Clamping my hand over her nose and mouth until she kicked.
I could inspect a child from some white trash family and offer money for their offspring, yet I couldn’t kill my own daughter.
Then I saw that skinny runt of a boy think about escaping. He snuck into the house one night, scurrying like a rat in the dark, stealing food and placing them in Willem’s backpack by the door.
Normally, I would’ve told Willem to shoot him. To kill him dead before the sun rose.
But…he was my chance.
My one chance at killing my daughter without having her blood on my hands.
So…I let him believe he wasn’t noticed.
I held my tongue when he looked at my Della, and I watched that scrawny toad make his move.
When he slipped from the locked barn the next night—revealing a security issue—I knew it was time and grabbed my sleeping daughter and stuffed her in the backpack where his rations were ready to escape.
She was a good girl. She didn’t wake up as I zipped her in and hid her in the darkness.
That little rat poked his head into my house, sniffed around, then slung on the backpack with surprise in his eyes from the extra weight.
He looked as if he’d take it off again and check his supplies.
I couldn’t have that.
So, I yelled for my sleeping husband. I told him we had a runaway and to get the shotgun.
And then, we had some sport as that little boy took off in the corn, bounding like the rat he was, carrying my daughter with him.
I hoped a bullet would take them both out.
I hoped two mistakes could be fixed with one.
But Willem missed.
And to this day, I don’t know if the boy and my baby are dead.
I like to think they are because she was born to evil, and he was sold to the devil. Nothing good can come of them surviving.
But now, my secret is on paper, and I’m ready to kill my husband. I blame him for not knowing if she’s dead or not. I blame him for this life of dirt and destitution. I blame him for everything, and I’ve had enough.
I’ve had enough of the raping, killing, and struggling. We have labour, yet the farm doesn’t grow food anymore. We have stock, but they get sick and die.
Consider this my intent to cancel the missing person’s report that Willem filed. Turned out, that man rather loved his daughter. He loved her enough to want her in all the wrong ways. I knew. I saw it before he could touch her.
At least I saved her from that fate.
I am Marion Mclary, and I don’t apologise for what me and my husband are.
I only apologise for letting my spawn run away and not knowing if she’ll grow up to be like us.
She deserves to die.
Just like that boy who took her.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
REN
2020
A WEEK PASSED where we returned to Cherry River, kept our heads down, and tried to move on. I wasn’t arrested with the strict provision I stayed in town and didn’t travel.
John hired a lawyer on my behalf—just in case the state decided to go ahead with prosecuting me for Della’s disappearance, and I did my best to repay him by preparing the fields for a good rest over winter for a bumper crop come summer.
John and Cassie asked questions that first afternoon, but Della and I didn’t know how to answer them.
Our minds were still messed up from what we’d seen. Images of dirt-smeared bones, time-tattered clothing, and the bay of cadaver dogs replayed on a loop inside my head.
What happened back at Mclary’s had affected both of us.
Della more so than me.
She’d learned she hadn’t, by some miracle, chosen to belong to me by crawling into the backpack, after all. She’d been placed there by her homicidal mother.
I finally had answers to my how and why of how I ended up with a baby.
And she’d learned she’d been unwanted in a sea of mistakes and, despite her rage when we were at the farm watching police exhume such horror, a heavy shame and thick depression cloaked her.
She withdrew into herself, and there was nothing I could do about it.
The day we travelled the eight hours back to Cherry River, we barely talked. The day after, she didn’t want to discuss it. The day after that, she snapped at Cassie to leave it alone.
For a week, I let her stew and put up with her half-hearted smiles and weak assurances.
But she couldn’t hide from me because I understood more than she knew.
I understood she was searching.
Searching deep inside herself for a hint that she might be what her mother said.
A devil.
A monster.
Just like them.
And how could she not after seeing what they’d done?
But I also knew she’d find no trace of evilness because she was as pure and as perfect as they were vile and villainous.
On the eighth day of her despondency, I packed up the tent and sleeping bags and told John we’d be back in a night or two. Cassie was staying in town with Chip and her daughter, and Della fought me a little on leaving John on his own, but we needed to reconnect, and I needed to remind her of something.
As we walked, just the two of us, over the fields toward the treeline we knew so well, I clutched her hand hard. The fake sapphire I’d bought her had gone smoky with age and chipped from wear, but she still wore it religiously, just like I wore my leather band with its metal letters with a single diamante remaining.
As we walked, I struggled not to cough.
I was fully aware how Della flinched whenever I did. It was an annoying sound, I agreed, but that was all it was—an annoyance.
I felt okay in myself. Nothing stopped me from living a life of physical activity and labour.
Her worry was a tad frustrating, but I could understand, just as I could understand her quietness now. They were circumstances outside her control, yet they affected her wholeheartedly.
Hopefully, I’d be able to reassure her on both accounts.
Once in the forest and far enough away from the farm, I pitched the tent, gathered her close, and made love to her like old times beneath the glittering stars.
At first, she resisted, claiming a headache. Then she lied and said she wasn’t interested.
Her refusal didn’t annoy me because yet again, I understood. “Della…”
She refused to meet my eyes, staring into the fire I’d built and coaxed into a warm blaze.
“Nothing has changed, Little Ribbon.”
Tears she’d bottled up cascaded down her cheeks as I went to her and cuddled her close. “Let me help…please?” Kissing her, I guided her onto the sleeping bag I’d spread on the ground, slowly undressing her, not making any sudden movements in case she ran.
My voice didn’t speak, but my body did.
It assured her that she was still who she believed and I was still who she knew. It convinced her, slowly, gently, that what we had outweighed any pain or terror from the past.
Hesitantly, she responded to my kisses, purred into my touch, and when she spread her legs and I slipped inside her, her gasp was full of sorrow.
We moved together, hands always touching, lips always kissing, our bodies thrusting in affirmation of life and love.
The cool air didn’t stop us. The owl hoots didn’t scare us. I didn’t care it was late in the season and snow seasoned the air. I didn’t care we shivered as we moved together, chasing an orgasm that wasn’t just about pleasure, but a declaration that we might have been touched by evil, but it hadn’t claimed us.
We’d chosen our own path, and we always would.
Afterward, with my body still in Della’s, I smoothed back her hair and cupped her cheeks. Lying over her with her trapped beneath me, I murmured, “You have never been, nor will you ever be like them, Della Ribbon.”
She flinched, the fire dancing in her eyes with golden spirals. For a second, a flash of ire said she wouldn’t talk to me. Then torment drenched her voice. “But how do you know? How do you know I won’t snap one day and—”
“I know because I raised you.”
“What if that filth can’t be changed? What if I’m lying to you and myself? What if I’m not a good person and could kill—”