He stopped by the door. “Who said that?”
“Robbie Witten. Mildred Marks. Sheriff Rink.”
A shaky breath rattled through his lips, and he averted his eyes from mine.
“Why would they say that?” I asked. “In fact, why should I listen to your plans to kill my stepfather if you’re completely off your rocker?”
“I’m not crazy, Hanalee. Just . . .” He swung the door open. “Let’s get you back home.”
I didn’t budge.
“Hanalee . . .” Joe sighed and shifted toward me. “Ignorant sons of bitches say terrible things about me because they don’t understand my type of people.”
I shifted my weight between my feet. “W-w-what do you mean, your ‘type of people’? Are you part Indian or something?”
“No.”
“Catholic?”
He rolled his eyes. “My father’s a goddamned Methodist preacher, for Christ’s sake. I’m not Catholic.”
“Then what do you mean?”
He raked a hand through his hair once more and returned his gaze to the sunken floorboards in front of him. “It’s none of your business.”
“Tell me, Joe, or I won’t conspire with you. I’ll investigate my father’s death on my own. I’ll let the sheriff know where you’re hiding . . .”
“Jesus.”
“No secrets. Tell me the truth if you want me to believe everything you say.”
“All right, if you’re going to be so damn pushy about it, I’ll tell you, but you can’t breathe a word about it to another soul.” He grabbed his stomach. “I’m a . . . what people call a . . .” His face made a wincing expression that reminded me of the way I’d felt when I first swallowed down the fire of Necromancer’s Nectar. “Oh, Christ, just . . . I’m an Oscar Wilde.”
I shook my head, confused. “You’re a playwright?”
“No, I . . .” He dropped his arm to his side. “I’m a . . . what they call . . .” His chin quivered; every other part of his body tensed. “Queer.” He swallowed. “A homosexual.”
I merely blinked at him, not one hundred percent sure I knew what that latter term meant.
“I don’t love girls in a romantic way,” he explained. “I—I—I . . . it’s boys.” He clutched his stomach again and closed his eyes. “I’m attracted to boys.”
“Oh.” I gave a small nod.
A prickly silence fell between us. Outside, a frog belched a deep croak from the pond behind the shed. I slipped my right hand into my pocket and crinkled the newsprint that bore the accusation about my stepfather.
“Well, I should . . . I should get going.” I sidled past Joe, careful not to touch him, and exited the shed.
He closed the door behind us, and I heard him following my lead through the clearing, his loud footsteps breaking up twigs.
We descended the short slope leading down to the creek, and I took extra caution crossing the rocks that jutted out of the water, for my feet felt cumbersome and unnatural. The nighttime world remained foggy and golden bright, and my head seemed stuffed full of cotton. Once I made it to the other side of the water, I pinched a fleshy part of my left arm to ensure I wasn’t stuck in the middle of a dream. I pinched myself hard and flinched at the shock of pain.
Joe trailed behind me all the way back to the break in the trees that led to my house. His shoes crushed leaves and pine needles with a percussive rhythm that mimicked the sounds of my own feet.
I didn’t know whether I should turn and say anything—or if the wrong words would tumble out of my mouth, or if he would suddenly look different, or if there was something different about his face or his body or his mannerisms, something I hadn’t noticed before. I rubbed my arms and slowed my pace and felt the sudden urge to be cruel to him again.
“Is that why you want me to be the one who kills him?” I asked over my shoulder in the quietest voice I could muster. “Because you’re not a true man?”
His feet came to an abrupt stop behind me.
My heart stopped, too. The words I’d spoken made my mouth taste rotten.
I turned around, parting my lips to apologize, but he was gone—a shadow slipping into the depths of the woods beyond the firs, leaving me all alone with a scrap of paper that burned inside my pocket.
CHAPTER 7
THOU HAST THY FATHER MUCH OFFENDED
I AWOKE IN THE MORNING WITH A headache. Memories of the night before flared to life as scattered images: rust-colored liquid and candlelight. An empty road in the pitch-dark night. Trees illuminated in a haze of gold. The shed. Joe, running his hand through his hair. My father, standing right in front of me . . .
I covered my eyes with my palms and groaned through the sick feeling burbling in my stomach.
After a knock that scarcely counted as a knock, someone came into my room.