I rested my hand on his thigh, beneath the table, and leaned close. “I’m all right, honey, I’m just not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive in days,” my husband responded, refusing to be pacified.
A weak smile fluttered across my mouth. “You sound like Gran.”
Case had heard me reference my great-grandmother’s wisdom on numerous occasions and was as well-acquainted as it’s possible to be with a woman who’d passed away many years ago. He murmured, “I can only just imagine what she would have to say about you not eating or sleeping.”
Tenderness for him flooded my body, powerful enough it felt like a small blow to the bridge of the nose. His beautiful auburn hair shone like copper treasure in the lantern-style lighting; his irises were the brown of nutmeg beneath red-gold lashes, resting on me with a mix of exasperation and love. His chin and jawline had taken on a familiar stubborn set but his cheekbones seemed more prominent than usual; the skin beneath his eyes was smudged by restless shadows.
“We’ll get to bed early tonight, for more than one reason,” I whispered, squeezing his thigh, gratified to observe good humor replace some of the concern in his expression.
“Yes, so you can sleep while I hold you close,” he murmured, leaning to place a gentle kiss on my temple.
Chapter Six
Jalesville, MT - March, 2014
BUT I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER; IT WAS APPROACHING dawn by the time we found our way to bed.
“Mom is in terrible shape, Tish.” Much later that evening, seated near me on the tattered old couch in my living room with both feet tucked under her and an afghan drawn over her lap, Camille’s face was set in somber lines. The only light came from a small table lamp and the fixture above the stove, lending the trailer a quiet intimacy. “Blythe is so worried. Not even Aunt Jilly can get through to her. She can hardly manage to get to the cafe on any given day, not even for breakfast coffee. Grandma and Aunt Ellen have been keeping watch but nothing helps.”
“How are the boys?” I asked, referring to my younger half-brothers, Matthew and Nathaniel. It hurt like hell to hear about Mom and I was more grateful than ever for the presence of my stepdad, Blythe Tilson, whose love for my mother was a force to be reckoned with.
“They help as best they can. I’m so glad they have Bly. He’s such a patient dad. He and Uncle Justin take them fishing, along with Rae and Riley and Zoe, so Aunt Jilly can be with Mom. But I don’t know how much good it does.”
My sister and Mathias had returned home with Case and me after dinner; by necessity, the baby accompanied them while Millie Jo, Brantley, Henry, and Lorie stayed behind at Clark’s, excited at the prospect of playing video games and eating junk food with Wy, Sean, and Quinn; meanwhile little James was snuggled on his belly in the center of our bed, sleeping while the four of us gathered in the living room.
Mathias sat on a chair adjacent to Camille, forearms on thighs, his powerful shoulders curved forward. It was strange to observe him in a moment of motionlessness; this alone conveyed concern as much as his grim expression, mouth solemn and brows drawn inward. He cupped Camille’s bent knee, making a slow circle with one thumb as he said, “Joelle is struggling to believe Ruthie and Marshall are actually where we claim they are. She trusts us, it’s not that. She’s just having trouble accepting the truth.”
“Just like Dad,” I murmured. “We told him last month when we were in Chicago but he doesn’t fully believe it.” I looked upward, seeing the expression on my father’s face as I’d last witnessed it, leaving him behind at the airport. “At least he recognizes that something is seriously wrong with Franklin Yancy.” I sat straighter, recalling that Dad had left Case and me a message in that particular vein, only last night. “I almost forgot to tell you guys. Dad has been doing some investigating, and get this: Franklin Yancy has a birth certificate but there is no record of a child with that name born when and where the certificate claims.”
“A forgery?” Mathias asked. “Maybe he really doesn’t exist. But who the hell is the man you saw in Chicago, then?”
“Tell us again what happened,” Camille requested. “It’s always better to hear in person.”
I looked at Case, the two of us exchanging several dozen silent sentences in a matter of seconds. He took my right hand, closest to him, and enfolded it within his left, lacing our fingers, offering wordless support. I released a tense breath before replying; the thought of the Yancys left my chest cavity hollow with fear. “We were at Robbie’s funeral. Oh God, Milla, it was so horrible. You guys know we think Robbie was killed. He allegedly overdosed, but I know that’s a goddamn lie. What we haven’t figured out is why he was killed. What did Robbie know? More specifically, what did he know about Franklin?”
“But you saw Franklin Yancy,” Camille interjected. “So whether or not ‘Franklin’ is his real name, he does actually exist.”
Last summer, the night before he’d returned to Chicago from Montana, my former college classmate Robbie Benson had received an anonymous text reading Franklin doesn’t exist. He’d shared the information with Case, Marshall, Ruthann and me on his final night here in Jalesville. It was, I suddenly realized, the last time I’d seen Robbie and I shrugged off an uneasy twinge. My gaze loitered on the screen door as if expecting his ghost to appear on the far side of the meshing, his formerly bronzed skin leached of all color, mutely observing with eyes gone cold and empty. Robbie had been my friend all through college. He was so
