But there was something else this morning, something real … whiny and synchronous, coming from the side of the house. And just like that, my legs were shorter and thinner … I was nine years old again, creeping toward my brother’s bedroom window, following the warning moans that lay beyond the dingy clapboard walls of my daddy’s farmhouse.
It can’t be. There’s no reason for an ambulance … no way there’s anything out there. Maybe this is all a dream … a memory…
The door to Jack’s old bedroom was closed up tight. I’d like to think I kept it closed to ensure the privacy of my home office, but in truth, I think I did it out of habit.
Jack would want it that way.
I nudged the door open with my foot and, trancelike, I tiptoed toward the window facing the field.
When someone dies, it’s not unusual for their family or friends to keep their rooms exactly as they once were. But with Jack … I couldn’t. Erasing him felt better, easier … and so, the first thing I did when I moved back home ten years ago was tear out the carpet and take his old bedroom furniture out and replace it with a modern oak desk and shelves. A computer and a desk—the necessities for any writer. But I hadn’t written a word in years.
As I edged closer to the window, there was no doubt: someone was out in the field. But that sound … it wasn’t sirens; no gaudy red rubies bouncing through the trees, ricocheting from my heart to my head.
But what I saw took my breath away.
A circle of people, each one holding a candle in front of them.
Thirty years later, and still: the first thing that comes to mind is a pagan ritual.
They were singing, something low and melancholy, flames from their candles casting ghoulish shadows over their faces.
I felt a flicker of rage. How dare they waltz on my property like they own the place? This isn’t a tourist attraction!
But in a way it had been … people had come from all over to see the “spot” the first few years after the murder. Sometimes, Dad would chase them off with a shotgun … but after a while, he took to ignoring them. “Easier that way,” he told me.
But since I’d come home, there hadn’t been a single unwanted visitor. Until now.
I’d assumed that most had forgotten Jenny Juliott and the girl who’d killed her.
Snapping the bolts to unlock the window, I shoved on the glass and poked my head all the way out, forgetting about my lacy black bra.
“Hey! What are you doing?” I shouted. It was windy, and chilly for October, and my words blew back angrily in my face.
I tried again. “Hello! It’s, like, two in the morning…” I screamed so loud I could feel veins protruding from my forehead.
And just like that, the singing stopped. Nearly a dozen heads turned my way.
“Hey, Natalie,” came a woman’s voice in the dark. As I squinted, she stepped into the sliver of moonlight in the field and pushed back the hood of a dark gray sweatshirt.
She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Was she someone I went to school with?
It’s funny how over time every face looks familiar, but at the same time, I could never remember names. My childhood just a splotch on my memory board…
“Hey,” I answered, dully.
Another woman stepped up beside the first. This one had black curls and, despite the chill in the air, she was wearing a white T-shirt and thin multi-colored yoga pants. A face I’d never forget: Adrianna Montgomery, forgotten friend turned local columnist. I tried to avoid her in town at all costs, but I saw her occasionally at the supermarket and Kmart when I was working. I usually pretended not to and luckily, she did the same.
“Natalie, it’s good to see you. Sorry we’re out here, but we tried to call you first … we wanted to honor Jenny, especially considering the latest news. We can’t forget what that monster did to her, you know?” Adrianna said.
The latest news?
My lousy paychecks from Kmart weren’t enough to justify getting cable. I had just enough to eat, fill up my car with gas, and gas the tractor for cutting the field in the warmer months … I didn’t keep up with local news, or national news either.
“What news? I haven’t seen it,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
The other faces in the crowd slowly materialized like old ghosts; I recognized a few of my former classmates and Jenny’s brother in the crowd. My heart sank with guilt when I saw him. Although I’d seen most of the others around town, I hadn’t seen him in years. I’d heard that he moved away.
As a kid, whenever Mom or I would see Jenny’s family in town after the murder, we’d avert our eyes. Try to make ourselves invisible. Not because we blamed them, of course, but because we didn’t know what to say … what can you say to someone who’s lost a loved one that way? And perhaps, there was also a nasty little sliver inside us, that selfish part that worried their tragedy might become ours. That somehow it was contagious … in the same way people avoided me and my home because of what happened here…
Unfortunately for us, avoiding the Juliotts didn’t do us any good because look at what happened to Jack.
So, as Mike Juliott stepped forward, I forced myself to meet his gaze. He was her brother—if anyone had a right to be here it was him.
Mike cleared his throat. “Didn’t you hear? They’re letting that monster out. Bitch got paroled. Chrissy Cornwall is coming home.”
Chapter Three
Chrissy Cornwall is coming home. Five words I thought I’d never hear.
Mike Juliott’s mid-morning announcement rolled over and back in my gullet as I scraped watery eggs onto my plate and buttered two
