by Laura McHugh
I was relieved to finally get back in the car, where I could ground myself in familiar surroundings. I stuffed a piece of Big Red chewing gum in my mouth and focused on the taste and smell of cinnamon, the tingling sensation on my tongue—a calming sensory trick my counselor had taught me.
“Wasn’t it a lovely visit?” Sylvie said. “I know I’ll miss Mama, but it’ll be so nice to have Minnie right down the lane.”
“Yeah,” I said. “How far’s your cabin from here?”
“I’ll show you. Just follow the road. It makes a loop through the woods.”
The road dipped down into a wash alongside the creek, my car nearly bottoming out on the rocks where spring floods had eaten away the earth. We’d gone about a mile from the main house when Sylvie’s cabin appeared. It was tiny, with a peaked roof and a chimney and a stony yard sprouting patches of tickseed. Golden-green light spilled down through the trees along the creek, but the canopy above the cabin was impenetrable, cloaking it in shadow.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“Noah’s been working hard to fix it up in time for the wedding. He drives all the way out here every day after his shift at the sawmill.”
“Where’s he living now?”
“He rents a trailer in town. He moved out a few years ago when he started his job. Minnie’d been trying to get him to move back for a while. The Blackburns have all this land out here, this great ministry they’re building. They wanted him to be a part of it. After Rachel was born, he finally realized it was time to come home, settle down…take a wife.” She adjusted her engagement ring, twisting it around her finger. “It took a lot of work and prayer, but Minnie really wanted her family all together. She can be very convincing.”
I tried to picture Sylvie living in the little cabin with Noah. I remembered the way he and I used to look at each other, the shy glances, flushed skin, the electric thrill that arced through me when he touched my hand.
I turned to Sylvie. “Do you love him? Do you feel anything for him?”
“Sarabeth,” she chided.
“You deserve to be in love with the person you marry.”
She tilted her head, her long hair swirling in the breeze from the open windows. “Have you ever been in love?”
I hadn’t. I’d never even had a real boyfriend. Noah was as close as I’d come, and I couldn’t tell her that.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said when I didn’t answer. “There’s no greater love than God’s. He has a plan for each of us.”
Her voice was sweet and childlike, but the words sounded like something that would come out of Minnie’s mouth. And no wonder, considering how Sylvie looked up to her. I’d thought at first that my sister had been brainwashed into becoming a child bride, that I just needed to get through to her, but I was starting to realize that the Sylvie I remembered wasn’t real. I’d thought of her as being just like me, but in reality, she’d always been more like Mama. I didn’t know whether she’d turned out this way because it was her nature all along or because of how Mama raised her. It was impossible to separate the two, and it didn’t matter. The result was the same. This was who she was. It wasn’t something I could talk her out of.
“I just want the best for you, Syl.”
She squeezed my arm. “That’s what I want for you, too. Now let’s get home. There’s so much to do.”
We continued through the woods, passing a metal livestock barn and a trailer set back in the trees. I could make out a figure at the edge of the barn, watching us go by. I remembered what Tom had said about Ronnie living on the property.
“Is that Ronnie Darling?”
“Yes,” she said. “He works here.”
“I always thought he was kind of creepy,” I said.
“You shouldn’t judge him. It’s amazing how he’s turned his life around. Such a testament to the Blackburns’ ministry.”
“So he’s changed?”
“We’re all imperfect, Sarabeth. When you invest in the soul, it pays dividends.”
I mostly tuned out Sylvie’s chatter on the way home. Once we got back to an area that had cell service, my phone beeped with notifications. I waited until we reached our driveway to check them, Sylvie watching me. Helen had texted a picture of Gypsy gnawing on an enormous bone from the butcher. Farrow’s message was two words long: “Call me.”
“Can I let you out here so I can make a call?” I asked Sylvie. “I don’t have service down at the house.”
“I’ll wait with you.”
“It’s sort of…private. If you don’t mind.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Who are you calling?”
“It’s just something for work.”
“All right. Don’t be long.”
I waited for the door to shut behind her and then dialed Farrow.
“Hey,” he said. “Couple things.” He sounded wired, like he’d been chugging coffee all day. “Update on the testing. Most of the blood samples matched you and only you. But the one that came back inconclusive last time…they wouldn’t say on the record since they’re not finished, but I think they found someone else’s blood mixed with yours. Hopefully there’s enough material to extract at least a partial profile.”
“That’s great! Where does that get us?”
“Well, if there’s enough information, they can check for a match in the system. If there’s no match, we can try the genealogical databases, see if we can get some help with that, narrow it down. There’s been some success with that route, but it could take a while, unfortunately.”
“Can’t they speed things up?”
“They’re doing what they can. If we can come up with a suspect to test against, that would help.” He cleared his throat. “The other thing I wanted to tell you—I followed up on the Winter Meeting. The person who chaired the social committee last year lives in Bellwood. What is that, maybe ten miles from Wisteria?”
“Yeah. It’s one of those wide spots in the road that used to be a town.”
“Do you happen to know a Carlene Ford?”
“Carlene doesn’t sound familiar. But I know the last name. There’re lots of Fords around here. I can ask a friend of mine; she’s probably related somehow.”
“I’m thinking Carlene’s husband might be the one to look at. Leon Ford. He was picked up on suspicion of committing a lewd act with a minor a couple years back, but no charges were filed.”
“Shit,” I said. “That’s Retta’s brother.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah. Sort of. He goes to my family’s church.”
“The same church Eva Winters belongs to?”
“Yes. Holy Rock. And Leon…he did something else, a long time ago. There wouldn’t be any record of it.”
“What?”
“He did something to Retta, when they were younger. He’d go into her room at night. I don’t know the details. Her family kept it quiet, like it never happened.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to take a closer look at him, see what I can find out about his movements, if he could have been in the right places at the right times. And I’d like to talk to your friend, if you think she’d be willing.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I doubt she’d talk to a stranger about it, but I’ll see if she’ll talk to me.”
After we hung up, I sat in the car looking out at the farm stand, the cornfield. I didn’t know Leon well, but I’d seen him in church every week. He knew who I was, that I was Retta’s friend. I tried to remember how the man in the mask had looked walking toward me, the shape of his shoulders, the heft of his body as he crushed me to his chest among the cornstalks. I couldn’t have said if it was Leon, if it was his blood that had mixed with mine on the slip. But maybe Retta would know.
CHAPTER 22
SARABETH, THEN
AG
E 17
I drifted in and out, my head heavy and my mind fuzzed with static, unable to track how much time passed before I was able to think somewhat clearly. I wondered if he had put something in my water, and why he would bother, since I couldn’t get away. My stomach twisted with hunger or nausea and I thought of the Olive Garden in Branson, where the popular kids from Wisteria went to dinner before prom. Tom had eaten there once with his grandparents on the way back from picking out his father’s gravestone. He said it was the nicest restaurant he’d ever been to aside from Red Lobster, and I had desperately wanted to go there. It was a stupid, stupid dream to have. Italian food wasn’t even my favorite. But I wanted to go to a fancy sit-down restaurant in a strapless prom dress and order a Coke with unlimited refills. I had never gotten to go to Olive Garden, or Red Lobster, and now I never would.
Mama would have been ashamed if she knew I was thinking about such trivial things instead of praying. She had tired herself out trying to mold me into an obedient, God-fearing girl, one who wore a pleasant expression and behaved selflessly and worked hard without complaint. It did not come naturally to me, but I learned how to fake it to avoid her biting criticism, her sharp pinches, the extra chores, and occasional whippings. I hated how it felt, smiling when I didn’t want to, swallowing the words I couldn’t say. It became second nature, and I hated that, too, but even when the behavior was automatic, it wasn’t authentic. Underneath, I remained unchanged. It had all been a waste of my mother’s time, a waste of my life. The man in the mask had made a mistake if he’d sought a girl like the one I pretended to be. The long hair and frumpy dress were merely a costume. But if he thought I was soft and submissive, maybe I could convince him that I wasn’t a threat, that I would behave if he’d untie me.
I sang quietly to myself as I waited, a song from the Taylor Swift Red CD that Tom used to play on repeat. He knew all the words, but I could only remember the chorus, so I sang it over and over. Taylor said everything would be all right. It was close enough to a prayer.
Finally, the door made a gentle swooshing sound as it swept open and closed, and the man was in the room with me again.
“Hello?” I said, my voice shaky. “My name’s Sarabeth.” There was no response. “Thank you for the food and water,” I continued, trying to infuse each word with meekness and gratitude.
He moved closer and I flinched as he grasped the restraint at my wrist. For one breathless moment, I thought he meant to unfasten it, but he only tugged to make sure it was secure. He knelt down between my legs, his weight on the bar that both bound them together and kept them apart.
“Please,” I said, the word squeaking out of my mouth. “Please.”
His hand met my throat, warm fingers sliding inside the collar of my dress and pulling it taut, and I heard the unmistakable sound of scissors, the bright chirp of the blades as they bit down on each mouthful of fabric, moving from my neck to my chest to my stomach to my lap. He sliced the dress all the way through the hem, leaving the slip beneath intact, and moved on to the sleeves, the dull side of the blade gliding along the flesh of my arms until the fabric dropped free, one side and then the other.
The scissors clattered to the floor, and with both hands he eased the slip up to my waist, and then, after a pause, wrenched it up to my armpits and flung the fabric over my face. He unclasped my bra without touching my breasts. There was a slight softening of the darkness, and I knew, despite the blindfold, that he’d turned on a small light. I imagined him looking at me, exposed like a specimen on display.
“Please don’t,” I said. My voice was muffled, and he gave no indication that he heard me. Goosebumps popped, tiny hairs rose up. I tried to brace myself for unknown horrors, to distance myself from my own body, but his touch, when it came, was cursory, clinical. Almost like an exam. It made me think of Mr. Darling with the livestock, inspecting a cow. Something cold and wet brushed my skin and I squirmed. It was a washrag. He swiped it back and forth across my body, neck, armpit, downward. I heard it being rinsed and wrung out as he went.
Finally he withdrew his hands and I couldn’t tell whether he was done or just pausing before whatever would come next. I shivered as the air chilled my damp skin. The dread intensified with each heartbeat, building toward a crescendo that wouldn’t come. I wanted to scream at him to get it over with, because whatever it was, it would bring an end to the unbearable agony of waiting.
A minute passed and I heard him breathing, making small, soft noises in his throat. Finally I heard him pick up the scissors and my entire body tensed, my teeth grinding together as I imagined the gleaming blades inching closer. Cold metal kissed my breastbone, traced down my rib cage, and then the slip was pulled back into place, the pressure removed from my ankles as he stood and backed away. I tried to drag my legs beneath my slip like a snail shrinking into its shell. The door closed and he was gone, and I was alone again in the dark.
CHAPTER 23
SARAH, NOW
On Thursday, Sylvie and I were busy making sheet cake and cupcakes and frosting. She didn’t want her wedding cake to be fancy, but she had been practicing piping simple flower decorations with the buttercream. The boys worked on tidying the shady side of the yard for the reception and then went to help Daddy haul folding tables and chairs over from the church. I didn’t get a chance to slip away and call Retta until after dinner, when Sylvie shooed me out of the kitchen.
“Minnie’ll be expecting you for your fitting,” she said. “I can’t wait to see how the dress looks.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
“I need to frost the cupcakes,” she said. “And do a hundred other things.” She swooped in and kissed my cheek. “Say hello to Minnie for me.”
I called Retta when I reached the top of the driveway. There was a chorus of wailing in the background when she answered.
“Is it not a good time?” I said.
“No, it’s fine. They didn’t nap this afternoon, so they’re getting cranky.” One of the boys’ cries escalated into a piercing scream.
“I’ll try to be quick,” I said. “You know how we were talking about what happened to me…how I want to find out who did it. I wanted to ask you about something. About Leon.”
“Oh.”
“I know you don’t like to talk about it, but…I thought maybe, if there were similarities…”
“You think it was my brother?”
“He’s shown that he’s capable of something like that.” I heard a door shut on Retta’s end of the line, muting the boys’ cries.
“It’s completely different,” she hissed. “That was so long ago, Sarabeth. We were kids. It’s over and done with. He was married, with a family, when you disappeared. He’s got five children now, including three little girls of his own. He never did anything like that again.”
“Yes, he did,” I said. “Not that long ago. No charges were filed, but he was suspected of committing lewd acts with a minor.”
“What does that even mean? How would you know something like that?”
“I’m just trying to figure this out. So it doesn’t happen to anyone else. What you told me about Eva Winters…you said your nieces loved her. Leon’s girls?”
“She watched the girls at church! Maybe sat for them a couple of times at the house.”
“It could be more than a coincidence. There are other girls, Retta, who are missing. You could help.”
“You sound crazy,” she said. “I don’t know anything about any of this. And I’m not going to help you drag my family into it. I’m sorry for what happened to you, I truly am, but sometimes it’s best to let things go and move on.”
“Is that what you did? You buried it all and now you’re fine? You never worry about your little nieces?”
“Leon would never,” she said, her breath whistling angrily through the phone. “Is this why you came to see me? Is this the whole
reason you’re here?”
“Of course not!” I said. “I came for Sylvie. And I came to see you because I missed my best friend. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Well, you did. And you’re wrong. My brother’s got nothing to do with this. And I’ve got nothing else to say to you.” The line went silent, and when I called back, she didn’t pick up.
* * *
—
When I arrived at the Blackburns’ place, Minnie led me directly to the basement and the windowless sewing room. “Go on and take off your dress so we can try this on and see if I need to make any adjustments.”
I waited for her to leave the room, but she didn’t, so I turned my back to her, unbuttoned my sundress, and stepped out of it. She made a disdainful clucking noise, no doubt appalled by my lack of a slip, and helped me into the maid of honor dress. It draped oppressively over my body, covering every bit of flesh but my hands and head. She tugged at the powder blue fabric, pinned the hem. She pulled the collar tight around my neck and then stood back to assess me, her tiny mouth puckered up.
“Lovely,” she said. “It softens you.”
“Can I take it off now?”
“Let me help,” she said. “Don’t want to stick you with a pin.” She lifted the dress up over my head, and for a moment too long I was trapped in the voluminous fabric, arms caught, face covered. Panic fluttered through me, and I thrashed like I was drowning. “Hold still,” she said, pulling it free. “I’ve got it.”
I measured my breaths, trying to calm myself, but I still felt the grip of anxiety like a hand on my throat, even after I was back in my own clothes and on my way upstairs. The kitchen was growing dim in the fading light.
“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you a slice of banana bread,” Minnie said. “The pastor will be home in a little while. I know he’d love the chance to catch up with you.”
In the curio cabinet behind her, a dozen Precious Moments figurines stared out through the glass, all white as ghosts, eyes like black teardrops. “That’s so kind of you, but I need to help Sylvie with the cake. She’s expecting me.”
