by Melissa Marr
And now it’s gone. Maylene is gone.
Rebekkah ran her hand over the desktop. Stories hovered like ghosts in Maylene’s room, and Rebekkah wished she could hear them all one more time, that she could hear the ones Maylene hadn’t spoken yet, that she could hear Maylene’s voice.
Instead, she’d spent hours listening to people tell her that Maylene would be missed. No shit. She’d smiled while they told her how wonderful Maylene was. As if I didn’t know that. She’d tried not to scream while they assured her that they knew how hard it must be for her. How could they?
After much badgering, Rebekkah had resorted to flat-out rudeness to get the last of the mourners out of the house. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the solicitousness of some of Maylene’s friends and neighbors—okay, maybe she did resent it a bit. Maylene had never been altogether accepted by the community. They’d all been kind enough, but they’d never simply stopped by for a cup of tea or piece of pie. For reasons Rebekkah never understood, the community was always slightly reserved where Maylene and her family were concerned.
Not that Maylene ever complained . If anything, Maylene defended the peculiar distance the town kept from the Barrow family. “They have their reasons, lovie,” she’d murmured every time Rebekkah mentioned it. Rebekkah, however, wasn’t quite so willing to accept that there was any reason not to want to have Maylene at their tables.
The stillness of the house felt calming, despite everything. There was something right about Maylene’s home— my home —that had always soothed whatever upset Rebekkah felt. Even now, being in the old farmhouse eased the weight of Maylene’s loss more than Rebekkah could’ve anticipated. She stroked a hand over Maylene’s writing desk and opened the envelope Mr. Montgomery had handed her earlier.
April 1993
I can’t say that I’m liking writing this letter, Beks, any more than you’re liking reading it. I’m not sure I’ll be ready to talk about any of this stuff anytime soon. If that changes ... perhaps I’ll become a braver soul. If not, try to look kindly on me when I’m gone.
You’re the child of my heart as much as Ella Mae is was. You’re stronger, though. Never doubt that strength. There’s no shame in admitting it, no disrespect to Ella Mae. I love her, but I don’t pretend she was something she wasn’t. You can’t either. A day will come when you might hate her for the choice she made. A day might come when you’ll hate me. I hope you’ll forgive us all.
Everything I have, everything I am, and everything the women before me had—it’s all yours. The paperwork is all in order. Cissy and the girls have known for years. Your mother has, too. When Ella Mae died, you became my sole heir. The house, the contents, everything: it’s yours and yours alone now. The good and the bad, unfortunately, are both part and parcel of the deal. I’d ask your permission if I thought there were other options, but you’re my only choice now. Once I’d thought it would be Ella Mae and you both who could’ve made the decision for yourselves.
Someday you’ll read this, and God willing, you’ll be ready for it. I hope my dying wasn’t a surprise. If it was, the answers you’ll need are in the house. Trust the Montgomerys. Trust Father Ness. Look to the past. All those before you kept records. The journals are here in the house. Every question you’re having—I hope—will be answered between these ... except of course, why I’m too much a coward to tell you all of this in person. That one I’ll answer now: I am afraid, my dear. I am afraid that you will look at me the way Ella Mae did. I am afraid you will look at me the way I looked at my grandmother. I am afraid that you will abandon me, and I’m too selfish to lose you. I’d rather we go on as we are right now, with you loving me.
Forgive me, lovie, for all my mistakes, and think of me after I’m gone. The alternative is too horrible to bear.
All my love and hopes are with you.
Grandmama Maylene
The tight script of Maylene’s handwriting was as familiar as her own. The words, however, made little sense. Rebekkah could think of nothing that would change her love for Maylene, nothing that would turn her affection to hate.
The second item in the envelope was a copy of Maylene’s will, which Rebekkah gave a perfunctory read to verify what Maylene had said in her letter. Maylene had, indeed, left every item, every cent, and the house solely to Rebekkah. Everything? Rebekkah wondered how long Cissy had known. Is this why she’s always hated me? Rebekkah stopped herself from dwelling too long on that train of thought: Cecilia Barrow had taken up more than enough of her energy today.
Instead, she turned her thoughts toward the journals that were somewhere in the house; she also couldn’t figure how the answers to her grandmother’s murder would be found in journals—or where in the rambling farmhouse they would be. A cursory glance around the room revealed nothing so much as the fact that Maylene had lived a long time in one spot. Shelves were built close to the ceiling and above the door frames, and lined the perimeter of the room. They were packed full of books, some well worn from repeated readings or advanced age, none looking like journals. A wardrobe sat on either side of Maylene’s bed. At the foot of the bed sat a wooden chest. They were obvious storage spots, but neither the wardrobe nor the chest held any journals.
Rebekkah began looking through the three other bedrooms on the second floor—her own, Ella’s room, and the one Jimmy and her mother had shared. Although her own room wasn’t cluttered, the other two were packed. The third-floor attic was worse. It overflowed with Maylene’s accumulated possessions from decades of living—and decades of living by those who’d been here before Maylene. The downstairs was equally stuffed. The secret “cubbyhole” in one wall of the living room was crammed to the point that Rebekkah had closed it with a grimace almost instantly upon opening it, and the pantry had always been near overflowing—a topic Maylene had dismissed with vague words of “never knowing what a body might crave.” Nowhere in the morass of belongings in the house did Rebekkah see anything resembling journals. What she did see were reminders of the amazing woman whose life had been ended before Rebekkah had a chance to say good-bye. Death of a loved one hurt, that was a constant, but the suddenness and the violence made this death seem worse.
Jimmy’s was sudden. So was Ella’s. Rebekkah could picture them all here in the house. Never again. She looked around her, and suddenly the memories were too much—and the memory that wasn’t hers, Maylene’s last memory, felt like it tainted everything.
Maylene was killed here.
The walls felt too close, and every sound made her skittish. The place she’d felt safe, the place she ran to when the world was too much, suddenly had shadows in it that stretched like threats looming around her. The fear wasn’t logical, but she couldn’t say it was foolishness either. Someone had murdered Maylene in their home.
Is it someone I know?
Is it someone who stood there at the grave?
Did he—or she—offer me words of comfort?
The wind set the swing to creaking on the porch. When she was a girl, that sound used to comfort her. As a grown woman alone in the house where her grandmother had been murdered, she found it a lot less comforting.
Rebekkah picked up Cherub, who was winding around her ankles, and went to the window. She pulled the sheer curtains aside and looked out. It was getting toward late afternoon, but the sun hadn’t set yet. The porch was empty.
Nothing but shadows and air.
“I’m going walking,” Rebekkah announced.
Cherub meowed.
“Shush, you. I’ll be back soon.” She kissed his head and lowered him to the floor.
She changed into something slightly less funereal—jeans, a dark gray pullover, boots, and a black jacket. Then she gathered up her wallet, keys, and a canister of pepper spray. Pepper spray wouldn’t be ideal against an animal, but it would buy her a moment if the person who’d hurt— killed— Maylene tried to hurt her. A gun would be a lot better. She’d grown up around guns, but the only one she knew of in the house was a shotgun,
and even in Claysville, someone walking around town with a shotgun in hand would seem downright odd. Pepper spray it is. She shoved everything into her jacket pockets and slammed the door.
She had no destination in mind, other than being out of the house. Too much was changing too fast. She’d thought Cissy would inherit something. Like she needed another reason to hate me. Despite feeling slightly guilty that Cissy and the twins hadn’t been left anything, Rebekkah felt a relief that the house she’d come to think of as home was still hers.
Several times, Rebekkah thought she’d heard someone behind her, but when she turned, no one was there. She walked faster, staying along the well-lit sidewalks. Thoughts of the little girl’s injured arm made her pause: well-lit paths might be a deterrent to human “animals,” but she wasn’t sure that they’d be a concern to a wild animal. If there was someone or something following her, turning back seemed unwise.
Now what?
She started running; the thud of pavement under her boots had the illusion of echoing louder with each step. By the time she’d reached the familiar neon lights of Gallagher’s, her legs ached and sweat trickled down her spine. No one and nothing had grabbed her, and the run had made her feel better than she’d felt since she’d gotten the call yesterday.
That was only yesterday. Rebekkah shook her head. Too much change too soon. She pulled open the door and stepped into the dim bar.
Faces, familiar and not, turned toward her. No one looked hostile, but their scrutiny wasn’t comfortable. People there knew her, knew more than she wanted them to know. She’d remembered that objectively, but the reality of being watched, being studied, was more unnerving than the memory had allowed her to expect—or maybe the pity rankled more than the studious stares.
“Beks?” Amity called. “Come sit up here.”
Rebekkah could’ve hugged Amity for the invitation. It was the bartender’s job to be friendly, but Rebekkah didn’t care. She smiled and went toward the bar.
Amity stood with her hands on her hips; a bar rag dangled from one hand. The look on her face wasn’t one of pity. “You looking for someone?”
Rebekkah shook her head. “Air and a drink. I ... I needed to be out.”
Amity gestured at a stool. “You want to talk?”
“No.” Rebekkah pulled the stool out and sat. “I’ve had more than enough talk.”
“Got it. No talking.” Amity slid a bowl of bar mix to her. “So ... beer, wine, or liquor?”
“Just wine. House white. Whatever.”
“We have—”
“I don’t care,” Rebekkah interrupted. “I just need to hold a glass of something so I can sit here not looking quite as pitiful.”
Amity stared at her for a moment, turned, and pulled a partially empty bottle of white wine out of a cooler. She twisted the cork out of the bottle. “You don’t want to drink or talk.”
“Nope.”
Amity poured the pale liquid into a glass, shoved the cork back into the mouth of the bottle, and brought the wine to the bar. “What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know.” Rebekkah wrapped her fingers around the glass. It felt fragile in her hands, enough so that for a moment she considered squeezing hard, driving shards of glass into her skin. She lifted the glass and drank half of it.
“A little space, boys?” Amity uncorked the bottle and refilled the glass. “Should I have asked, ‘Who are you looking for?’ ”
“No.” Behind her, Rebekkah could hear the door opening and closing. Footsteps clomped across the room. The door opened and closed. More footsteps sounded. The door opened again. It clicked.
“Bek?” Amity’s hand came down on Rebekkah’s. “You can handle this.”
Rebekkah nodded.
After a couple of silent minutes had passed, Rebekkah looked around. The room was empty. Bar rag in hand, Amity came out from behind the bar. From the way she was dressed, the bartender looked like she had been expecting a half-decent crowd: her short skirt and tall boots were look-at-me fare. On slow nights, Amity wore jeans—not that she looked slouchy even then—but a generous glimpse of skin helped part patrons from more of their money, so busy nights meant skirts.
“You kicked them out,” Rebekkah said.
“They didn’t have to obey me.” Amity tossed a bottle toward the trash bin as if it were a ball through a hoop.
Rebekkah left her drink behind and walked over to stand beside Amity, who was now singing softly to herself while she tossed bottles, emptied ashtrays, and swished crumbs onto the floor. Rebekkah gathered up several half-full glasses that patrons had left behind and carried them over to the bar. “Nothing shakes you, does it?”
For a moment, Amity stilled. A flicker of fear crossed her face. Then she lobbed another bottle. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”
Rebekkah wasn’t sure if she wanted to ask or let it go. She paused, and the moment stretched. “Maybe some night you can tell me what frightens the invincible Amity Blue.”
“Maybe,” Amity murmured. “Not tonight.”
“No, not tonight.” Rebekkah walked over to the bar. She put her hand on the pass-through. “May I?”
“Sure. Hell, if you want, you can have a few shifts for as long as you’re here ... It might help keep your mind off the claustrophobia of being in Claysville,” Amity said.
“I don’t know about all of that.” Rebekkah lifted the bar flap and went behind the counter. Then she flipped it back, once more making the bartender’s domain separate from the rest of the main room. She and Amity were now on opposite sides of where they’d started the evening.
A job? In one place? Rebekkah couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a regular job. Portions of the alimony checks her mother received from her various ex-husbands and Jimmy’s very generous insurance had left her with a bank balance that never seemed to decrease much. She’d added to it with the proceeds from a few commissioned art contracts, but that was about her own self-esteem, not about need. Jobs mean staying. The thought of staying in one place never made sense. Except when I’m here.
“I have questions about Maylene’s death, but that doesn’t mean ...” Rebekkah shook her head: she knew she wasn’t leaving right away. She needed answers. Weakly, she finished, “I don’t know how long I’ll be around.”
Amity’s dry tone filled the suddenly awkward pause. “Temporary is not shocking in this business, Bek. If nothing else, I’ll give you a few Bar Wench 101 classes to distract you ... unless you have another distraction lined up?”
The thought of Byron came unbidden to her mind, but using him as a distraction was wrong. Is it? She shoved that thought away and looked at Amity. “No. I have nothing else in mind to distract me.”
“I thought maybe you and By—”
“We’re old friends, but he’s a relationship guy and ...” Rebekkah paused at the tight smile Amity offered her. “Am I missing something?”
Amity shook her head. “I think you know a different Byron than I do.”
Rebekkah felt an awkward burst of jealousy. She didn’t look at Amity while she opened the cooler, uncorked the wine, and poured two glasses. Once she was sure the undeserved jealousy wasn’t visible in her expression, she looked at Amity. “So you know Byron?”
“There are only a few thousand people in Claysville, Bek. Most of them aren’t anywhere near as interesting as Byron.” Amity opened her arms wide. “Plus, Gallagher’s is the hottest bar in town—and I am the hottest barmaid in town—which means I know everyone old enough to drink.”
Rebekkah laughed. “Maybe you ought to visit me when I go ... wherever I go next.”
“I don’t think I’m the sort to go anywhere, but thanks.”
Glass in hand, Rebekkah half sat, half leaned on one of the hip-tall beer coolers and braced her feet against the stool Amity had placed behind the bar for that very purpose. “You running the place now? Last time you wrote, you said Troy was the manager. Are you two ...”
“No. Troy’s not really the co
mmitment sort, or maybe I’m not the sort of girl guys want to commit to.” Amity shrugged. “We split up a few months ago. We’re cool, though ... or we were . He needed a week for personal stuff, but he was supposed to be back to work almost a month ago. No show, no call. And Daniel ... well, he might own the place, but he’s not saying much other than ‘Amity, you handle things.’ So I’m handling them.”
“Troy just vanished? Did he leave town?” Rebekkah’s heart felt constricted. He’d never been the responsible type, but he loved the bar. Gallagher’s and Amity were the only two reasons she’d ever seen him get excited—or possessive. In high school, they’d been in art class together, but after Ella’s death, they hadn’t really talked until she’d come back for a visit and found him slinging drinks at Gallagher’s. He’d introduced her to Amity, his younger coworker and his very obvious infatuation.
“I don’t know.” Amity wiped down the last of the tables that had been occupied earlier. “He’s just gone. Considering how rarely anyone leaves, I think it’s something to worry about, but what do I know, right? Daniel acts like it’s a ‘lovers’ quarrel’ thing, but Troy and me ... we weren’t like that. He wouldn’t take off because I started seeing someone new.”
“Do you think the new guy said something to Troy? Did you ask him? Troy’s a sweetie, but that might be an issue. Do they know each other? Or—”
“He ... the new guy is just filling time with me, Bek. Trust me on this.”
Rebekkah couldn’t make herself ask, but she wanted to know. She wanted to not care if it was Byron, but she did care. “Maybe I ought to give him a talking-to. Have I met him?”
Amity came over to the bar, put both hands on it, and pushed up so her feet were off the floor. She leaned forward, reached under the bar, and pulled out the jukebox remote. She hopped back down and aimed the remote. “Credits. Go pick us some songs. If you’re here, might as well dance or shoot.”
“My pool skills still suck.” Rebekkah came back through the bar door. She paused beside Amity. “Did you tell Sheriff McInney?”
