by Lori Roy
Before Ryce’s daddy was sheriff, his grandma was sheriff. Sheriff Irlene. No one is meant to tell her that Miss Watson lied all those years ago. Ryce’s grandma isn’t much longer for this life, and no sense in her spending her last days with guilt and regret. She’s not such an old woman, not nearly so old as Mrs. Baine had been, but life is harder for some folks and it takes its toll. Irlene Fulkerson has had a harder calling than most, that’s what Grandma says.
After lowering herself onto the rocker, Mrs. Fulkerson grabs hold of the iced lavender tea Annie pours for her. Her white hair is wound up and pinned off at the crown of her head and she wears a pale-pink lipstick. Ryce’s mama probably helped her to put it on. She pats Annie’s hand and gives a wink, and for a moment, Ryce’s grandma doesn’t look so old.
“I didn’t see Jacob Riddle in that well,” Annie says, following Ryce down the porch steps.
It really doesn’t need saying. Jacob and Caroline have not parted since the day began. Already folks are teasing that their wedding will come with next year’s harvest, though Daddy thinks differently. Caroline will damn sure finish school. That’s what Daddy said at the supper table. With all these folks around, he says the same, though he doesn’t curse and he smiles as he says it.
“Didn’t see no one,” Annie says. It’s easier to say it when Ryce isn’t looking at her.
Ryce stops, turns, and nods like maybe he already knew.
And because Grandma says there is nothing wrong with yearning, though it will twist a girl’s insides this way and that, and because the lavender is done for this year and because she doesn’t so much mind being nearly as tall as Ryce Fulkerson, Annie steps up to him and kisses him full on the mouth. It’s not like the first kiss Caroline talked about, and it’s not like her third. It’s somewhere in between. Annie kisses Ryce long enough that he’ll want her to do it again. She kisses him long enough that he’ll damn sure know he’s been kissed.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ON AUGUST 14, 1936, in the small town of Owensboro, Kentucky, the last lawful public hanging was conducted in the United States. Rainey Bethea, while suspected in the rape and murder of an elderly woman, was indicted and convicted only on the rape charge. The sentence for a murder conviction would have been a private execution, while the maximum penalty for a rape conviction was a public hanging in the county in which the crime occurred. The rape for which Rainey Bethea was convicted occurred on June 7, 1936, and he was executed at approximately 5:15 a.m. on August 14 of that same year.
A female sheriff presided over the hanging, and it has been estimated that between 10,000 and 20,000 people gathered to witness the execution. The event was widely reported in newspapers across the country. Many such accounts told of a carnival-like atmosphere, which allegedly included hanging parties, hot dog and popcorn vendors, and shouts for justice. Others, witnesses to the events that day, remember a more somber, dignified gathering.
The story I have written was loosely inspired by this piece of Kentucky history. However, the crime depicted in Let Me Die in His Footsteps, the characters, and the location are all inventions of my imagination and are in no way intended to represent, define, or comment upon the historic event.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
MY DEEPEST THANKS to Denise Roy—a remarkably gifted, patient, and insightful editor. My thanks to Brian Tart, Ben Sevier, Christine Ball, Emily Brock, Matthew Daddona, and everyone at Dutton for their ongoing support of my work. Thank you also to Phil Budnick, Rachel Bressler, Courtney Nobile, and all the folks at Plume. To Jenny Bent and everyone at The Bent Agency, thank you for your professionalism and excellent guidance over the years.
A SPECIAL THANK-YOU to the following people, who generously shared their experiences of Kentucky life: Stacy Brandenburg, Mike and Susan Fulkerson, Janie and Leon Brasher, and Victoria Long. A special thanks to Mike for the tobacco leaf. To my dear writing friends, Karina Berg Johansson and Adam Smith, thanks for all the fun. Thank you to Roy Peter Clark for sharing coffee and your many thoughts on the craft of writing. Thanks to Erica Allums and all the gang at the Banyan.
AND TO BILL, Andrew, and Savanna, thanks for being the best part.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LORI ROY IS the author of the Edgar Award–winning novel Bent Road. Her second novel, Until She Comes Home, was named a New York Times Editors’ Choice and was a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. She lives in Florida with her husband and two children.
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