by S. E. Green
In my periphery I see someone get up and glance over my shoulder as Kevin quietly steps into the side aisle and makes his way to the back and out the door. I look across to where my dad and PaPaw sit, watching the slide show, and to Uncle Jerry and Edwin behind them and both staring to the front and at Bee-Bee. No one even realizes Kevin just left.
“Be right back,” I whisper to Honey and Travis and quietly go to find my younger brother.
I step out into a breezy early evening and cameras immediately start flashing, but the police barricaded the church, so at least they’re not right up in my face. I look around, but don’t see Kevin, and take off around the side.
“Kevin?” I call, but there’s no response.
I walk the length of the white brick building and around to the back where a small private cemetery sits. I’d say there’s about a hundred people buried here, and in the very back corner stands Kevin looking down into the dugout earth where Michelle will go after the service.
I don’t say his name again as I quietly open the gate and make my way through the center of the grave stones. I watch as he kneels down and picks something up, or puts something down—I can’t tell—but there’s definitely an object in his hand. When I get nearer, I hear him speaking. Is he praying? Other than grace over dinner that my parents make him say, I’ve never heard him pray before.
“Kevin?” I quietly say, closing the last few steps between us.
He shoots to his feet and whips around.
I hold up my hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
He tucks something behind his back, and my eyes track the gesture. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
I reach out and pull on his arm. “Kevin, let me see.”
Slowly, reluctantly, he brings his hand around and extends his palm. In it lies a gold metal pentagram with a skull engraved in the center and ram’s horns coming out the top to wrap around the points of the pentagram.
It’s wicked looking and evil, and instinctively, I take a step back.
“I couldn’t be in the church,” Kevin says. “It was too sad. So I came out here to tell Michelle goodbye and then I found this just sitting here in the dirt.” He looks down at the unsettling object in his palm. “I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“But why did you try to hide it from me?” I ask.
“Because I want all of this to be over with.”
I get it. I do. Him finding this is just one more thing we have to deal with. “Kevin, I know this a lot, but we have to give that to Crandall.”
Kevin curls his fingers around it and tightly squeezes, and all I want him to do is let go of it. I don’t want him touching that thing. Then without another look to me, he walks through the cemetery back to the church.
I don’t immediately follow and instead look around at the trees that border the cemetery because someone put that emblem here. And as I stand here, my eyes darting from limb to leaf to tree, an eerie awareness creeps into the air. Someone is out there. Someone who knows everything that is going on.
AN HOUR LATER me and Kevin and our parents are at the police station, gathered inside Detective Crandall’s office. While Kevin answers questions, I stare out the glass window into the main area where a large board has been set up. They’ve made no effort to hide it and so I assume I’m allowed to look at it.
But as I do, a very bad feeling settles into my stomach.
There are tons of Post It Notes stuck to the board with scribbles on them that I can’t read from where I’m standing. There’s a picture of the murder scene that I purposefully don’t linger on. There’re also photos of Michelle, of my entire family, of the Doughtery’s, and random pictures of all of our neighbors, including Wade. There’s one of Honey, too, and Edwin.
Basically anyone connected to our family is up on that board.
There are lines connecting some of the photos, and as I study the pattern I realize the lines signify blood relation, like a family tree. PaPaw connected to Uncle Jerry and my dad, then a line connecting my dad to my mom and under that all three of us kids. There’s a separate one that connects Bee-Bee to Michelle, but there is not a paternal line that connects Michelle to Mark. Instead that line extends over to—
My father?
SQUEALING, MICHELLE RACES across our lawn and I chase her.
“I’m going to get you,” I playfully warn.
She squeals even louder and I just laugh and laugh. She pumps her tiny legs and arms, and I let her get ahead of me. Then she glances over her shoulder and her blonde hair whips around her as she changes direction and comes right at me.
I crouch and make a face and claw hands, and she giggles and launches herself into my arms.
“No, I got you!” she says, and I squeeze her and blow a raspberry on her little cheek.
Smiling, she pulls back in my arms and with her hands, pushes my cheeks together so I’ll make a blow fish. I do and as I move my lips, my gaze floats across her freckles.
Freckles . . . it never really occurred to me how many Michelle really did have. Just like me, loads of freckles.
We arrived home from the police station about an hour ago, and I’ve been sitting here on our porch steps, staring across the yard and into the pine trees toward the direction where Michelle was murdered.
Okay, so I’m not for sure what the line on that board in the police station meant, but my gut tells me it means what I think it does—my dad is also Michelle’s father. Michelle is, was, my little sister.
I don’t think I would’ve been shocked at all to see Uncle Jerry’s name on that board, knowing now what I do about him and Bee-Bee, but my dad? Maybe there’s been a mistake.
I wonder if Dad knows. I wonder if Mom does. What does Crandall think about it all? Does this somehow make my dad even more of a suspect?
Or I could be completely off and that line connecting my dad and Michelle means something entirely else. Either way, I need to talk to Dad.
With a resolute sigh, I turn away from staring at the woods and look through the trees down to County Line Road where people are still gathered, praying. The burnt cross has been taken down, thank God, and from what I can tell from here, news crews have seemed to thin out again. But I can’t help but wonder what will happen next to cause the news crews to return.
My thoughts shift to that pentagram medallion Kevin found, wondering what it means. Is it a continuation of Michelle’s murder, like one big ongoing ritual, or is it separate? Maybe it’s the ending of the ritual. I hope it’s the ending. I want all of this to be over with.
But what I want more are answers to immediate questions. Like Dad and Michelle and that line on the board. I glance over to the garage where I know he is. Now is as good a time as any.
“Dad?” I simultaneously knock and walk inside. He’s sitting in the back corner where his desk is located with a laptop open.
He glances up. “Hey, come on in.”
I slide the door closed a little bit to give us some privacy and head straight over to the shop’s fridge for a Mellow Yellow. After I pop it open, I stand for a second, my eyes trailing over their tools and supplies, finally landing on the shelf where the drop cloths used to be.
“Vickie?” Dad prompts.
My eyes go to him, sitting at the metal desk, the blue from the laptop glowing against his skin. I hold up my can. “Want one?”
He gives me a curious look. “Sure.”
After grabbing one for him, I take it to him and slide up on the edge of the desk. I watch as he pops the top and takes a slurp, before wiping his hand across his lips. My eyes trail over to the laptop and I see a picture of that object Kevin found at Michelle’s grave.
Dad sees me looking. “Just curious,” he says and closes the laptop.
Seems like I’m not the only one doing research. “What’d you find out?” I ask.
He gives me a doubtful look. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. If
the point is down on a pentagram it’s a symbol of Satanism and believed to attract sinister forces. The horns, according to everything I’ve been reading, signifies how Satan will sometimes change into a goat, and goats are considered an agent of fertility or lust attacking the heavens. It’s a showing of superior rank.”
Even though it’s hot in here, I still get chilled. “All of that means what exactly?”
He shrugs one shoulder, and I get the impression he’s not telling me his true thoughts when he says, “I have no idea.”
I know my dad, and I know when he’s leaving out details because he thinks it’s too much for me. He thinks he’s protecting me. I also know if I press the issue, he won’t budge. So I switch to another question. “PaPaw’s goat, your drop cloth, our property. Do you think someone is framing us?”
“I’ve thought of that, too, but I keep coming back to who. And why?”
Mark Doughtery of course is the first person to pop into my mind. Between Uncle Jerry’s affair with Bee-Bee and Dad firing Mark from the job, either of those is worth revenge. But revenge by killing a little girl in a satanic ritual? No, that doesn’t make sense.
“Okay, then why our property?” I ask. “There are secluded woods all over this county.”
“Honestly, I think it was a crappy coincidence. That’s all. I can’t imagine there was a reason why our property was picked.”
“The burning cross?” I ask. “And the pentagram medallion and the New Satanic Empire and the Ultimate Sacrifice?”
Dad sits back in his chair. “I know this is overwhelming—”
“Dad, just tell me what you think.” Because up until now PaPaw seems to be the only one with an opinion.
“Okay. I think a disturbed person committed a horrendous act as an offering to Satan. I also think that person is probably long gone by now. I highly doubt he was a local. I do think there are people all over who worship Satan, and once they got wind of what happened here on our land, they came and burned that cross and they also left the medallion on Michelle’s grave. But once they see that all of these things have done nothing, they will move on. Now that Michelle is in the ground, I think this is going to die down soon, hopefully within the next few days. As far as this Ultimate Sacrifice thing, I think it is a load of crap. Mark Doughtery has the craziest things he’ll get fixated on, and this is his latest.” Dad takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Does that answer your questions or alleviate some of your worries?”
I think about everything he just said, and yes, I do feel like my questions are answered. Even if he’s not completely sure about those answers, at least I have some.
We both take another sip of our sweet sodas as our brains both wander where they may, and mine gradually cycles back to why I came in here in the first place. “Dad?”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand again. “Yeah?”
“Could Michelle be my little sister?”
THE EXPRESSION ON my dad’s face tells me it all: shocked at the question, yes, but a gradual dawning realization that it could be true.
After I explain to him what I saw on the board in the police station, Dad asks, “Have you told anybody else?”
“No.”
He pushes back from the metal desk. “Please don’t. Let me find out what’s going on.”
Then he’s up and out the garage door, hopping into his work truck, and is gone, leaving me sitting on his desk and keeping yet another secret.
I wait for nearly an hour, moving from the garage back over to the porch, but he doesn’t come home. I can only assume he’s over at Bee-Bee Doughtery’s house.
Mom peeks her head out the front door. “Have you seen your father?”
“I saw him a while ago in the garage, but not recently.”
“I called over to Bee-Bee’s, but she’s not answering. I was going to take her some bread I baked.”
She’s not answering because my dad is probably over there. “You can always take it tomorrow,” I suggest. The last thing Mom needs to do is head over there only to find Dad and Bee-Bee discussing Michelle’s parentage.
“Yeah, I think I’ll do that.” Mom nods back inside the house. “There’s chili in the crock if you get hungry.”
I smile. “Thanks. Hey, where’s Kevin and Travis?”
“Travis is with Honey and Kevin is in his room, reading.”
My brows go up. “Reading?”
“He’s on restriction for several things. Reading is pretty much all he’s allowed to do.”
“Speaking of restriction, are you and Dad going to talk to me about the pot smoking?”
“Vickie, you’re a good kid, and I think I know you well enough to know that was an experimental thing and you’re not a pot head, right?”
I laugh. “Right.”
“Well, then, enough has been said. Now, I’m going to take a very long bath and try to relax.” She gives me a sweet wink before she ducks back inside our house.
Pot head. She’s right about that. I’d never make a successful one. I coughed myself raw and definitely don’t want a repeat.
But back to what I was thinking about before—Dad and Bee-Bee Doughtery. I really can’t wrap my brain around it. I had a Psychology class this year as an elective, and I learned a lot about family dynamics and what motivates behavior. There was a whole chapter on couple relationships and the title was:
THERE’S THREE SIDES TO EVERY STORY:
HIS. HERS. AND THE TRUTH.
Okay, so sure my dad obviously cheated, but something else is there. What motivated the cheating? Did my parents have a fight and he went to Bee-Bee for comfort? Or perhaps my mom cheated first and that action sent my dad over there. But was it just a onetime thing or has this been going on? And Uncle Jerry, how’s he going to handle this?
Bee-Bee’s turning out to be someone I don’t really know. Cheating on Mark with my uncle. Cheating on my uncle with my dad. Plus somehow Edwin did or currently does factor into her love life, too. Talk about an irregularly shaped love triangle. Or rather quadrilateral.
With a sigh, I finally get up and wander inside to grab some chili from the crock pot. As I’m sprinkling cheese across the top of my bowl, I hear Dad’s truck coming back up our driveway. Seconds later the front door opens, and Dad walks in. My eyes move over his face as I take in the blood crusted on the corner of his mouth and the redness on his cheekbone.
“Dad?” I hesitantly say.
He shakes his head and goes to walk down the hall toward the master suite.
“Dad?”
He stops, but he doesn’t look at me, almost like he’s ashamed to meet my eyes.
“Is it true?” I ask him. “Is Michelle…?”
But he doesn’t answer because a police car pulls up our driveway and stops. Dad blows out a weary breath before turning back toward the front door. “Tell your mom I’m at the police station.”
Then I watch in silent shock as he strolls straight across the yard, exchanges a few words with the cop, and willingly climbs in the back. I step out onto the porch and stare through the night at my dad in the back of the cop car as it drives the length of our property and disappears around the curve of the trees.
Dad never once glances back.
Something in my periphery catches my attention and I turn to the left to see Travis stepping from the woods, carrying a small flashlight. He’s wearing the same clothes he wore to the funeral. I thought he was with Honey.
The mystery number he was texting earlier pops back into my brain. Dad was just taken away by the cops. Travis is coming back from who knows where. Secrets, lies, fighting, cheating. When did my family become this way? Without another thought, I slide my phone from my back pocket, and as I stare at my brother crossing our yard, I dial the number.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Just when I think it’s going to voice mail, I hear a groggy female voice say, “Hello?”
I don’t immediately respond.
She clears her voice. “Hello?”
“Who is this?” I ask.
Click.
Travis gets closer, and I can tell by his stumbling walk that he’s been drinking. I fold my arms and wait, and as he starts up the porch stairs, he glances up and sees me, and sighs.
“Where have you been?” I demand.
“None of your business.” He steps around me and opens the front door, and I can definitely smell the alcohol.
I follow him inside. “You were texting someone you didn’t want me to see. Who’s the mystery girl, Travis?”
“What, are you looking at my phone now?”
“Yes.” I don’t bother denying anything. “I called it. A girl answered.” I block his path. “Who’s the girl?”
“None of your business. God, I can’t wait to go to college and get away from this place. I’m so sick of everyone knowing everything about me.” He pushes past me and into the living room. “Get out of my way.”
“Does Honey know?”
Travis whips around. “Does Honey know what exactly? Yeah, what is it you think I’m up to? This I want to hear.” He waves me on. “Enlighten me.”
“I don’t know, Travis. A week ago everything was fine. Then you find Michelle dead in some sort of satanic ritual. We have reporters filming our every move. People praying and casting demons out of our property. A burning cross. Uncle Jerry sneaking off to meet with Bee-Bee Doughtery. Our little brother getting into fights and sniffing gas. A gun pointed at us. You’re texting some unknown number. Kevin finds a weird pentagram emblem at Michelle’s grave. Our whole house is ransacked by the cops. Dad just got carted off by the police. And, oh, the best one yet? Michelle is our LITTLE SISTER!”
From across the living room, Travis glares at me, not saying a word, and I stand under his intensity—inhaling, exhaling—my blood sizzling with a mixture of aggression and guilt. I wasn’t supposed to say all of that.
“What?” Mom croaks, and I whip around to see her standing in the kitchen in her robe.
I take a step toward her, instantly smothered in regret. “Mom.”
