by Laura McHugh
What’s Done in Darkness is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Laura McHugh
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Random House and the House colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: McHugh, Laura, author.
Title: What’s done in darkness: a novel / Laura McHugh.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Random House, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020036215 (print) | LCCN 2020036216 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399590313 (Hardcover) | ISBN 9780399590337 (Ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3613.C5334 W53 2021 (print) | LCC PS3613.C5334 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020036215
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020036216
Ebook ISBN 9780399590337
randomhousebooks.com
Cover design: Ella Laytham
Cover photograph: Colin Anderson/Stocksy
ep_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Sarabeth, That Day
Chapter 1: Sarah, Now
Chapter 2: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 3: Sarah, Now
Chapter 4: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 5: Sarah, Now
Chapter 6: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 7: Sarah, Now
Chapter 8: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 9: Sarah, Now
Chapter 10: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 11: Sarah, Now
Chapter 12: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 13: Sarah, Now
Chapter 14: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 15: Sarah, Now
Chapter 16: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 17: Sarah, Now
Chapter 18: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 19: Sarah, Now
Chapter 20: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 21: Sarah, Now
Chapter 22: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 23: Sarah, Now
Chapter 24: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 25: Sarah, Now
Chapter 26: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 27: Sarah, Now
Chapter 28: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 29: Sarah, Now
Chapter 30: Sarabeth, Then
Chapter 31: Sarah, Now
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Laura McHugh
About the Author
SARABETH, THAT DAY
AGE 17
The blacktop road stretched empty in either direction, the sky hazy and the air heavy as a sodden sponge. The heat of the late-morning sun amplified the autumn scent of drying cornstalks, the putrid sweetness of persimmons rotting in the ditch. Insects swarmed the fermenting fruit, buzzing like an unholy plague. Sarabeth brushed away a sweat bee. She had walked the long, twisting path from the house to the roadside stand alone, pulling a wagon with one bad wheel, her legs sweating beneath her heavy ankle-length skirt.
Her little sister, Sylvie, sometimes worked the family’s produce stand with her, but today she was home in bed with a fever and a vicious sore throat. Their mother had spent the early-morning hours praying over Sylvie and coaxing her to swallow a concoction of garlic, cider vinegar, and honey. Mama was piling more quilts on the bed when Sarabeth left, aiming to sweat out the sickness, shushing Sylvie when she cried that she was too hot. Mama said fever was nothing compared to the fires of Hell, and maybe God liked to remind us. She said it to Sylvie, but Sarabeth knew it was meant for her.
She was glad to get away from the house, away from her mother and preparations for Saturday’s dreaded birthday dinner. Much as she hated to see Sylvie sick, she hoped her sister’s illness might force them to cancel. She’d been counting the days until her eighteenth birthday because her father had promised that she could sign up for classes at the community college, where her older brother, Eli, was studying agriculture. She’d thought of it as her ticket out. Then, when the course catalog she’d been waiting for finally arrived over the summer, Mama chucked it into the trash. You’ll be too busy taking care of your husband, she’d said.
But I don’t have a husband, Sarabeth had replied, and her parents had exchanged measured looks. Her father cleared his throat, a decisive rumble that swept aside all objections before he even began to speak. The man they’d chosen for her would be coming over for dinner on her birthday. She’d felt like kicking and screaming but knew her father would dismiss her as hysterical. You can’t make me, she’d whispered instead. I won’t do it. Her mother’s eyes had gone round with shock and then narrowed. Daddy had unbuckled his belt regretfully. He didn’t enjoy whippings, though he felt they were necessary at times, like when one of the children was disrespectful or defiant. More often than not, that child was Sarabeth. Her flesh was still tender from the last time. The belt made a hissing sound as it slid out of the loops one by one.
She should have seen it coming. Mama had been grooming her for this very thing for years, but she’d assumed that once she became an adult, she could make her own decisions. She’d move out, start a new life. She’d expected them to pressure her to stay in the church, to continue living at home, but somehow she hadn’t expected them to force her into an arranged marriage against her will.
Eli was sympathetic but wouldn’t argue on her behalf. Her best friend, Retta, couldn’t grasp why she was so upset. The girls had been friends most of their lives because their mothers were in a women’s prayer group together, and after her father’s accident, Sarabeth’s family had left Church of Christ the Redeemer to join Retta’s family at the more stringent Holy Rock. They used to play with dolls on Saturday afternoons in Retta’s basement while the women’s group met upstairs. Even back then, Retta had liked to pair up the dolls and give them weddings and babies, though she wasn’t allowed any boy dolls. Sarabeth had cut the hair off one of the girl dolls and stapled its skirt together between its legs to play the part of the groom. Following the vows, Retta had laid the groom on top of the bride, fully clothed, in a shoebox bed.
Retta had gotten engaged weeks ago, and in the time since, she’d talked about almost nothing but marriage and her future husband. She’d always been bubbly, her sentences punctuated with giggles. Now she giggled while she said things like “I wonder how Philip likes his eggs—boiled, scrambled, sunny-side up?” She’d twist her waist-length braid into elaborate configurations on top of her head while musing how Philip might want her to wear her hair.
Sarabeth couldn’t muster any interest in Philip’s choice of eggs or hairstyles, even for Retta’s sake. While all the sermons of faith and obedience and fruitfulness had effortlessly seeped into Retta, they had sheeted right off Sarabeth. Her mother put part of the blame on herself: They’d come late to Holy Rock, her oldest daughter already irreparably damaged by basic cable and public school; no amount of discipline or prayer or physical labor had managed to reshape her imperfect soul. Sarabeth had come to think of her time on the farm as a sentence that she had to serve
, one with an end date. Now it seemed like she’d have to plan an escape.
She unloaded the wagon, set the cash box beneath the folding table, and arranged what was left of the produce to look as pleasing as possible. Most of the late-season tomatoes had been ruined by hornworms. She dusted off the pumpkins with the hem of her dress and sat down on the five-gallon bucket that served as her chair. She wished she had a little battery-powered radio, the kind their neighbor, Mr. Darling, kept in his barn, but of course her parents wouldn’t have allowed it. She had to settle for the ambient sounds of the countryside: crows shrieking, cornstalks rustling, the far-off hum of a combine reaping the fields.
There was nothing to do but wait. After a while, she got up and walked to the edge of the road, then stepped to the chipped yellow line at its center, turning in a circle to survey the horizon. The fields gave way to forested ridges that faded to blue in the distance. She wondered what would happen if she picked a direction and started walking. How far would she get? Would someone offer her a ride? Would she take it?
The humming grew louder—not a combine this time, but a car, off to the west and moving closer. She tried to guess who might be inside. Maybe it was the elderly woman from town who would always buy a single tomato and slip Sylvie a piece of stale candy (or, once, a fuzzy cough drop) from the bottom of her purse. Maybe it was Jack, who’d been one of her best friends back when she lived in town and attended Wisteria Middle School. He and his buddies would stop sometimes, pile out of his Jeep, rifle through the produce. They made dirty gestures with the cucumbers and laughed at whispered jokes, watching for her reaction while Jack channeled silent apologies with his eyes. Jack had come alone once, not that long ago, but she knew that wouldn’t happen again.
Sarabeth returned to her post behind the table and hiked up her skirt to feel the breeze on her legs, wishing for the millionth time that she could wear shorts like she used to, like normal people did when it was hot. The vehicle popped up on the crest of the far hill before dipping out of sight again, and then it reappeared close enough for her to see that it was a truck, gray or silver, or maybe beige or dirty white. Unfamiliar. A tiny thrill sparked in her chest. It was rare to see anyone new. Maybe they were city people, the type who would ask whether everything was organic and then take pictures of themselves standing in the corn to post on social media. She wasn’t allowed to use social media—her parents didn’t have internet access or even a computer—but Tom Darling used to let her look at his Instagram. Tom kept his account private, no followers, no selfies. His pictures were all of roosters and weathervanes and spiderwebs, familiar things that he managed to capture in unexpected ways. He had what Mr. Darling called “an artistic eye,” though it didn’t sound like a compliment the way he said it.
The truck rolled onto the gravel shoulder, no blinker, and she stood up to play the role she’d been taught. Be pleasant and helpful. Smile, but in a wholesome way that could not be perceived as flirtatious. The smile was automatic now, even when she felt like screaming.
The truck door opened, the engine still running, and a man got out. He wore a baseball cap with the bill pulled down, and with the sun behind him, it was hard to see his face, though it looked a bit strange. She didn’t want to stare, to make him uncomfortable if he had some sort of affliction or deformity.
“Good morning,” she said, her gaze partially lowered as he approached. His skin appeared rubbery, melted, as though he’d been burned in a fire. He was nearly within arm’s reach when she realized he was wearing a mask.
It took a moment for the synapses to fire, for understanding to flicker through the neural pathways and set off alarms. She wondered if he meant to rob her, if she should offer him the thin stack of bills from the cash box. It wasn’t until his gloved hand shot out that she wheeled and ran. There was nowhere to go but the field behind her or the long gravel road that led home. She darted into the corn, the dry leaves clawing her face, and felt herself wrenched backward as the man caught hold of her dress. She screamed.
A glove clamped over her mouth and nose, the leather reeking of sweat and sawdust. She bit, twisted, flung elbows, choked on her own tongue. The man pressed her to his chest, his breath seeping through her hair down to her scalp. His hand let go for an instant to grab something from his pocket and she cried out, the sound sharp and brief. There was a flicker of shadows, the crows taking flight overhead, and then nothing.
CHAPTER 1
SARAH, NOW
Sarabeth. Three syllables, hushed, like a secret whispered in my ear, my skin prickling as though I had felt his breath through the phone. The man was still talking, but it was all static after Sarabeth. No one called me that anymore. It was an old name. A dead name. I had been Sarah for nearly five years, and those who knew my real name never had cause to utter it, because they no longer spoke to me.
There was a pause while the man waited for me to respond. “Hello?” he said. “Are you there?”
I pressed my free hand flat against the cool metal desktop and tried to anchor myself in the present. My cluttered office at the animal shelter. The brightly colored sticky notes framing my monitor, reminding me of upcoming foster appointments. The mournful wail of a bloodhound in the exam room down the hall. I forced air into my constricted lungs, the stinging scent of bleach and urine filtering in as the kennels were sprayed down.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice snagging in my throat. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“I’m Nick Farrow with the Missouri Highway Patrol, Missing Persons Unit. I need to speak with you about your case.”
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. Why would the Missouri state police be calling me now? I’d been found in Missouri, not far from the Arkansas line, but the Clayton County Sheriff’s Department back in Wisteria had been in charge of the case, and after making a mess of it, they’d done their best to bury it and move on.
“Did something happen?” I asked. “Has something new come up?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “Not in regard to your case specifically. But there’s a missing person case that bears some resemblance to yours. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was a long time ago. I’ve already given all the information I had.”
I sensed skepticism in his silence and wasn’t surprised. I knew it was difficult to believe that I’d been held captive for more than a week yet didn’t know who’d taken me or where I’d been. People had their own ideas about what had happened to Sarabeth Shepherd, the seventeen-year-old girl who’d vanished from her family’s farm in rural Arkansas and reappeared in a bloodstained slip along Highway 65, bound and blindfolded, with a dubious story about how she ended up there. I thought of that Sarabeth as a different person altogether, the girl from the newspaper headlines.
“I understand,” Farrow said in a gentle Good Cop voice, his tone implying I am on your side. I knew from experience that if you didn’t give Good Cop what he wanted, it was only a matter of time before Bad Cop stepped in. Did you run away, Sarabeth? Did you cause these injuries yourself? Cut off your own hair? Did you make it all up for attention?
“I still want to talk to you,” Farrow continued. “I know it’s been a while, but some things have changed since then.”
The bloodhound’s cries grew louder as Melissa, my boss, led him past my office toward the outdoor runs. The dog twisted and squirmed, fighting the leash. We’d found him tied to the fence when we arrived to open the shelter an hour ago, his ears lumpy with ticks. It was all too common for people to dump animals overnight, to avoid the intake fee or the paperwork or the discomfort of looking someone in the eye while they relinquished a pet. Last August, we’d found a litter of twelve black kittens sealed in a plastic storage tub in the parking lot. All but one had perished in the heat before we got to them. Melissa named the survivor Sunny and bottle-fed her around the clock for days, but she didn’t make i
t.
“What’s changed?” I asked.
“We’ve got new tools, technologically speaking,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve seen it in the news. Software that can link crimes. Genealogical databases that can help identify criminals from cold cases. There’s a chance we could find the person who took you.”
He dangled that vague possibility as though it would entice me. I had left my old life behind on the farm, like the snakes that shed their skins in the fields, a process necessary for survival. A piece of me was still there in Arkansas, but I was gone. No one in my new life knew who I was, what had happened to me, and I wanted to keep it that way.
“You said this was about another case.”
“Yes,” he said. “A sixteen-year-old girl went missing from a small town near the Bootheel. No trace of her since, no sightings, nothing. I’m checking for any possible connection to previous abductions, and I need your help. An hour of your time.”
“Do you think she might have run away?”
There was a sound like paper shuffling. A muted sigh. I wondered if he remembered the news coverage of my case, if he’d been working in missing persons back then. Regardless, he’d have read enough of the file to be aware of the lingering suspicion that I was responsible for my own disappearance. I wasn’t the only survivor in recent years to be accused of pulling a real-life Gone Girl, to fail the purity test for girls who come back alive. Sheriff Krieger had chuckled when I said I couldn’t describe the suspect or the location because I’d been blindfolded the entire time and kept in the dark. Is that right, he said, his shoulders ratcheting up and down as he laughed. Well, ain’t that convenient.
