There were two of them, neither of them a handgun, one longer than the other, and both with barrels that were as black and terrifying as death itself. Beside them were two open boxes of ammunition.
Beverly choked out a sob, praying that her eyes were playing tricks on her, but when she focused on the guns again, she was swamped with self-loathing and burst into tears. Curling into a ball on the floor, she knew she’d failed her son. What kind of mother was she? How could it not have even occurred to her to make sure Tommie’s room was safe? In her mind’s eye, she kept seeing Tommie peek under the bed, his eyes bright with excitement as he reached for the guns. He’d pull them out and sit on the floor, feeling the weight and the cold, slick metal of the barrel. He would recognize the trigger and know exactly what it was for. He might even trace it with his finger, just to see what it felt like, and then…
“That didn’t happen,” she croaked, trying to convince herself, but the vision continued to unfold like a nightmare, drowning her words. She broke down completely then, giving in to the images and weeping until she was too exhausted to continue. She had no idea how long she cried, but when she regained a measure of equilibrium, she realized she had to take care of this right now, before Tommie came home.
Resolutely, she reached for the first of the rifles, tamping down her fear that it might go off. She pulled it gently by the stock, sliding it across the wooden floor, making sure the barrel was pointed in the opposite direction. While she still had her courage, she carefully reached for the other one, feeling like she was attempting to defuse a bomb. This one was a shotgun. She had no idea whether either of them was loaded—she wasn’t even sure how to check for something like that—and once they were on the floor beside her, she reached for the boxes of ammunition.
Now, though, as she stared at the weapons that could have killed her son, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. She had to hide all of it or, better yet, get rid of it. But that was easier said than done. You don’t just toss a gun into the bushes, after all, but she couldn’t imagine keeping them anywhere in the house, either.
I have to bury them, she thought.
She tried to remember if she’d seen a shovel. She hadn’t, but she assumed there might be one in the barn. The idea of going there frightened her, though. Not only had the owner told her the barn was definitely off-limits, but if there were guns and drugs in the house, who knew what else might be stored out there? Just what kind of place was this?
She didn’t know; all she knew for sure was that the guns had to go before Tommie got home. Rising to her feet, Beverly stumbled down the stairs. Once out the door, she veered in the direction of the barn. As she continued to collect herself, sunlight hammered down, thickening the air to the point that it seemed to absorb all sound. She heard no crickets or birdsong; even the leaves in the trees were still. The barn stood in shadow, as though daring her to proceed, daring her to learn the truth of why it was off-limits.
As she approached, she wondered whether she’d even be able to get inside. For all she knew, the door might be chained shut with one of those indestructible locks, or, despite its appearance, it might have some sort of security system that included…
Cameras.
The word brought with it a sudden need for caution, and she halted while scenes from the last few days tumbled through her mind.
An owner taking cash for rent without asking too many questions…Drugs and guns in a house where the previous tenant had left in a hurry…A man with a truck appearing at her door…Men in the fields surrounding her house who seemed to take a more-than-casual interest in watching her…
All she knew for sure was that she didn’t want to learn what the owner might be up to and that it was time for her and Tommie to move on. There was something terribly wrong with this situation, and she should have recognized it earlier. She should have known the whole thing was too good to be true. Though she didn’t have enough money to leave, she’d somehow figure it out, even if she had to hold up one of those cardboard signs begging for money on the side of the road. It wasn’t safe here, not any longer, and at the very least going somewhere new would make it more difficult for Gary to find her.
She turned, backtracking to the house, relieved by her decision. Nonetheless, she didn’t want the guns in her house for a single minute longer. Knowing she still had to bury them, she went to the kitchen, eyeing the chaos. In the open drawer near the stove, she’d seen a large metal spoon—the kind used for stirring a pot of stew—and she retrieved it. It might take a while, but as long as she could find soft earth, it should work.
Outside near the house, she began to search for a spot where the ground wasn’t too hard or dry. She couldn’t dig near the big trees, because the roots probably sucked up all the water, but as she was thinking about it, she suddenly remembered the creek. The ground there should be softer, right?
She quickly headed in that direction, but on the off chance that Tommie would want to hunt for tadpoles again, she ventured a ways beyond the spot they frequented. Dropping to her knees, she tested the earth, relieved to find that it yielded easily, in small but regular scoops. She worked methodically, making sure the hole was long and deep enough to bury both of the guns and the ammunition. She didn’t know how deep they needed to be, because she didn’t know anything about the creek. Did it widen after big rainstorms? Did the whole area become a pond during a hurricane?
She supposed it didn’t matter. She and Tommie would be long gone before anything like that happened.
But she was running out of time. Tommie would be home soon, and she needed to get this done. She hurried back toward the house, only to freeze mid-stride. For a long moment, she couldn’t even breathe.
The pickup truck from the day before was in her driveway again.
That night I didn’t fall asleep for hours. I told myself that I couldn’t have fallen in love, that real love required time and a multitude of shared experiences. Yet my feelings for Morgan grew stronger by the minute, even as I struggled to understand how something like that could even be possible.
Paige, I thought, could probably help me make sense of it. Even though it was late, I called her cellphone, but again there was no answer. I suspected she would tell me that I was suffering from a wild infatuation, not love. Maybe there was some truth in that, but when I thought about my previous relationship with Michelle, I realized that I’d never experienced the overwhelming emotions I’d felt with Morgan, even at the beginning of our relationship. With Michelle, there’d never been a time when I felt the need to make sense of what was happening between us. Nor had the world ever faded away when we’d kissed.
Assuming what I was feeling was real, I also wondered where our relationship might lead and whether anything would come of it. My logical side reminded me that we’d be going our separate ways in just a few days, and what was going to happen after that? I didn’t know; all I knew for sure was that I wanted more than anything to spend as much time with her as possible.
After finally drifting off in the early hours of the morning, I slept in for the first time since I’d arrived in Florida, waking to a morning sky that seemed almost ominous. Already, the heat and humidity were oppressive—the kind that promised thunderstorms later—and sure enough, a check of the weather on my phone confirmed it, right when I was supposed to be performing. A quick text exchange with Ray let me know that I should plan to come in anyway. They’d be monitoring the weather, he assured me, and would call the show when they needed to.
I went through my normal morning routine, even though nothing else was normal at all. My thoughts were dominated by Morgan; when I ran past the Don, I couldn’t help but look for her; when I stopped to do pull-ups on some scaffolding near the beach, I conjured the smoothness of her skin. After my shower, I swung by the grocery store and pictured Morgan rehearsing in the conference room or screaming with delight as she rode the roller coasters at Busch Gardens. Putting some chicken breasts in my shopping basket, I wondered what she had told her friends about the day we’d spent together, or if she’d said anything about it at all. Mainly, though, I tried to figure out whether she felt the same about me as I did about her.