Margot smiled. She did know. Most of her memories of the girl from across the street were blurred flashes, mere snapshots of time, but the clearest one she had was of January’s kindness.
Margot could still see the image of it, trees and dappled light—on her school’s playground maybe, or in someone’s backyard. In the memory, she was sitting, her knees tucked beneath her chin, her back pressed against a tree. She’d been scared for some long-forgotten reason, and suddenly, January was by her side, pressing something into Margot’s palm. When she looked down, she saw that it was a quarter-size piece of ripped fabric. It was light blue, a snowflake printed in the center.
“When I’m scared,” January said, “I squeeze this and it makes me brave.”
So Margot tried, but it didn’t work, and January told her she hadn’t done it right; she needed to do it again, harder this time. Margot squeezed again, her nails digging into flesh, the fabric snowflake crumpling between her fingers, and that time, she felt it. That time, it made her brave.
It wasn’t much longer after that, weeks or days, when January died and Margot had learned from that older kid at recess that her friend had been murdered. That night in bed, she’d grabbed the little snowflake from her bedside table and squeezed so hard her nails had drawn blood.
Now, Margot rubbed a thumb over her palm, the tiny scars like braille. “Did you notice any change in January?” she asked. “In the days or weeks leading up to her death?”
“Like what?”
“Like…her behavior, her moods, habits, likes, dislikes. Anything.”
His expression didn’t change as he thought about it. Then, after a long moment, he dragged a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. It was such a long time ago. If January did change at all before, I don’t remember. In my memory, she was always bubbly. Always smiling.”
“What about Jace?” Margot said. “What was he like back then?”
“Jace was…” Billy’s eyes darted to hers then away again. “Quiet. Shy.”
Margot studied him. She too remembered Jace as solemn and watchful, but there had been another side to the boy across the street, and she wondered how much Billy knew about it and how much he’d say.
Margot’s most distinct memory of Jace, so unlike that of January, had happened one day during fifth-grade recess. She had been reading in her favorite spot, curled into the Y of a big oak tree, tucked away on the lowest point of their playground. It was a quiet little place where no one usually went, but that day, as she was reading, she heard the sound of a twig snapping, and when she looked up from her book, she saw Jace. After January’s death four years earlier, Margot had stopped going over to their house, and whatever relationship she’d once had with him had disappeared. His eyes cast downward, he didn’t seem to see her up in the tree and she didn’t call out to him, didn’t announce her presence at all. Instead, she watched as he walked beneath the branch she was in and crouched down to put something on the ground. When he stood up again, she saw that it was a small dead bird, a sparrow maybe or a wren. She watched, holding her breath, as Jace pressed the toe of his shoe onto the bird’s breast. He pushed slowly harder and harder until finally, Margot saw its head swell and its black eye bulge.
“Jace was into arty stuff,” Billy said. “He was never really interested in the farm or sports or anything. Didn’t really fit in here, so he went off on his own a lot. And then, when he was older, he tended to get into a bit of trouble. Nothing too bad, just boy stuff. He was a good kid, but he had a hard time after January. Well, we all did.” He hesitated. “Especially Kris. But I suppose you know about that.” He shot her a glance.
“I do, yeah,” Margot said. Everyone in the country knew about Krissy Jacobs’s suicide. “I’m sorry. You were the one who found her, right?”
Billy swallowed, nodded tightly. “I’d been at a convention all weekend, and when I walked through the door—” He made a fist and pressed it to his lips.
“That’s where you found her? By the front door?” That, Margot hadn’t known, and it struck her as odd. When most people took their own lives, they went somewhere private—a bedroom, bathroom, their car.
Again, he nodded. “After January, Krissy was…Well, it was hell for her after that. I think after a while, it just got to be too much.”
“Do you…” Margot hesitated. There was really no tactful way to ask what she was about to ask. “Do you think guilt could’ve had anything to do with it?”
Billy stared at her blankly for a long moment before her meaning sunk in. “Oh, Christ. Don’t tell me. You’ve been talking to people in town.” He shook his head, and when he spoke next, his voice was hard. “My wife did not kill our daughter. Krissy loved January. She may not have been the perfect mom, but”—he took a breath—“she loved her. She wouldn’t have hurt her in a million years.”
“What made her ‘not perfect’?”
“What? No, I didn’t mean it like that.” Billy shook his head, looking suddenly skittish. “Krissy was a great mom. She was always really involved in January’s dance and stuff. Really pushed her to do well. She didn’t kill January. She wouldn’t—couldn’t have done that.”
Margot studied his face. It seemed that his emotion surrounding January’s death was real, but her questions about Krissy had gotten him flustered. And those about Jace had made him evasive, vague. Even though it had been over a decade since he’d seen either of them, it seemed to Margot that Billy Jacobs was still trying to protect his wife and son. He may have told her the truth about his family, but he certainly hadn’t told her all of it.
“And believe me,” he continued before she could press him. “I’ve thought about who could’ve done it every day since it happened.”
“And?” Margot said. “Any ideas?”
“What I’ve always thought, the only thing that makes any sense, is that it was some…man. Some creep who’d caught sight of her at the playground or one of her recitals and— I don’t know, maybe you’re on to something with this story, Margot. Maybe whoever took this Natalie Clark girl took my January too.”
* * *
—
Margot stayed another half hour or so to ask Billy about the details of his daughter’s case, but everything he told her was something she’d already known. And each time she’d steered the conversation back to Jace or Krissy, he’d repeat his “good kid” and “good mom” appellations like a politician with a party line. Eventually, the two of them drank their last sips of coffee and ate their last bites of pie, and Margot thanked him for his time.
“Oh, one last thing,” she said as Billy walked her to the front door. “Would you mind if I took a look at your barn?”
“Well, sure,” Billy said. “The police finished this morning, so I don’t think there’s anything to mess up. I can walk you over if you want.”
“Oh no, it’s fine. It’s on my way out, so I just thought I’d take a look.”
“Be my guest.” He hesitated, his eyes flicking over her face. “I remember you from back then, you know. I remember how the two of you were always running around together. And now, look at you, so grown up—” His eyes filled with sudden tears and he dug a knuckle into them, laughing self-consciously.
Margot smiled, welling with sympathy. Though its repercussions had happened over a very long time, that July night twenty-five years ago had robbed this man of everything: first his daughter, then his son, finally his wife. “Thanks again for your time.”
Billy nodded. “Come over whenever you want.”
The Jacobs barn was one of those big industrial types, separated from the house by a patchy, yellowing field. Margot made her way over, the summer sun hot on her skin. From the photo that had been on the news, she knew the message had been written on the far side, but when she rounded the corner, she deflated. The words were gone. In their place on the red wall was nothing but a faded black smear.