Spilled Blood

patches for sunshine. The house itself had white wooden siding and a sprawling front porch, furnished with four Adirondack chairs. The black roof had a sharp angle above the second-floor windows. The house had stood in this place for nearly a century.

The winding branch of the Spirit River flowed immediately behind the house, so close that Olivia probably could have jumped to the water from the window in her upstairs bedroom. It felt like a river out of Huckleberry Finn, with evergreen trees leaning over the sides of the bank and dipping their branches in the lazy current. With no leaves on the trees yet, he could see the brown water shouldering toward a gray metal railway bridge two hundred yards away. On the other side of the stream, dormant tracts of corn fields awaited the spring thaw.

Chris stood alone on the bank, motionless, watching the quiet town of St. Croix as night fell. Above the moldy dankness of the water, he smelled the aromas from town kitchens. Roast chicken. Cookies. Two dozen types of hot dish. A few people had left up their holiday lights to blink in white rows on the roof lines. Eventually, he heard chimes in the bell tower of the church. It was eight o’clock. When the bells tolled for the eighth time and went quiet, silence fell over the town like a shroud. He didn’t see a soul.

This was what Hannah had left him for. This lonely scene stripped from a Christmas card.

He knew he was being unfair. A fifteen-year marriage didn’t end in a heartbeat, and it didn’t end without both of them forgetting to care for it. Back then, he’d felt blindsided when his amazing, beautiful wife had turned her back on him and taken away his daughter. He’d worked for years to make a life for the three of them, to keep them safe in a world that offered little security. He’d assumed that was what she wanted, and instead she’d said: I can’t be that woman anymore.

That woman. His wife.

It began with the death of Hannah’s mother. Josephine Grohman, iron-willed like her daughter, had founded the Grohman Women’s Resource Center in Barron to address what she called an appalling inattention to the health and social service needs of rural women. She’d spent decades as a lightning rod for controversy, and her death had left a gaping void in the politics of southwestern Minnesota. During her slow decline, she’d made it clear that she wanted Hannah to fill that void. To come home and continue her legacy.

Chris had never believed his wife would go; she would never leave him. He was wrong. She’d been silent for a year as she wrestled with her destiny, but then she came out of the shower, crying, took his hands, and told him she was going home. Just like that. It took him a long time to give up his bitterness. It took him two years to realize that the end of their marriage hadn’t begun with Josephine’s death. It had begun much earlier, as they led a slow march away from each other and watched it happen like spectators, doing nothing to stop it.

Not her fault. Not his fault. Their fault.

He thought about what Olivia had told him at the jail. Mom’s got it. Cancer. The same disease that had claimed Josephine’s life. He was devastated at the news and hurt that she had insisted on going through this alone, as if she assumed he couldn’t bear it. She was probably right. He stood there, invisible among the trees, trying to gather the courage to see her. Trying to find a way not to melt at the sight of her face.

Chris headed for the house, but he stopped when a rumbling truck engine interrupted the solitude of St. Croix. Not even a quarter-mile away, rubber squealed as a vehicle braked sharply and turned off the highway. He saw the twin beams of headlights, but as he watched, the headlights vanished. The pick-up truck was dark. It cruised through the criss-cross grid of streets, coming closer. It passed the church and came straight toward the intersection. He couldn’t see faces through the dark glass.

The truck slowed in front of Hannah’s house.

Then the shots began.

Chris threw himself to the wet ground as bursts of smoke and light flashed like bombs. Six loud bangs erupted in rapid succession. Glass shattered as at least one bullet smashed through a first-floor window, and he heard someone scream. He recognized the pitch of the voice. It was Hannah.

He pushed himself up and ran, shouting her name. Cheers and laughter floated from the pick-up. They were young voices – teenagers – but the voices cut off in startled silence as they heard him. The truck headlights flashed on, blinding and pinning him. He ducked, conscious that he was an easy target. The pick-up bolted in reverse, weaving as it retreated up the street. The headlights vanished, and the car screeched into a U-turn, speeding across one of the house lawns as it veered toward the highway. He heard the engine roar. The car accelerated, racing north.

Back toward Barron.

He ran for the steps of Hannah’s house and pounded on the door. He called her name again, but there was no answer. The house was quiet, and the silence fed his fear. Just as he was about to climb inside through the broken window, he saw the door slide open six inches. The pretty face of his ex-wife peered out at him.

‘Chris?’

‘They’re gone,’ he said.

Hannah switched on the porch light and opened the door wider. He wanted to embrace her, but she walked past him onto the front steps. He looked over his shoulder and saw that a dozen people had already assembled near the house; they had run from their own homes to help. She waved at the street.

‘I’m okay,’ she called. ‘Everything’s okay.’

Then to him: ‘Come on in, Chris.’ As if no time had passed.

He followed her inside. She put her hands on her hips, studying the broken glass on the dining-room floor. With a sigh, she disappeared into the small kitchen and came back with a hand-broom and dustpan. She got down on her knees and began methodically sweeping up the shards of glass. That was Hannah. No panic. No drama. Get it done.

‘We should call the police,’ he said.

Hannah stopped and looked at him. It was as if she’d realized for the first time that he was really here. They had not seen each other since she left Minneapolis and took Olivia across the state. Three years. Three years in which his only contact with the woman who had shared his life for nearly two decades was a handful of tense phone calls.

‘We should,’ she said, ‘but it won’t do any good.’

‘I couldn’t see their faces or identify the car. I’m sorry.’

‘It was Barron boys. It doesn’t really matter who.’

‘We should call the police anyway. They should have someone here to protect you.’

Hannah finished sweeping in silence. When she was done, she stood up with a weary smile and laid the dustpan on an antique table. ‘No one wants to protect us. They want us to go away. Or die.’

Chris heard a rapping at the front door. Hannah brushed past him, their arms touching, and opened the door. He saw a good-looking man on the porch, his own height, his own age. The man had unruly blond hair and a pale, chiseled face with a high forehead and a spattering of freckles. His blue eyes were filled with concern. He wore a white dress shirt and black slacks.

‘Hannah? Are you all right?’

His ex-wife put a hand on the visitor’s shoulder. ‘Oh, yes, just more of the same. It never stops.’

‘Would you like me to send Johan over when he gets back from the motel? He could stay the night if you’d like.’

‘I appreciate it, Glenn, but that’s not necessary.’

The two of them hugged. Chris felt an odd pang of jealousy, watching his ex-wife embrace this man, and watching his arms around her. They were obviously close. He wondered if it was anything more than that. Three years was a long time. It had foolishly never occurred to him that Hannah might be in a relationship. Olivia had never said a word.

The man detached himself awkwardly from Hannah as he noticed Chris. He reached a hand through the doorway. ‘I’m Glenn Magnus. I’m the minister at the church here in St. Croix.’

Hannah glanced between them in embarrassment. ‘I’m so sorry. Glenn, this is Christopher Hawk, my ex- husband.’

‘How is Olivia?’ the minister asked.

‘As well as can be expected,’ Chris said.

‘It’s good that she has both of you here.’