The May Queen Murders (35 page)

I tilted my head. “I n-need to look.”

“I’ll have Mamie change it later.”

“You’ll let me change it. Now.”

My finger curled under his chin to lift his face. I leaned in close

and touched my lips to his. He kissed me back, soft. He kissed me

with all his breath, all that was warm inside, and I kissed him with all

the shadows of grief burned out by daylight.

Papa had driven me to the hospital and made me wait while he

broke the news to Rook that Sheriff was gone, that he had perished

in the fire. The terrible howl that followed, the way Papa held him as

he bawled, some scars weren’t on the skin.

His ear didn’t look as bad as he thought.

“I don’t hear real well on that side,” he admitted as I changed the

bandage. “The doctors said there’s nothin’ to catch sound.”

“You’ll be okay,” I promised.

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“Everybody looks when I walk by.” He tried adjusting his glasses,

but they fell crooked until he gave up with a huff. “I won’t ever be

sheriff.”

“I know.” I tied off the bandage and repeated the same thing I told

him every time he got into a slump. “You have your greenhouse and

fields. You have your horse. You have me. That’s all you need, Rook.”

Usual y, he said nothing, but today his lips formed a smile. “May-

be so.”

I helped him stand. He put his arm around my shoulder, mine

went to his waist. The cuts from the sickle had left nerve damage

numbing his leg; other times it burned like brimstone. The night

before had been a bad one, with Briar banging on the door after mid-

night, begging me to come with my medicine bag and Mamie’s reci-

pes.

Rook and I took the steps out of Mamie’s house slow. For a while,

we wandered the razed fields. The burn areas were bad. Fire had rav-

aged acres before the town’s firemen contained the blaze. The stable

was a loss. The ground still stank of char and ash, but rain fell after

the fire that destroyed too many fields, and new green found ways to

sprout.

“Hey,” Milo called when he spotted us and wiped sweat from his

brow.

He had a water pail. Fire could still be hot well below the soil, but

he and Emmie had taken it upon themselves to tear away the stable’s

remains. Work moved faster now that Milo’s cast had been switched

to a soft one. Pieces of wood too damaged to reuse went into the

forest to return to earth, while smaller things like doorknobs and

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hinges that had survived lived in a box in the bed of his truck for

salvage.

Rook kicked at a green vine in the ground. “Get rid of it. Pull it out

and kill the root.”

Emmie knelt and tugged at the plant. “It’s a persistent little shit,

ain’t it?”

“Burn it if you gotta. I don’t wanna see it poisonin’ this ground

again,” he said. “It’s bel adonna.”

Something in the way Emmie dug at the plant changed. She

grabbed at it harder, more determined. Funny how so much memory

attached itself to the mere mention of one little plant.

Milo took Rook’s other arm and helped me guide him to the open

door of the truck on the road so he could rest. Their brother hadn’t

made it out of the last half of May, and without knowing what to do

with themselves and nothing else to care for, Milo offered to help

muck stal s and plant crops to repay Papa for healing his broken

wrist. Hillfolk cared for hillfolk, Papa said. Stil , I knew why the Ent-

whistles had demanded this field for working. The plan was to call it

Heather’s Garden.

I walked alongside Emmie, watching as she raked new soil into

old. If drowning led to that silver place of dreams, then golden days

right before the summer solstice were the grounding of life. Clouds

like raw cotton spun overhead, and the blue sky was sharp. This was

here. This was now. This was how life had changed.

Milo came away from the truck where Rook rested. He motioned

me aside, speaking so hushed not even his sister heard. “You tell him

yet?”

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“Soon.”

“He’s got a right to know what his daddy did. The longer you let it

go, Ivy, the harder it’s gonna be to forgive.”

I eyed Milo, didn’t flinch, not even when I knew he disapproved.

“Rook knows I love him. He’ll forgive me.”

“I wasn’t talkin’ about him needin’ to do the forgiving.”

Milo patted my shoulder before returning to work on the field. It

wasn’t that I needed to forgive Rook. He’d done nothing but love me.

For all Sheriff’s talk of wanting to keep me safe, all he’d wanted was

to find out how much I knew. Keep himself safe. Self-preservation

made us do the most damnable things. Our secrets, our lies, there

were choices made to protect Rook’s family and mine. Milo knew a

thing or two about holding on to other folks’ secrets, and he knew

when it was time to give them up.

I approached the truck’s open door. “You ready to go?”

“Already?” Rook asked.

I helped him stand. “We gotta talk.”

Throughout the paths of Rowan’s Glen, I spoke and Rook listened.

He held my hand tighter, and when I was finished, his arms wrapped

around me.

He knew.

He knew what his father did, the years of secrets, the damage

wrought. Papa had told him. He still didn’t want to talk about it.

Which meant that lost look about him would stay a while, the one

he’d worn since the night he almost died, and I knew it wel . It haunt-

ed my own eyes. Whenever I looked in the mirror, my ghost looked

back.

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Sometimes when I thought I was alone, I sensed someone watch-

ing. Of course, no one was there when I turned around. Maybe

someday though, I’d catch a glimpse of skirt with red ruffles, a curl

of red hair. Some things you can’t ever let go.

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Acknowledgments

I wish I could say writing
The May Queen Murders
was easy. It wasn’t.

Delving into subjects you’ve cut off from memory and having them

come rushing back is a trial. To have the faith of Julie Tibbott at

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt — I couldn’t be more heartened. Thank

you so much for “getting” this book, homing in on how to make it

better, and challenging me all the way.

Miriam Kriss, my literary agent and confidant. The believer in my

word gremlins and the one who read the first pages and said, “Keep

going. This is it.” You were right, as always.

The SS Crew: Zac Brewer, Cole Gibsen, Emily Hal , Jamie Krak-

over, Shawntelle Madison, Marie Meyer, L. S. Murphy, and Heather

Reid. I can’t do this without you.

The YA Scream Queens: Catherine Scul y, Courtney Alameda,

Dawn Kurtagich, Hil ary Monahan, Jenn “J.R.” Johansson, Lauren

Roy, Lindsay Currie, and Trisha Leaver. The spooky girls and a bond

I treasure.

Amanda Bonil a, warrior, cheerleader, mama bear, and warm

blanket on cold nights.

Windy Aphayrath, Gypsi and Wolf Bal ard, Lisa Basso, the Brom-

ley and Freeburg clans, Sandra Fenton, Maria Fernandez, Meghan

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Harker, Jenny McCormick-Friehs, Krista Winters-Irrea, Antony

John, Beth Jones, Courtney Koschel, Andrew Lovitt, Gretchen Mc-

Neil, Angela Mitchell-Phillips, Bebe Nickolai, Marcie Olsen, Kel y

Rose Oswald, Mary Beth Pilcher, Rachel Rieckenberg, Timon Skees,

Paula Stokes, April Terviel, Dawn Thompson, April Genevieve

Tucholke (for the owl), Karen Utsmann, Alexandra Vil asante, Dana

Waganer, Judy Rhodes Williams (whom I miss so much), Melissa

Williams, Cat Winters, the Handsome Family, JabberJaws, Wal y,

David, Annika. Thank you al .

Thank you to Dorothy Rush. Little girls who are forever friends.

In memory of Jocelyn Stanley.

To Erich and Ericka Zwettler. Thank you for your faith, your love,

your prayers. It took the unthinkable to become so close you, sister,

and now I will never let you go.

To Jack and Lucille Powel . I watched your friendship with my

mother from the time I was born until she died, and I learned how

to be friends from you. Then you taught me how to be a mother.

Gwendolyn, Adrian, and Brendan, I pray I’ve given you the steel

to be resilient, because you’ve given it to me.

Timothy, the boy next door. The one with his nose always buried

in a book. The one who turns my head with a smile. I have you, and

you have me.

My parents, Richard and Sharon, and my brother, Michael. I love

you. I miss you. I’ll see you on the other side.

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