We had taken a road trip to Miami. It was one of our few family vacations and I know how long my parents had to save for it. We stayed at roadside motels as we went, and I still remember the little bottles of shampoo I’d only use a little bit of so I could bring them home. We’d had so much fun, though. All of us laughing and happy. So happy.
My eyes fill up at the memory. They’re all gone now. Every one of them. How life turns on a dime.
I set the photo down on the altar and arrange the bouquet of flowers before it. I take a small tea light out of my bag and light that too, placing it right in front of the picture before taking a seat on the front pew. I ignore Draca’s book, ignore his name engraved on the large stone at the center aisle, and instead focus on Christian. Saying the prayers I know for him. Asking God to give him peace. To give them all peace.
I never felt their presence after they died. Not my mother or father. Not Christian. I thought I would. I think you should be able to feel your loved ones after they depart this world. It would be a kindness to those of us left behind.
But I don’t linger on the thought. Instead, I take out my own sort of diary. A notebook I kept after Christian died. I had already started forgetting so many things after mom and dad’s passing, only realizing that fact when I’d look through old family albums, trying to remember where or when a photo was taken. After Christian was killed, I wrote down everything I could remember about him. From the way he’d mess up my hair and call me a chicken when it came to scary movies, to the way he’d hog the bathroom on the rare nights he had a date. How I’d make fun of him for spending so much time on his hair.
I smile at that one. He always overdid the cologne too. At Christmas I’d go to department stores, ask for samples of various men’s colognes and make him a gift out of them. I’d do the same for my mom with perfume. My dad would get a framed photo of us every year. We didn’t have money growing up, but I never really noticed or felt a lack of anything. We loved each other and we didn’t need more. Although I guess my parents may have seen that differently, working multiple jobs to keep us fed, clothed and housed.
I take a minute to thank God for those days. Even though my family was taken too early, we were happy. We loved each other. We never hurt each other. We were richer than Jericho’s family, if I think about the tragedies they’ve endured.
I check my watch. It’s almost time for my afternoon lesson with Angelique. Ever since Mrs. Strand was fired, Leontine and I have been splitting time with her, reading to her, doing simple lessons. And Leontine has been talking to Jericho about enrolling her in school more and more. Once the anniversary of Christian’s death passes, I’ll talk to him too. I just need to get through the next few weeks first.
And then the next part. The part where I try to understand why Julia would do what Jericho says she did. Where I try to come to terms with something I can’t make sense of.
According to Jericho, Carlton hired Danny Gibson to murder me. All because he knew I was his half-sister and a threat to his inheritance.
Do I believe Jericho? I believe he believes it. And he has some sort of proof to back up his belief. I need to see that for myself. If it’s true, he’s known all along that Carlton was responsible for Christian’s death. Is that what he is holding over Carlton? Is that how he got Carlton to agree to our marriage, knowing the threat of my having a baby would be exponentially higher? It makes sense that was Jericho’s plan. It is the only thing that makes sense.
But is Carlton capable of murder? Because even if he didn’t commit the act, he commissioned it.
And then there’s Julia.
Is it true that the night she came to the theater to tell me Jericho had threatened Matty and to give me those pills, that she went to that man’s house? The man who drove the van that almost ran me over? Wasn’t that an accident? Bad timing? Or am I naïve?
Carlton is one thing, although I’m not sure I believe he’s capable of the things Jericho is accusing him of. But Julia? She’s been a friend to me. She’s Matty’s mother. I see how she is with him. She loves him. She’d do anything for him.
That night at the theater, she said Jericho would try to twist my mind. Make me believe whatever he wanted me to believe. That he’d treat me with kid gloves because I was carrying his baby, the tool for his vengeance. She said I’m malleable.
It’s not true. He has sworn up and down he wants me. That he’ll take care of me and not just for the baby. I believe him. More than that. I have feelings for him.
And that could all be exactly what Julia said. It could be him playing me like a puppet.
I get up because I don’t want to think about this anymore. Besides, it’s time to return to the house. I leave the tea light burning but blow out the other candles on the altar, pick up my bag and walk out of the chapel. The sky is darker, clouds denser. We’ll have a storm tonight but it’s not raining yet, so I hurry down the chapel stairs and cross the graveyard. Something catches my eye making me look toward Nellie’s grave. I gasp and stop with one hand on the cemetery gate.
There, standing against the marker is a shovel that I swear hadn’t been there just half an hour ago when I laid the flowers on top of her grave.
A cold chill runs through me, and I glance around. Am I imagining the smell of cigarette smoke?
“Is someone there?” I call out. Maybe it’s a groundskeeper come to do some work. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
No one answers but a small flash of red lights up a dense cropping of trees in the distance.
“Hello?” I ask again. Is someone out there smoking? Is that what the red is?
But it goes dark again and there’s still no answer. I glance once more at the shovel set at the grave and push the gate open to hurry back to the house. Feeling eyes on me the whole way, feeling watched. Feeling suddenly afraid.
31
Jericho
Erasing the name and date from the stone that marks my father’s life is easier than exhuming the remains behind it. After the accident only a few bones were interred to begin with, but I want any trace of him out. Gone. I want my sister free to rest.
I remember the first night Isabelle was in the house. How she mentioned a presence in the cellar. I wonder if that presence was Zoë. I’ve gone down there since Isabelle found the letter. It’s gone. The air is empty like the rest of the house. Maybe she’d been waiting for us to discover the letter. I wonder what she expected Zeke to do with the information. How she thought he could share it with us, something so terrible and impossible.
When I told my mother what I intended to do with my father’s remains she only nodded once. We didn’t speak of why. Didn’t mention Zoë’s suicide note. Didn’t mention the abuse she’d endured. Honestly, I’m not sure my mother could take hearing it again. I’m sure she’s gone through her own hell many times over at her daughter’s death. And then learning the reasons behind it.
I watch from a distance as two men work to remove the stones behind which are his bones. I don’t feel anything as I look on. Nothing but disgust for the man. The death Zeke dealt him was too good.
“Jericho.”
I turn to find my brother approaching. I hadn’t heard him over the noise of the workers. He glances to the mausoleum then back to me, a tell-tale line of worry between his eyebrows.