“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Why is my dress from that night upstairs in your bedroom?”
“It’s not.” Sibley raises a brow. “At least not that I’m aware of.”
“You had it hidden in some secret hideaway, which I never permitted you to drill into the floor. For Pete’s sake, when did you make a cubbyhole in our flooring? You’re lucky your father didn’t find out. He would’ve tanned your hide. And mine too.”
“I don’t know anything about your dress.”
“Then let me show you.” Deborah motions to the door. “I don’t like liars.”
“That’s funny!” Sibley snaps. “Seems you have a lot of truths to tell me about my childhood. Maybe you can start with what happened the night two people died!” Sibley’s voice rises in agitation. “Do you understand why something’s not adding up? Who was there that night, Mother? Why won’t you tell me what really happened to Jonathan?”
Deborah’s petite frame becomes smaller as she hunches over.
Sibley’s lip starts to quiver. “It’s because you killed him, didn’t you?” She rests her head in her hands, defeated. “I’m not mad, but you owe me the truth, just like you owe me the truth about my father.”
Deborah sits in stunned silence, her head bowed.
“Robert Fletcher came to help get rid of Jonathan, didn’t he?” Sibley whispers. “He was the one who showed up unexpectedly. He just didn’t expect his wife to follow him.”
“No.” Deborah reaches for her hand, but Sibley yanks it away. “That’s not what happened. I didn’t call 911 because I didn’t want everyone to know I was trying to leave Jonathan that night. That’s why Robert showed up. To help me.”
“The two of you were having an affair. I saw you.” Sibley keeps her tone neutral. “So Robert was going to leave Cindy for you, and you were going to leave Jonathan?”
“No.” Deborah sighs in frustration. “You have that completely backward. You and the majority of the town. Always spreading lies and rumors.”
“You have room to talk.” Sibley jumps up, stalking out of the room. Deborah moves more slowly, rising to limp behind her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Deborah follows as Sibley stomps into the kitchen. “Since we’re in here”—Deborah points toward the pantry—“go in there and explain to me why my dress mysteriously appeared in this house.”
“Who cares about your damn dress?” Sibley explodes. “Or are you worried it’s evidence pointing to your guilt?”
“Now! Show it to me.”
Sibley stalks into the pantry and comes right back out, empty handed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I see nothing but coats.” She rolls her eyes. “I watched you burn it, and the cell phone I’d never seen before. And you did it before the cops and ambulance ever arrived, so why would the dress make an appearance now?” With a whisper, Sibley adds, “You’re losing it, Mother.”
Deborah says nothing, just motions for her to step aside so she can enter the small walk-in. With disbelief, Deborah stares at the corner of the pantry. There’s no dress balled up on the floor. Jackets and a scarf hang on their usual hooks, but there’s no sign of a floral print.
Slowly crouching down, Deborah even rolls her long sleeves up and gets on her hands and knees to check beneath the bottom shelf. There’s nothing but dust mites and a gold stud, no sign of blood or a crumpled dress. When she steps out of the pantry to confront Sibley, she says, “You must’ve put it back upstairs in your secret stash.”
“Oh, really?” Sibley puts her hands on her hips. “What happened to your arm, Mother?”
“What do you mean?”
“You have scratches all over your arm.” Sibley points at the jagged red marks. “You got clawed pretty bad. Please tell me it wasn’t one of the feral cats.”
Stumped, Deborah traces the lines. “It must’ve been Esmeralda,” she says, but she knows she probably doesn’t sound convinced.
“You better put some alcohol on it.” Sibley raises her brow. “And I hope for your sake the cats don’t have rabies. We don’t need a Pet Sematary situation out here.”
Deborah bites her tongue and swallows a response.
“By the way, when you were going through my room,” Sibley says, “you didn’t have to scare the bejesus out of me when you came upstairs last night.”
“I didn’t come upstairs last night,” Deborah says. “I went to bed and conked out.”
“So I dreamed that?”
“You were drunk,” Deborah says matter-of-factly. “You made a mess in the living room when you tripped over the lamp. At first, I thought I’d been robbed.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was disoriented. Different surroundings and all. I forgot where I was.”
“I found a smashed, empty bottle outside.”
“Well, I don’t remember why I went downstairs in the first place, but I woke up with a massive headache and a goose egg on my forehead,” Sibley gripes. “Is that why you called the police?”
“I didn’t mean to hit call, but I saw Miles Fletcher’s truck outside,” Deborah states. “You better put some frozen peas on your eye.”
“No. It’ll be okay.” Sibley tiredly rubs her eyes. “I’ll survive. I don’t really remember much about last night. Can we talk about my father?”
“What about Jonathan?”
Sibley fixes her with a glare. “Who’s lying now?”
Deborah stumbles backward, relieved to feel the solid edge of the counter cutting into her back. A dizzy spell washes over her like a tidal wave. Pressing her fingers to her forehead, she murmurs, “I need to lie down.”
Ignoring the surprise on Sibley’s face, Deborah slinks out of the room and shuts her bedroom door firmly against her daughter and questions she doesn’t want to answer.
CHAPTER 31
Sibley
After I hear my mother’s door slam, I wearily climb the stairs, tracking bits of grass from being barefoot earlier. Not wanting the showerhead’s blast or noise, I settle myself on the tub’s side to rinse my muddy feet
