by Cate Quinn
“It’s too late for apologies,” he says. “You have shown utter contempt for our House of God. You have lied. Damaged property of the Church. Burgled. Needless to say, I will be informing the police. I understand you are both on some kind of bail, so I don’t know how that will sit with their arrangements.”
“Don’t do that,” says Tina. “We didn’t do nothing. This is our stuff. Technically. We’re clearin’ out Blake’s locker. Right, Rachel?”
I can’t bring myself to look at her.
“I’m going to ask you both to leave,” says Bishop Young. “That I should live to see a Latter-day Saint disrespect their own in such a fashion,” he says as a parting shot. “Least of all you, Rachel. You’ve let yourself be corrupted.” He glares at Tina.
“I’m here for all eternity,” she says, waving. “Tip your waitress.”
His expression switches to confusion.
“It’s an old Vegas joke,” says Tina helpfully. “From the old comedians who worked the circuit—‘I’m here all week. Tip your waitress.’ No? Guess not everyone gets that one.”
Bishop Young’s eyebrows draw together in sour rage. He holds out a chubby hand.
“Kindly hand over your recommends. Your privileges of entering this temple are revoked. You’ll both leave the premises immediately.”
“No!” I feel as though my world is falling in. “Please, Bishop Young!”
“It wasn’t her.” Tina is talking quickly. “It was all my idea.”
Bishop Young doesn’t retract his hand.
“Please,” says Tina. “I’ll leave the faith. Anything you want. Just don’t hurt Rachel. It means a lot to her.”
Bishop Young shakes his head.
“She has a responsibility to resist temptation,” he says. “She chose to ignore it. Rachel, I’ll be needing your recommend now.”
Chapter Eighty-Two
Emily, Sister-Wife
The police lady I don’t like is driving me to the big prison building now. We roll through gate after gate. This must be about the only place in Utah where you can’t see red mountains. The blue, blue sky looks a little lost without them. It’s got nothing but cream-colored concrete to fix on.
I have a million questions and no one to ask them to. The idea that keeps bubbling up is that this Aunt Meg person is likely a killer. She was involved in making people disappear and maybe some secret graveyard, and Rachel knows something about it too.
What if…Blake found evidence of what Aunt Meg had done while he was trying to purchase the Homestead? Maybe Rachel even told him. What if Aunt Meg met with Blake in Kirker’s Diner, asked him to forget all about it for Rachel’s sake, and he refused? That is absolutely the kind of thing Blake would do.
I need to contact Tina and Rachel. If Aunt Meg is out there, she could come for them next.
The lady officer snatches a look at me, and I must look a little unwell ’cause she sort of smirks and says, “Real-life prison is not like on TV, is it?”
“I need to speak with Detective Carlson,” I tell her.
She turns back to the wheel. “You said that already.”
They bring me behind a reception area and make me take my clothes off. The guard gets mad when I’m not helpful, and it takes three of them in the end. One of them even puts on a hospital glove and pokes a finger right inside my butt, which I’m sure is not allowed. When I tell her that, she scowls and tells me I’m not making any friends.
They give me the smallest jumpsuit they have, which is still too big, and cotton slippers that are hard to walk in. They open the door to a long corridor that smells of bleach and bad soup.
“Lucky you,” says the guard. She has a face a little like a frog. “You made it in time for lunch.”
At the far end, I can make out some big glass panels with a big cafeteria, which reminds me a lot of high school. All these people turn to look at me, and I just have the worst feeling.
All I can think is that I want Rachel. Rachel and Tina.
Rachel might have been snippy with me and bossy, but she was never actually mean like the girls at school. She never spit in my hair or stuck half sandwiches to my back.
“I need to speak to Detective Carlson,” I say.
“Listen, princess,” says the guard nastily. “We know all about you. You’ve had your fun, dicking us around, getting psychologists and police to spend their precious time tryin’ to get you to tell the truth. Right now, it’s time to meet the consequences of your actions. You’re not special. You’re not important. Once we get past this door, you’re like everybody else in this prison. Sooner you work that out, the better you’ll get along. By my understanding, you’re not coming out. You wanna get a message to your detective, call someone. You get to see your lawyer tomorrow. Ask him.”
“That could be too late.” I’m almost crying with frustration. “Please. Rachel could be in danger. This person, this Aunt Meg, is out there. She’s a killer. She maybe even killed my husband.”
“Oh wait. You’re saying now you didn’t do it? Right around the time you got a look inside state prison?” She shakes her head. “Sorry, it doesn’t work that way. You confessed to a crime.”
“What about my phone call?”
“You’ve had your phone call.”
“Please,” I say. “I was lying before. I’m telling the truth now.”
“Well now, that’s the problem with telling lies, isn’t it?” she says. “No one believes you when you tell the truth.” She takes my arm. “Come with me.”
“Hold up!” A voice comes from behind us. I turn back to the reception desk.
I have never been more relieved to see a person in my whole life.
Officer Brewer. Officer Brewer is here.
“Turns out we’re not quite done with Miss Martinelli,” says Brewer.
The frog-faced guard’s face knits all together as she eyes Brewer.
“She’s Carlson’s arrest,” the guard says finally. “I can’t hand her to you.”
“Carlson’s on his way,” says Brewer. “Talk to him if you like.” She takes out her phone, but the lady doesn’t take it.
“We’ve processed her,” she says. “You’re too late.”
“She’s on remand,” says Brewer. “Unprocess her.”
“Can’t do that.”
“Then let me in to speak with her,” says Brewer quickly.
There’s a tense pause while the guard decides exactly how difficult she’ll get away with being. I regret kicking her in the shins now.
“Twenty minutes,” says the guard eventually. “That’s all. Then I gotta assign her a cell.”
Brewer nods. Takes my arm.
“Carlson pulled the tape from Kirker’s Diner,” she says as she leads me away. “We know who Blake was meeting with.”
Chapter Eighty-Three
Tina, Sister-Wife
Rachel loses all her fight the moment Bishop Young’s fat fingers close on her recommend. It’s plain weird. Like she’s become a different person. I swear, I could see her facial features change almost. It’s as if she’s vanished. She’s a little girl suddenly, begging for Daddy’s approval.
An’ you know what? She used to do this all the time. With Blake. Like even when he was being a real jerk, acting like the man of the house who knew everything, she’d kinda bail. It makes me mad, thinking about that, in actual fact.
The orderly snatches up the papers we took from Blake’s locker. Then they try to shuffle us discreetly out of the temple, but everyone is staring. Bothers me more than I thought it might actually, since I been hustled out of a lot of places. Probably it’s because Rachel is, like, dyin’ beside me, beet-red, and can hardly raise her eyes to see where she’s goin’.
As soon as we’re outside, almost before we make it off the steps, Rachel falls apart. Collapses to the lowest white sto
ne step and sobs her heart out. I move to put my arm around her, but then she turns on me, eyes all bloodshot and angry.
“How could you?” she accuses. “I told you we couldn’t break in. It’s a holy place! You and Emily got some wild ideas in your heads about fingerprints and some…conspiracy.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, though I’m only half-sorry. She’s being kinda selfish, what with Emily in prison. I mean, God knows our good intentions, right?
“I think we should put all this behind us,” she says, all prim. “We have to accept that Emily has confessed. She committed the crime. We haven’t done anything but get ourselves into trouble.”
“You’re kiddin’ me, right? Emily is innocent. You know her.”
“I thought I knew Blake. Turns out I didn’t know him very well at all.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. You chose not to see the parts you didn’t want to. You knew they were there. Look. Whatever the cops say, however we all may or may not have got along, if they ever get me in court, I’ll put my hand on a Bible and say Rachel Nelson did not kill her husband, right?”
“I would never ask you to do that.” She says it in this weird voice. Like she doesn’t want to owe me anything. That’s when it really sinks in. She doesn’t fuckin’ trust me either.
“Wait. Wait a minute. Are you saying you think I might have killed Blake?”
“I’m just…processing things. This is all very new to me. The thought that Blake liked…certain things.”
“Oh, you think he didn’t like those things? Like it was my idea? What, like I coerced him into being strangled?”
“I think you should keep calm.” She casts a glance over her shoulder. “Let’s move away from the temple. Maybe there’s a chance Bishop Young will change his mind…”
“Is that all you fucking care about? Your fucking recommend?”
“You don’t have to…”
“Fuck off. I’ll swear if I like. It’s about expressin’ yourself and… and communicatin’ emotions, which is something you know nothing about.”
“You know, this is why Blake never respected you,” she spits out. “You have to do it all by yourself, don’t you? You couldn’t have asked the police for help?”
“Why Blake never respected me?” The worst part is, she’s right. “Yeah? Well, this is why he never took you to bed, Rachel, because of the goddamn stick up your ass.”
“And it was your perverted goings-on that got him killed!”
“Ex-cuse me?” I’m mad enough to kill her.
“Just drop it,” she hisses, getting to her feet.
“No, no, I won’t drop it.” I grab her arm. “Let’s get this all out in the fuckin’ open. Or is that not how good Mormons do things? You think I went out there, and what? Tempted him into some kinky, dangerous shit. It all went wrong, and… Well, then what? You tell me!”
“I guess you coulda thrown the murder weapon in the river. Like the police said.”
“What about my clothes? Assuming I’m covered in blood?”
“My canning machine in the storehouse. Someone used it that night. Someone who wasn’t me.” Her eyes flick up at me, challenging.
“I cannot fucking believe you,” I hiss. “You just got no goddamn loyalty to anyone, do you?”
“How can I trust you?” she says. “You lie all the time. For all I know, you and Blake were in that land purchase together.”
“Sure,” I say sarcastically. “And then I killed him, because that makes so much sense.”
“I don’t know how property law works,” says Rachel. “Maybe there was a lot of money in that casino or something. Maybe… Maybe Blake didn’t want to build a casino and you did.”
“You’ve honestly thought about why I mighta killed Blake?” I’m just about done with her now.
“You haven’t done the same about me?” Rachel retorts. “You think I’m dumb enough to believe that?”
“I…This is unbelievable. You know what? You’re on your own. You always fucking were. Go fuck yourself, Rachel Rayne Nelson. And your secrets and your bullshit. You know somethin’? You think you’re so high and mighty, I’m such low-down trash? You think you were such a perfect wife? Marriage is about trust, you son of a bitch. Which means you were the worst wife ever.”
I turn around to storm off.
“Where are you going?”
“Eat me.”
“Tina. Wait.” She looks pained. Guilt, I guess. “You don’t even have a car. At least let me drive you.”
“You think I’d get in a car with you? I know how to look after myself. I been doin’ it all the while your slimy Prophet was marrying little girls.”
She flinches as though I’ve physically hit her. I regret saying it. But it’s too late now. I’m in full mean-Tina mode. No one gets out unhurt. Just keep outta my goddamn way.
So what am I gonna do now? I’m gonna steal a car, that’s what. I’m gonna steal a car, and I’m gonna ride straight downtown, and I’m gonna pick up where I left off buyin’ meth.
And no one, absolutely no one is gonna stop me.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Rachel, First Wife
All I can think is I want to go home. The home Blake and I built together, out in the desert. I decide to drive to the ranch to try to find some peace. I’ll fast. I’ll pray. Do my best to come to terms with it all.
Truth is, I’m ashamed of myself. For how I never stood up for Tina, even though she stood up for me. Feelings of self-loathing and pain are taking hold of me like icy fingers. Like all the grief I’ve been pushing aside coming out at once.
It took my mind off things, racing around, trying to find clues and uncover things about Blake. Cutting my hair, acting like it was all happening to someone else. It was a distraction. Now the rolling loss is hitting me from all directions. The things I have to accept.
We were the only ones out on that ranch.
And I don’t quite know what to do with that. Because it must mean I’m guilty of so much. So much pain I could have prevented, if I had only opened my eyes.
Tina’s words are haunting me.
Come on, Rachel. You know what Blake was really like, right?
It comes to me how badly I had treated Emily. She had always been more like a houseguest than a wife. And if I’m being very honest, a houseguest who’d outstayed her welcome fairly fast. If she ventured an opinion on one of Blake’s reckless ways to improve the ranch, I always sided with my husband, let him spend the family money on his latest end-of-days plan. I recall how Blake and I never took any trouble to hide our affection for each other. That must have been real hard for Emily, especially when she was having problems of a private kind.
When Tina came, it forced me to realize how bad that is to watch. How bad it feels to have someone side with your husband against you. But I never apologized to Emily. Maybe now it’s too late.
I turn it over and over in my head, trying to figure how she felt. What drove her to it.
Because I’m certain now Emily must have done it.
I force myself to picture it. I see Emily pulling the belt tight, feeling Blake’s strength fade. She doesn’t want to let go. If she does, she’ll have to deal with what she’s done.
When she finally does, the air has turned cold. The sun is setting. What was once her husband is nothing but a lump of meat. Curious now, she steps to the front of him, her lips parted.
The belt he once used on her is slack around his neck. His arms are limp, powerless.
Emily is gripped by a sudden black rage.
She grabs the gardening ax and…she doesn’t remember the rest. Only sweat and blood.
I realize with a jolt of shock that the deep anger is mine. The desire to swing a weapon and cause pain. I can feel it.
Forgiveness. Forgiveness through understanding. The images ke
ep coming.
I see Emily’s terrified face. The gory ax.
Somehow, she finds the strength to drag him by the belt, winch him to the tree. The juniper is strong yet yielding, as though complicit.
She would go to the storehouse now, I think, to wash the bloodstained clothes. Or was that me, turning the screws on the Survive Well lid, setting it to boil?
I pull the car to a stop. That’s when I see I haven’t driven to the ranch.
Ahead of me in the desert scrub are two huge gates and a wire fence stretching on and out as far as the eye can see. It’s a big property.
A notice is pasted to the ironwork.
NO TRESPASSERS
Keep Out. Dangerous Infrastructure.
Utah Department of Public Health.
I’ve never seen this sign before. I’ve never seen the main gates from this angle before. But even so, this place is as familiar as breathing.
I’ve driven right to the old Homestead.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Rayne Ambrosine, Age 15
I’m in so much pain I’m sick with it. I vomit into a metal bowl by my bed.
Aunt Meg puts cold cloths on my forehead, but I’m burning up so bad she has to switch them almost as soon as she’s smoothed them out.
Her demeanor has changed somewhat. She is concerned. I hazily think this means I am dying. I hear voices. A man’s voice, but I can’t make out the words.
“She needs a blood transfusion,” Aunt Meg is saying.
More muttering.
“I’ve given her antibiotics. Strongest we have.” There’s a little steel in Aunt Meg’s voice now. “She needs proper treatment,” she says. “More than I can give her here.”
“Take a mind of your tone.” The man’s voice is louder now. “And remember who you are speaking to. Go pray for humility, please, Meg.”
Through the pain, my eyes land on Aunt Meg’s face. She walks away grim-faced.
I feel warm hands touch my burning chest and try to flinch back.
“I am laying on hands,” says a man’s monotone voice. “I humbly beseech you, Lord Jesus Christ. Heal this woman if you think her worthy. Bring her back to our fold.”
