by Brenda Novak
Ironically, they’d had a right to feel so skeptical. Her mother hadn’t bought food with that money. She’d purchased a bottle of vodka and drunk herself into a stupor, then passed out in their car while she and Presley rummaged for food in a McDonald’s Dumpster.
Cringing at the memory, she turned away from the window. “You’re gone,” she said to Anita, even though she knew Anita was no longer there to hear. It felt so strange, so surreal that her mother wouldn’t be calling out in a few minutes. Anita would never be able to manipulate her again—with guilt or the desire for love or the natural optimism that had kept Cheyenne hoping her mother would change.
Nor would Anita be able to reveal where Cheyenne was born. She’d taken her secret, if there was one, to the grave.
Moving back into the kitchen, she glanced at the calendar. December 22. No, it was after midnight—well after midnight. It was the twenty-third. That was the date that would appear on Anita’s death certificate. Within a week or two, her mother would be buried in the same cemetery as Mary, where Anita had once forced Cheyenne to wait out a long, anxious night tied to a tree.
That seemed ironic, in a macabre way, but Anita had made Cheyenne promise not to have her cremated. She’d always been afraid of fire, said she couldn’t abide the thought of it even in death.
Cheyenne wished that coping with the details of the funeral and burial would be all she had to worry about over the next few days. She didn’t mind missing Christmas. Living without the holiday cheer she’d come to expect since moving to Whiskey Creek seemed minor. It was her sister she worried about.
Did Presley kill Anita? What would happen to her if she had?
Cheyenne couldn’t imagine a punishment worse than the toll of Presley’s own conscience. Presley, for all her confusion and dependence on drugs, loved Anita. But that would hardly provide her with a defense.
After retrieving her cell phone from the kitchen table, Cheyenne checked her call history as well as her text messages. She’d received nothing from Presley, even though she’d tried to reach her several times.
“Come on, Pres.” Closing her eyes, she pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She wasn’t sure how long she could put off calling the doctor or the hospice nurse.
Nerves stretched taut, she began to pace. But the anxiety only grew worse. She had to do something, had to get Anita out of the house—
The doorbell rang.
Surprised and a little panicked, she brought a hand to her chest. She doubted it was Dylan. He’d only left fifteen minutes ago. She was afraid the police were at her door, maybe with Presley. Had Presley turned herself in—or gotten picked up for something else and confessed?
She hurried across the living room and peered through the peephole.
It was Aaron. His hair stood up, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and he was unshaven. The “prettiest” of the Amos boys, he had a face that could be on billboards for Armani or Calvin Klein—very classic and sculpted—but he was also the most difficult to deal with. People steered clear of him if they could. He hadn’t even dressed for the weather. He shivered as he stood there in a T-shirt and jeans, shoving his hands in his pockets while he waited.
She opened the door. “Yes?”
“Where’s Dylan?”
“Out searching for Presley.”
“Then why won’t he answer his damn phone?”
Maybe he didn’t want to talk to his brother. Their last conversation hadn’t seemed to go very well. “I couldn’t tell you.”
He sent an apprehensive glance into the house. “So you haven’t found her?”
“Not yet.”
“Where’s he looking?”
“He went to Carl Inera’s and Sexy Sadie’s. That’s all I know.”
He kicked a pebble off the porch. “Fine. I’ll go check out a couple places myself.”
“You might want to put on a jacket first.”
“I’ll survive.”
He was halfway to his truck when she called him. “Aaron?”
Clearly reluctant to be detained, he looked back at her.
“Do you care about my sister?” Cheyenne couldn’t forget the sound of Presley’s voice when she said she might be pregnant. Maybe she’d taken a test and found out for sure. Maybe that was what had started this whole night heading in the wrong direction.
“I don’t know if I’m capable of caring about anyone,” he admitted and left.
Cheyenne was fairly certain that Presley cared about him. Presley might even be in love with him. Her poor sister had never had much. She hadn’t been blessed with the same kind of friends as Cheyenne, had lived without the stability they brought. Presley had hung on to Anita instead, who was no anchor. And drugs. And now a man she’d never be able to rely on, either.
Saying a silent prayer to the God Eve and her family worshipped, asking for forgiveness in case she was about to do something He’d find terribly wrong, she drew herself up straight and closed the door.
She’d come to a decision, one she might live to regret. But, like anyone else, she could only follow the dictates of her own conscience.
* * *
By the time Dylan started back to Cheyenne’s, he was exhausted. He’d looked for Presley every place he could think of—even a few he doubted she’d ever gone. He’d visited the Indian casino where she worked, as well as another one that was farther away. He’d navigated the narrow road leading up to the old mine where they used to party in high school, even though the roads were slick and dangerous. He’d dragged Carl Inera from his bed and accused him of selling her dope, which he denied. And he’d bumped into Aaron, who was making the same rounds. They’d found no trace of her. As a last-ditch effort, they’d driven through the streets of Whiskey Creek for an hour, attacking the search from opposite ends of town and going as slowly as possible, checking every parking lot, alleyway and side road for her car.
He hated to return to Cheyenne without some idea of what had happened to her sister, but there was nothing more he could do, short of contacting the police. And he preferred to avoid that, given the situation, at least for now.
He’d called Cheyenne three times in the past half hour to see if she’d heard anything, but she hadn’t picked up. He hoped that meant she’d fallen asleep. She needed the rest. It made him feel better to think she wasn’t agonizing over every minute he was gone. Maybe Presley had returned and they were both home safe.
But when he arrived at Cheyenne’s house, he didn’t see Presley’s car. He saw the coroner’s van, a squad car and another vehicle—an Acura.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered, and parked beyond the drive so he wouldn’t block anyone in.
Aaron had been following him. He pulled up alongside Dylan’s Jeep. “You’re staying here?” he called through the passenger window.
“I’m staying here.”
Aaron shook his head. “Sometimes I wish I could be you. You always know what you want. And you know how to get it.”
That wasn’t true. Dylan had been denied as much as Aaron had, maybe more. But Aaron didn’t give him a chance to respond. He gunned his truck and shot past as if he couldn’t get away from Cheyenne’s fast enough.
“If you only knew.” Dylan shook his head.
The front door opened before he could reach it, and two guys he didn’t recognize emerged, carrying Anita’s body on a stretcher. A sheet covered her, but he glanced away. He didn’t want to see so much as a finger or a toe. As it was, the sight he’d encountered in the bedroom would stay with him for the rest of his life.
The men, startled by his unexpected approach, looked up as he stepped out of their way. “You part of the family?” one asked.
“I’m a friend of Cheyenne’s.”
“Glad someone’s here. She’s inside.”
His stomach churned at the thought of what she’d endured in his absence. Were they taking pictures to document the scene? Were the police now looking for Presley?
He knew how he’d feel if it were Aaron
....
As soon as he stepped inside, out of the snow, he could hear voices coming from Anita’s room, but his steps grew heavy when he reached the hall. He didn’t want to go anywhere near where Anita had died—or been killed. Aaron wasn’t the only one who had a problem with death. Dylan, too, had seen his mother before the ambulance took her away.
“Will you be okay here alone?” the sheriff asked.
From his vantage point just outside the room, Dylan could see that Cheyenne was busy cleaning. The soiled sheets had already been stripped from the bed.
“I’ll be fine,” she replied.
“What time does your sister get home?” This came from a middle-aged brunette.
“Sometimes she stays overnight with a friend.”
Dylan found this an odd reply. He found their acceptance of it even odder.
“I wish you could’ve got in touch with her,” the woman said. “It would’ve been nice if she’d been able to say her final goodbye. It’ll be so much harder for her to come home to an empty room.”
Cheyenne rolled several hospital gowns into a ball. “She knew it could happen anytime.”
“Of course, but…still.”
“Her phone must be out of battery,” Cheyenne explained. “Or she’s so deeply asleep she can’t hear it. I’ll talk to her as soon as possible.”
The woman sighed. “I guess that’s all you can do, short of searching for her, and the roads are too slick for that tonight. You don’t want to go out in this weather.”
“No.”
“I’m sure Presley will check in tomorrow.” She moved closer to Cheyenne, forcing her to stop bustling around long enough to be embraced. “I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through. It was heartbreaking to watch. But I hope I was able to help you out, at least a little. That’s our goal with hospice.”
Cheyenne looked fragile, as if she might shatter beneath the slightest touch. But Dylan figured her pale face would seem normal to them. She had, after all, just lost her mother.
“Of course,” she told the nurse. “You were great. I don’t know what I—we—would’ve done without your support.”
“I’m glad.” The nurse touched her arm. “Your mother is in a better place.”
Cheyenne ducked her head. “Right. I know. I agree.” She was speaking softly, respectfully, but Dylan could tell she wanted them to leave. The Whiskey Creek Police Department contracted the sheriff’s department to cover any 9-1-1 calls they couldn’t respond to, and any that came in after one in the morning, so these were county folk, not from Whiskey Creek. They had no idea what kind of person Anita had been or the mixed emotions Cheyenne was likely to experience.
“I suggest you get some grief counseling,” the woman added, a touch of lecturing in her voice. “You and your sister. What you’ve gone through has been very traumatic, and it’ll continue to be difficult for several months, maybe longer.”
Dylan allowed himself a wry smile. That was easy advice to give, but grief counseling wasn’t free. He knew. There’d been nothing and no one to help his family.
“I appreciate your concern,” Cheyenne said. “And…we’ll do what we can.”
The sheriff made a point of checking his watch. “Look at that. It’s almost six. Do you think you can sleep? I’ll sit and watch TV in the living room until your sister returns if you’d like. I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
Cheyenne kept tightening that ball of hospital gowns, adding a set of extra sheets that had been sitting off to one side, clean and neatly folded. “That’s very nice. But there’s no need. Thank you, though.”
“I can’t leave you—”
Dylan cleared his throat, attracting their attention for the first time. If they’d heard him come in, they hadn’t reacted. They’d either been too engrossed in what was happening or they’d assumed he was one of the men removing the body who’d come back in for some reason, maybe a glass of water. “I’ll take care of her.”
“Is this…a friend?” The nurse’s eyebrows, drawn by a black pencil, nearly hit her hairline.
Cheyenne looked so relieved to see him he almost went over to her, even though the room was already crowded. “My neighbor,” she said. “I’ll be in good hands.”
That statement was spoken with conviction, which confused Dylan. He’d just concluded that she wanted Joe. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she called Joe? Why wasn’t Joe here? Because he lived farther away? Because she felt more at home with someone she considered beneath her and she didn’t want Joe to be part of this terrible process?
The sheriff squinted at him as if his long hair and leather jacket implied that he couldn’t be trusted, but there were lines of fatigue in his stern cop face. No doubt he was eager to head home to his family. His shift was probably about to end. “Call if you need anything,” he told Cheyenne.
She nodded and kept up with the platitudes and thank-yous until she’d walked them out.
When they were finally gone, she locked the door and turned to face him.
“Any chance you’d be willing to start a fire?” she asked.
“Of course.” He didn’t question why. He guessed what she wanted to do and wholeheartedly supported it. He also guessed what she’d already done and knew he would’ve done the same.
While the flames were beginning to lick at the logs he’d brought from the porch, she carried in a bundle from out back.
“Where’d you hide that?”
“In the shed.” The plastic bag contained the bloody pillow and some of the bedding he’d seen earlier that hadn’t been in Anita’s room when he came back.
She shoved it in the fire. Then she piled on the hospital gowns, towels, washrags, extra catheters and other hospital supplies, even her mother’s regular clothes.
“Are you sure you want to get rid of all that?” he asked when she threw in hairbrushes and combs and makeup bags and jewelry.
“Yes,” she replied with absolute certainty, and stood back to watch it burn.
22
“You get some sleep,” Dylan said. “I’ll sit out here until Presley returns.”
Cheyenne couldn’t believe he was willing to stay. Not after seeing her with Joe earlier. She knew that incident had made an impact on him. Although he’d been kind, he hadn’t touched her since they took away the body and she could tell he didn’t plan to. “What about the shop?”
“I’ll call Grady, have him open.”
“Can your brothers manage without you?”
“They’ll be okay for one day.”
She twisted her hands in front of her. Suddenly, she didn’t seem to know what to do with them. “You found no sign of Presley?”
“None.”
She’d guessed but had to ask. Where had her sister gone? Could she have driven off the highway and down a ravine in that old car of hers?
Cheyenne feared that might be the case. She even worried that Presley might’ve veered off the road intentionally. Drugs made people do things they otherwise never would. The possible pregnancy might’ve been too much, coupled with Anita’s decline and—
Refusing to continue that thought, she changed the subject. “Aaron came by while you were searching. Did he find you?”
“Yeah. He did what he could to help.”
“I think Presley might be in love with him.”
“I get that impression.”
She wondered whether or not to tell him about the baby. He hadn’t been too complimentary of Presley when they’d first talked in the park so, in the end, she didn’t divulge her sister’s secret. It felt like too great a breach of trust. He already knew more than he probably should about the night Anita died.
The memory of going into her mother’s room made her feel queasy. “Do you think I’m terrible for…for hiding what Presley did?”
His eyes were steady on hers. “No.”
“I just couldn’t see…couldn’t see getting her into trouble when Anita was days away from dying, anyway. That’s no excuse, but�
��” But she couldn’t figure out how else to handle the situation, how to remain on stable, moral ground and still love and care for her less-than-exemplary family. “I’m sure she just…snapped or…or she was on drugs or…something. She loved Anita.”
“We don’t know what happened. You had to give her the benefit of the doubt. Otherwise, you would’ve had to trust the system and I don’t think that’s any more reliable than she is.”
True, but it didn’t bode well that Presley hadn’t even called to explain. Cheyenne was afraid she’d lost both her mother and her sister on the same night. “I hope she’s okay.”
The sympathy in his eyes made her crave his arms around her. She felt so cold, so estranged from the regular world. She knew he could be the anchor she needed. He’d done it before, although she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge his profound effect on her. She wished she could ask him for that physical comfort now, but a divide stood between them that hadn’t been there before. And she was to blame for it. She’d made him question everything he’d felt when they were together. Suddenly, he was as leery of her as she’d always been of him.
“I’m sure she is,” he said.
She stared down at her phone. How could so much have happened since Eve left? The holidays were never easy. She had too many troubled memories of Christmases past, had learned very early that there was no Santa. But this Christmas was harder than it had been in years.
“Get some rest,” Dylan said again, and sat down.
She swallowed hard. “About earlier, at the Victorian Christmas—”
“Let’s not go into that, okay?”
“We should talk about it.” She wanted to talk about it, to tell him how she felt, but the hope she’d seen in his face earlier, when they were at Sexy Sadie’s, was gone.
“There’s nothing to say. We’ve both gone through too much. If we hook up with anyone, it needs to be someone who’s trusting and consistent and hasn’t screwed up in the past. I understand that. Joe’s perfect for you.”
