you they had buried your brother here,” you observe after a long moment.
“Nope. But then the State Police called and I knew.”
“Why did they do it? Your parents?”
He sighs. “I was never here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was never here-at your house, in this kitchen. That’s what I mean. What I am about to tell you? You can tell no one I told you.”
“My wife-”
“No one. I presume you are the sort of man who tells his wife everything. Am I right?”
“Yes,” you agree, though these days you know that’s a lie.
“Well, you cannot tell her this. Act on the information as you see fit. But you cannot tell her I was ever here or we ever spoke. She works for John Hardin. I know Reseda sold you this house. So, can you promise me that?”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
He seems to think about whether he really can trust you. Finally: “I suppose you’ve seen a lot of the women.”
“The women?”
“The herbalists. I suppose they’ve been here a lot.”
“No. Not really.”
“That’s surprising.”
“I mean, they haven’t been strangers. I’ve been to John and Clary Hardin’s house for dinner. And Anise is constantly feeding us,” you tell him, although ever since you saw the effect of her baked goods on some ants on your walkway, you have done all that you can to prevent your family from eating any. You have certainly eaten none yourself. If you could be absolutely sure that Emily had not already been commandeered into the group, you would share with her your suspicions. “And, of course, Reseda became our real estate agent after Sheldon died,” you continue.
“ ’Course she did. She saw you had twins. You may recall, she was not my first choice in a real estate agent.”
“And you did not come to the closing.”
“I try to steer clear of them-the women. They showing interest in your girls? The twins?”
“I think my girls see a lot more of them than I do. My wife has them go to their houses all the time after school.” Again, there it is: that vague fear that Emily already is one of them.
At this Hewitt sits forward in his chair and grasps the edges of the kitchen table with both hands. “They think they’re witches.”
You have had this idea, too, but not in such a literal sense. In your mind, it was always hyperbole. Exaggeration. Even, early on, condescension. “Go on.”
Hewitt repeats himself, enunciating each word perfectly, no contraction this time: “They think they are witches. That is what they believe. They call themselves herbalists, but it’s all witchcraft. Most of what they do is harmless. But not all of it. Not all the time.”
“How big is the group?”
“How many have you met?” he asks, his voice growing a little more urgent. You realize he hasn’t answered your question.
“I don’t know. Maybe five or six.”
“My mother was one. She was always in that greenhouse. Always.”
“You said most of what they do is harmless. What isn’t?”
He looks straight at you, his eyes locked on yours. “They’re crazy,” he says, his usually laconic voice growing urgent and intense. “They believe in blood sacrifice. I would not put it past them to try again to kill a child.”
“One of my girls?”
“One of your girls. That’s why I should never have let you buy this place.”
“Tell me the truth: Why was your mother hiding knives and hatchets all over the house? Who was she afraid of?”
“I told you, I didn’t know she was hiding those things.”
“She wasn’t trying to protect you and your brother?”
“No. She did that long after my brother was gone. She was probably trying to protect herself.”
“From?”
“Who do you think?”
“Well, the women. The herbalists. But you said she was one of them.”
“She was until they took her son. My brother.”
“Your brother slashed his wrists.”
“I don’t think so. I think something went wrong.”
“With a ritual?”
“A ceremony. While they were making one of their potions. I’ll never know because Sawyer died and my mother would never talk about it. She was never the same after that night. How could she be? She saw her son slaughtered-and there is no other word for it. But she was there. Had to be. And even if she wasn’t, she was the one who led him there in the first place. Her own boy. I don’t know what went wrong that night or whether the other women knew he was going to die. I believe Clary Hardin was there. Sage Messner, too. And Anise. And I know for sure that my mother’s guilt drove her mad.”
You want to reassure him that you are no stranger to the notion of guilt driving a person mad. You feel that pain in your side and know instantly that Ashley is present. You are imagining her in the den with her dolls-no, that’s not right; those are your daughters’ dolls-when you see her standing in the doorway to the dining room, the sunflowers towering over her. She is listening intently. You nod at her. You have to restrain yourself from waving.
“Their potions are an inexact science at best,” Hewitt continues. “The women think they have more control over them than they do. They all seem to have more confidence than they should in what they steep and stew.”
“Why would they want to kill one of my girls?”
“Most of their potions and tinctures come from plants. You’ve seen their greenhouses. But not all. Some potions demand animal parts, too. Or blood. Sometimes it’s animal blood and sometimes it’s human blood. And sometimes it’s a heart. I know of one tincture that demands a deer heart. I know of another where they use the hearts of bluebirds. Yup, bluebirds. I don’t know what they did to Sawyer the night he died, but I presume they did not cut out his heart. Even in a part of New England as rural as this, I think someone in the medical examiner’s office or the funeral home would have noticed. But they did need his blood.”
“And my girls?”
“They’re twins. That was what was so important about Sawyer. Could have been me, you know. But the recipe, it seems, only needs one twin: And for some reason they picked him and not me. Maybe”-and here he waved one of his arms dismissively-“they liked his blood more than mine. Or maybe they thought he wasn’t as far along as I was.”
“Far along?”
“Puberty. The twin is supposed to be prepubescent.” He turns around abruptly and glances out the window. Churning up a trail of dust on the gravel and dirt driveway is Anise’s old pickup. When he looks back at you, his face has become ashen. He shakes his head ever so slightly, and you rise to go and greet Anise. You watch her gaze curiously at Hewitt’s automobile as she exits her truck, and then welcome her into your house. She has brought a casserole dish and a plate of brownies.
“You have company,” she says in the doorway. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all.”
“I’ve brought you a cassoulet-vegan, of course.”
“Of course.”
“It begins with dried haricot beans. But you’ll recognize lots of other vegetables. And the thyme and rosemary and bay leaf are from my greenhouse.”
