? Was he taking a special vitamin for that? And goddamn Kenny! Where did he come up with such a plan? Or maybe it was Curly’s idea. It had to be. Kenny didn’t have enough sense to pull his foot out of dogshit, but Curly . . . that was a hell of an idea he’d had about the billboard. It was hard to be upset with Curly’s caliber of genius.
The phone rang again. People Pink hadn’t spoken to in three years were calling, asking if he was the one in the photo. Pink instructed Clarence to tell them he wasn’t there, and that it wasn’t him in the photo, that he had been out of town for the past week.
“You better take this one, Pink,” Clarence yelled from the adjoining office.
“Somebody want to buy or sell property?” Pink said.
“No.”
“Then tell ’em I’m not here.”
“It’s Loudon. He wants to talk to you. Says it’s urgent.”
Pink shot up from his desk and rushed into Clarence’s office. “Did you tell him I was here?” Pink said, glaring down on Clarence.
“Not exactly. I told him you were in the crapper.”
“Well . . . tell him I left, that I was in the crapper . . . and then I left.”
“But, Pink, I . . .”
“Damn you, Clarence! You tell him right now!”
Pink stood over him making sure he didn’t screw it up. Clarence’s lies sounded less dumb than his truth, which made everything seem believable.