by Becky Wade
Dad had greeted them, then became absorbed with something on his phone that no doubt pertained to Mercer football. Genevieve was stacking the few dishes that had been in the sink into the dishwasher. Natasha was pouring them all cups of coffee, and Mom was placing wedges of pie onto china plates while gushing about the creativity award Millie had received at yesterday’s preschool autumn festival.
“I was telling your father just last week that Millie has exceptional artistic skill. I don’t have any doubt that she’s going to grow up to be every bit as impressive as you two. I just hope I live long enough to congratulate her at her first New York City gallery showing.”
“We might want to recalibrate our expectations of Millie,” Natasha noted. “Right now my highest goal for her is that she allow me to brush her hair without throwing a screaming fit and learn to like at least one vegetable.”
Mom waxed philosophic about the benefits of high expectations on a child’s formation.
“Huh” was the best Genevieve could muster.
She’d been adept at pretending even before she’d had to cover up her Oxy use. For ages, she’d been working to come across as the most loving, the most humble, the most bulletproof, the most down-to-earth version of herself. It seemed, though, that she was reaching the end of her ability to pretend.
Without Oxy to take the edge off, she was feeling physically sick with nerves. If she tried to eat pie, she’d throw up. If she declined it, Mom would take it personally.
When Genevieve had started to investigate her parents’ past, she’d been fueled by unease and curiosity. She’d had no way of knowing then just how convoluted and upsetting the past would prove to be.
In fact, no person could ever discern where a particular path might lead until they walked it.
She hadn’t known when she’d agreed to the mission trip in El Salvador that she’d end up stuck in a cave of destruction. She hadn’t known when she’d started dating Thad that he would obliterate her heart. She hadn’t known when she started taking Oxy that it would lead to a crippling dependence.
The only One who could know where a path might lead was God Himself. She’d prayed before she’d started investigating her parents. Yet she hadn’t had a dependable line of communication with God in what felt like a really long time. Consequently, she hadn’t heard a firm yes or a firm no. Which hadn’t stopped her from wading into her parents’ past. Perhaps doing so, like taking Oxy, had been a big mistake.
“It’s ready, everyone,” Mom announced.
They took their places around the circular kitchen table where they’d eaten countless meals back when she and Natasha lived at home.
Natasha had once refused to eat a bowl of oatmeal at this table. Dad had calmly said that it was nourishing and that it cost money, and if she wouldn’t eat it, she’d have to sit there for an hour thinking about how important it was to be grateful.
Natasha had sat there for an hour.
She and her sister had consumed the pink waffles their mom made for them on Valentine’s Day at this table. They’d embellished them with whipped cream, powdered sugar, and rainbow sprinkles.
On Sundays they’d eaten club sandwiches for lunch at this table. On those occasions, just like today, all four of them had still been dressed in their church clothes. Club sandwiches were Dad’s specialty, and he’d layer mayonnaise, lettuce, bacon, bread, tomato, turkey, and mustard—always in that order—between two outer slices of toasted bread that he cut into precise triangles.
So many nights they’d gathered around this table for dinner. Light had poured in through the windows to illuminate their summertime dinners. A tapestry of changing leaves had watched over their fall dinners. Darkness had turned the windows to flat black geometric shapes during their winter dinners. Green buds and colorful flowers had blanketed the yard during their spring dinners.
Her mother and father were interwoven into her lifetime of memories.
How were they going to take this?
She and Natasha had been rule-following girls. They’d never done anything to make their parents as angry as these revelations had the potential to make them.
“This is just like old times,” Mom said. “The original four.” She wore a gauzy pearl gray dress. Dad’s subtly patterned tie remained snugly fastened around the neck of his starched white dress shirt.
“I’ve been hoping and hoping for the chance to get together,” Mom continued. “The four of us like this. But you girls are always so busy, and I didn’t want to intrude.”
Natasha curled her hand around the base of her coffee cup as if it were an anchor. “Genevieve and I wanted to talk to you without the rest of the family present.” She had the good grace to look tense.
“Are you expecting a third baby?” Mom asked Natasha excitedly.
“No.”
“Are you engaged?” Dad asked Genevieve.
Mom let out a scandalized gasp. “No! Sam seems like a wonderful, God-fearing man, but it’s too early for an engagement. My goodness.” She fanned herself. “Genevieve and I haven’t even had a chance to have a long discussion about Sam yet.”
“The whole town’s talking about your romance,” Dad told Genevieve.
“Sam and I are definitely not engaged.”
“In fact, we’re not here to offer happy news,” Natasha said. “It’s probably for the best that you’re both sitting down.”
Instantly, seriousness descended.
Lord, cover us with grace. Painfully, Genevieve cleared her throat. “We’re here to talk about the anonymous letters I’ve received.”
Mom sat back in her chair, her chin tucking against her neck in a way that indicated that they’d hurt her feelings. “We told you that was nothing, sweetie. A hoax—”
“We know about your first marriage,” Natasha said bluntly.
Silence unwound through the kitchen like a ball of yarn. Mom’s face drained of color.
Dad’s eyebrows lowered behind the lenses of his glasses.
Genevieve held her tongue, giving them time to process.
“How did you learn about the marriage?” Dad finally asked.
“If either of you had any secrets,” Genevieve answered, “we guessed that they originated before you moved to Misty River. Mom grew up in Athens and since it’s relatively close, I drove to the courthouse there and pulled her records.”
“Without talking to me?” Mom asked.
“After you claimed to know nothing about the first letter,” Natasha said, “Gen and I decided to learn everything we could before broaching this subject with you again. Here we are, broaching this subject with you again.”
“But . . .” The lines around Mom’s mouth deepened. “Genevieve came home almost three months ago. How long have you been researching us?”
“That whole time.” Natasha’s features broadcast honesty and compassion. “We know a lot. For example, we know that you two dated in college, because we saw a photo from a fraternity function in the Mercer University yearbook.”
Dad and Mom exchanged a long look Genevieve couldn’t interpret.
“After Dad graduated, he went into the navy and you finished school.” Genevieve picked up the tale. “In 1982, you married Russell Atwell, and about a year later, he was murdered by a serial killer.”
In response to their daughters’ blindside, her parents’ posture had gone rigid. Beneath that, Genevieve sensed a sharp sort of alertness in them, as if they were scrambling mentally to concoct defensive strategies.
“We studied issues of the Camden Chronicle that ran the week of Russell’s death and saw a navy recruiting ad that listed you by name,” Natasha told Dad. “So we know that you were in town the weekend Russell died. And we suspect you were inside the house the night of the murder.”
“Why?” Dad asked quietly.
“Because Russell’s body was arranged exactly the way you used to arrange your action figures when you cleaned your room,” Natasha said. “Which made that crime scene different from
the Shoal Creek Killer’s other crime scenes.”
Neither parent spoke. In the unnatural silence, Genevieve listened to her own apprehensive breathing.
“What is it you think happened?” Dad asked. He was far too smart to reveal his hand before they revealed theirs.
“We think you planned a stop in Camden to visit Mom or Russell or both,” Natasha replied. “After finding Russell dead, you turned him over and straightened his arms and legs.”
Pain seared his expression. “How come you don’t suspect me of killing him?”
“Because we know you,” Natasha said firmly.
“And love you,” Genevieve added.
He pulled off his glasses and set them aside, then planted his elbows on the table and clasped his head in his hands.
Mom wrapped a protective hand around his shoulder.
“Tell us what happened,” Natasha pleaded, her attention on their dad. “Please. We need to know so we can do whatever’s needed to help.”
Wounded anger flowed from their mother in waves, making Genevieve feel like Judas for pursuing this investigation behind their backs. She straightened the already-straight hem of the cropped jacket she wore with her wide-skirted dress—
Dad stood, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. Agitated, he paced the length of the kitchen. He stood in the opening that led to the formal living and dining space, his back to them. One excruciating minute passed.
Mom twisted in her chair to focus on her husband. “Judson.” The syllables carried entreaty and warning.
He returned. Still standing, he faced Mom. “I can’t have them think I’m innocent in this.”
Genevieve’s stomach twisted.
“Judson,” Mom said.
He addressed his daughters. “I can’t have you thinking that.”
“Then tell us what happened,” Natasha said.
He always looked vulnerable and a little unfamiliar to Genevieve without his glasses. Her dad might be vulnerable in this moment, but he wasn’t unfamiliar. He was her daddy. Her first, best-trusted love.
He paced along the kitchen again.
“Girls,” Mom said accusingly. “This is all so upsetting. This is all such ancient history.”
“Ancient history that has come back to haunt you,” Natasha returned calmly. “We need to face it now.”
“I think it best that we stop this discussion right here,” Mom said. “Let’s leave the past in the past.”
“I can’t,” Dad said. This time, when he approached, Genevieve read resignation in him. He put his glasses back on and looked to his wife. “I can’t anymore, Caroline.”
Mom reached for his hand. “Honey. I think—”
He squeezed Mom’s hand lovingly, and her words halted. “I was inside the house that night,” Dad said to her and Natasha. “You’re right about that.”
Mom bit her bottom lip.
“I’ve loved your mother since the first time I went on a date with her, when I was twenty-two years old. She broke up with me seven months later, two months after I entered the navy. She was nineteen then, and I understood why she did it. But my feelings for her never changed. Not at all. When I came back stateside to recruit, I scheduled a trip to Camden so that I could see her. That’s all I wanted, just to see her and talk with her. To know that she was happy.”
Genevieve braced herself.
“Your mom met me at a diner in Camden, and I bought her a milkshake. She put on a good front. But back when we were dating, I’d gotten to know her well, and I could tell something was wrong. I asked her about Russell.”
“I didn’t say a single negative thing about him,” Mom said to him.
“That’s true.” It seemed that the memory of that long-ago conversation at the diner was arcing back and forth between them. “But there was pain in your eyes.” He regarded his daughters. “I couldn’t get her to confide in me. We said good-bye, and we went our separate ways.”
“Someone told Russell that they’d seen me speaking with another man at the diner,” Mom said stiffly. “Russell could be funny, sweet, decent. Unfortunately, he could also become very angry. When he got angry, he was . . . abusive.”
“I’m so sorry,” Genevieve whispered, feeling like the wind had been kicked out of her. Russell had beaten Mom? “We . . . saw Russell’s record. We know he was arrested several times for assault.”
“We never imagined that he’d assault you, though,” Natasha said. “That’s awful.”
She’d only ever seen her mom and dad fight fair, without raised voices or hurtful words. Certainly without violence. In her current marriage, Mom was cherished. It sickened Genevieve to think that Russell had raised his hands against her.
“After I left your mother at the diner,” Dad told them, “I was so worried that I drove to the house she shared with Russell. Caroline’s car was out front. I parked a good distance away and waited for a few hours until Russell pulled into the driveway. I watched him storm inside.”
“Russell was furious,” Mom said.
The house was clean and orderly. The air smelled pleasantly of apples and cloves. Yet, the story her parents were painting was infiltrating what should have been a cozy environment with tentacles of menacing cold.
“A few minutes after Russell returned home,” Dad said, “I drove by their house. I couldn’t see anything, so I got out of the car and doubled back on foot. When I got close, I saw them both clearly through the front bedroom window. Russell slapped your mother, then threw her down on the bed and began to rip off her clothing.”
Mom remained motionless.
Dad looked bleaker than Genevieve had ever seen him look. “I’d never been that mad in my life. The front door wasn’t locked, so I ran inside.”
“Russell heard the door bang against the wall,” Mom said. “He left me to see who’d entered.”
“He yelled at me and threatened me.” Dad ran his fingers through his graying hair. “I punched him in the face. He punched me back. He was strong, and his hatred was so deep that it made him stronger. He was a better fighter than I was. But I’d just seen how he’d treated your mother, so I was even angrier than he was.”
Genevieve was scared to hear more. She wanted her father to continue to be the man she knew.
“I followed Russell into the living room,” Mom said. “I begged them to stop, but neither seemed to hear me.”
“Your mother later told me she’d been sweeping when Russell entered the house. As soon as I was able to push Russell away from me, he grabbed the broom that was leaning against the fireplace and rammed the tip of the handle into my face. It sank into my left eye. As he pulled the broom back, I caught it in my hands and twisted it away from him. Then I swung it as hard as I could. It caught him in the temple.”
“He didn’t go down.” Lines furrowed Mom’s forehead. “He paused, then he came at your father again.”
“So I hit him in the head again, equally hard, in the same place. That time, it knocked him out cold.”
“We thought at first that he was only unconscious.”
“But he never came to. Within a short period of time, he was dead.”
Mom rose and went to the windows, where she peered at her backyard garden. “Your father acted in self-defense.”
“The first time I hit him, I did so in self-defense because I believed he would have killed me if he’d had the chance. But after that first strike, I knew I’d hurt him. I should have dropped the broom and tried to wrestle him to the ground.”
“It was self-defense, Judson.” Mom spoke to the glass. Her words did not invite argument.
My father killed Russell Atwell. Genevieve’s numb brain couldn’t accept it. Russell was the one who ruined Dad’s left eye.
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Natasha asked.
“It took a while before we were calm enough to think straight,” Mom said. “I was beside myself. Russell was dead, and your father’s eye was seriously injured. He didn’t complain about it, bu
t I knew it was hurting him terribly. I taped a washcloth over his eye. I didn’t know what else to do. Obviously, he needed to go to the hospital, but he wouldn’t hear of leaving until we’d decided what to do about Russell.”
“We worried how it would look. Essentially, I’d entered my ex-girlfriend’s home, then killed her husband.”
“But Mom saw everything,” Natasha said. “She was a corroborating witness.”
“Yes. I’ve wished every day since that we had called the police and taken our chances with the judicial system. If my actions resulted in jail time, then I should have stood up to my sentence and done the time.”
“Camden is a close-knit town.” Mom rotated to them, arms crossed. The joints in her hands were pointed and white. “Russell was one of their favorites. The people of that town doted on him, but very few of them knew me. I didn’t think they’d accept my word if I tried to tell them what had happened between Russell and your father. They’d have believed that I was in on it, too. That together, Judson and I wanted Russell dead.” She ratcheted her hands even tighter. “I wanted peace, and I wanted to be free of Russell. But I didn’t want him dead.”
“In those days, the Shoal Creek Killer was receiving constant attention in the media,” Dad said. “It was all anyone could talk about.”
“So we tried to make the scene look like it would have looked if the Shoal Creek Killer had committed the murder.”
“Russell fell onto his chest with his face to the side. I turned his face down because I didn’t want your mother to have to look at it. I straightened his limbs because that position was more dignified than leaving him how he’d fallen. At the time, I didn’t know that the other bodies had been left in a heap. The police hadn’t released details about the positioning of the victims’ bodies.”
Genevieve’s mind reeled sluggishly. “But Terry Paul Richards later confessed to killing Russell.”
“Yes.” Dad nodded. “At that point, he’d been convicted of three of the murders and was facing execution. Nothing could have made his situation worse than it was. I think he took responsibility for Russell’s death in order to increase his own fame.”
