Handing her my cell, I instruct her to call the emergency number as a backup. I’ve already made up my mind it’s an elderly gentleman who needs assistance, but I want to alleviate her fears. It can take first responders or police a while to get to the farm, and I don’t want to wait that long.
“I’m going to check it out.”
She doesn’t look happy about this, but she dutifully follows me out of the car.
In the daylight, the deterioration of the farmhouse is magnified. The missing chunks of siding and peeling paint can’t hide in the smooth brushstrokes of sunlight.
But now that she’s selling, the point is moot.
I start walking, and she follows in my footsteps, like one of her outside cats anticipating mealtime. So close that when I abruptly stop, she lurches straight into me.
Turning to face her, I say, “I don’t want you to come in behind me. If this isn’t a lost senior citizen, I need you to be prepared to go for help. I left the keys in the ignition. Also, in case I’m wrong,” I add, “I don’t want him to see you if you haven’t already been spotted. If he thinks there’s only one of us, it might help our chances.”
Nodding her head in acknowledgment, she still doesn’t make any move to fall back.
Pretending I’m fearless when my insides are mush, or maybe I’m more careless when tipsy, I’m about to chastise her for not staying back when I trip on one of the porch stairs and almost nose-dive into the cement.
She catches my wrist just in time, so I avoid the spill.
Mouthing a thank-you, I decide the best idea is to walk around the porch and face the trespasser through the picture window. That way, I have a vantage point and a pane of glass between us in case it’s not some sweet, displaced man.
“I’m going to go around the side,” I whisper.
“Then you’ll be in his line of vision.”
“Yeah, but then we can see him through the window. We stand a better chance out here.”
She loosens her grip on my arm, and I take that as acceptance of my idea.
At the side of the house, I look over my shoulder at her. “Okay, I’m going to stand in front of the window.” I demonstrate a hand signal. “I’ll warn you like this if you need to run.”
The sun lights up her somber stare, and I clasp her fingers gently for a second. “Don’t worry; we’re in this together.”
CHAPTER 37
Deborah
Sibley’s words have a soothing effect on her, and she hadn’t realized how much she’s longed to hear her say they’re in this together. It comes too late. Deborah needed to hear her say it years ago, when the squad cars and ambulance swarmed their property and carried out the tortured body of Jonathan while she sat on the stoop and cried. They were crocodile tears, but tears nonetheless. Deborah was cried out from when Edward had died a few weeks before Jonathan.
Sibley didn’t come down from her room for days after Jonathan’s death, leaving Deborah painfully aware she was on her own. Of course, Sibley didn’t know the impact of Edward’s death or what he’d meant to her, and she has regrets about that.
With one last fleeting glance in Deborah’s direction, Sibley heaves forward, placing herself directly in front of the window and the unknown man.
Observing Sibley’s face, Deborah’s on high alert, waiting for a sign from her on what to do next. She hopes her daughter is right, that he’s not a violent criminal, merely a confused, misplaced elder. It’s not like Deborah doesn’t know what that’s like.
Deborah’s hands are squeezed tightly together, anticipating the worst. When Sibley angles her head in Deborah’s direction, Deborah’s confused at her initial reaction.
Her mouth has dropped open in surprise. “Mother, he’s not here.”
“He’s not in the chair?”
“No. No one’s in the living room!”
“That means he went to another room in the house.” She covers her face with her hand. “Maybe he went to use the bathroom.”
“But you said the television was on.”
“Yes.”
“It’s off.”
“So”—Deborah shrugs—“he must’ve turned it off.”
“Let me get this straight. A man was sitting in the recliner watching television?” Sibley peers again into the window. “And he bothered to shut the TV off and go to the bathroom?”
Deborah says lamely, “I suppose so.”
Rolling her eyes, Sibley says, “I’m going to go inside.”
“Sibley, I’m still not sure that’s a good idea.”
“We can’t stay out here all day. It’s hot out here.” She wipes a hand across her brow. “And you’ve got my cell.”
Deborah watches as Sibley steps around her and leads the way inside. Both of them take reluctant steps over the threshold into the kitchen. Paralyzed with fear, Deborah stands in the corner of the kitchen while Sibley clunkily moves through the downstairs rooms.
On second thought, Deborah doesn’t want to be alone in case the man appears, so she scrambles after her. Sibley’s in the bathroom, checking to see if the tarp over the small window displays any signs of tampering.
Terrified the man is going to leap out of her closet at them, Deborah flings the door wide open. With a horrified scream, she jumps as she’s hit in the face by a hanger holding an article of clothing. But it’s not just any item—it’s the dress.
The dress.
Tarnished and bloody, it sways like a lifeless body hanging by a noose.
Deborah’s hand covers her mouth as she gives a strangled gasp.
Sibley stands stock still, her eyes narrowed at the offending item. Gulping, she motions. “Looks like we found your dress.”
Deborah’s fingers roughly grasp the front of Sibley’s shirt. “What the hell do you think this is?” Deborah commands herself to calm down, but it’s useless, her pulse racing like an engine. “This isn’t a game.”
Sibley’s eyes narrow. “You think I put it here?”
“Oh yes, you did! How does it just appear in my closet?”
Sibley
