“I’m going to look for him.”
“You’ll do no such thing. You tore your mother’s heart to pieces last night. I know you don’t care for me in the slightest right now, but show the woman who raised you and loves you some respect.” He pulled the door farther open. “Come inside. For her. Now.”
With a deep groan from the bottom of my throat, I pushed myself off the swing and did as he asked, for the sake of my mother, but not without one last glare at him, and one last peek at the woods.
CHAPTER 18
DESPERATE UNDERTAKINGS
RESTING ALL AFTERNOON ALLOWED me to stay wide-awake and alert at night when Mama and Uncle Clyde retired to their bedroom. They closed their door, and through the wall I heard murmurings and the squeaks of dresser drawers—and then private sounds I didn’t care to hear. I pushed my hands over my ears and told myself, Drink it, drink it, drink it . . .
I slid out the box of toys and Klan notes and derringer ammunition from beneath my bed and dug around for the bottle of Necromancer’s Nectar.
Another fiery spoonful.
Another rush of heat exploded through my chest, my stomach, my head, my extremities.
This time around, I remembered to screw the cap back on and tuck the bottle into its hiding place, and as soon as I pushed the box back beneath my bed, my hair, too, seemed to catch fire. Flames scalded my cheeks and my neck, and I couldn’t stand the heat of my burning curls against my back a moment longer.
Time jumped forward again. I found myself in the hall. Then the middle of the staircase. The kitchen. I fetched silver scissors from Mama’s worktable and cut my hair until my skin cooled and the fire died. Dark locks coiled around my feet like a pile of lifeless snakes.
Lifeless adders.
The front door.
The front yard.
The highway.
The crossroads.
A fog that smelled of briny ocean air veiled the patch of road that lay before me. The compulsion to seek more answers propelled my feet forward.
Using the toe of my right shoe, I drew a circle in the dirt. The mist dampened the skin of my now-bare neck and kissed the tip of my nose. I stepped inside the marking and peered ahead at an undulating mass of gray that blocked the view ten feet ahead. The fog seemed a living creature . . . waiting . . . listening . . . silent.
“Daddy,” I called, and my voice splattered against the haze and the flat stretch of land without the slightest quiver of an echo. “Daddy, I need to talk to you. I need to find out which doc you meant. Come here.” I clasped my hands beneath my chin and trembled. “Please . . . come. Talk to me.”
I bowed my head and sniffled and shook. I heard no owls, no bats, no barking hounds. No patrol cars puttered through the night, searching for boys who sinned with other boys or for girls with brown skin who ran off with such boys. Fleur rested in her bed, safe, I hoped, from her brother and the Wittens. Joe lay in some unknown place—alive or dead, I still didn’t know.
And there I stood, alone, waiting. Ready for a ghost to tell me whether I should kill.
A sound started up ahead in the fog.
I lifted my chin and held my breath.
Footsteps thumped my way. One sturdy leg and one leg busted by a Model T limped beyond the wall of fog and shadows, and all the hairs on my neck and arms bristled. I stood on tiptoe, as though the act of rising up tall would better allow me to see my father approach.
The silhouette of his hat and his body emerged first. A shadow—a well-dressed shadow—wandered toward me and transformed into a familiar face and a derby hat and a suit with shining buttons. Once he walked more fully into view, Daddy smiled a sad smile and removed his hat.
I settled back down on my heels and forgot how to speak.
“Are you staying safe, honey?” he asked, holding his derby by his side, above his right hip. “You look distressed. No one’s hurting you, I hope.”
“I’m . . .” I tore my eyes away from his and peered out at the dark fields beside me. “I’m tempted to commit a murder.”
“I beg your pardon?” He pushed forward another two steps. “What in tarnation are you talking about, Hanalee? Who on God’s green earth would you want to murder?”
I swallowed and shook with shame and terror. “When you said you blamed the doc for your death, did you . . . d-d-did you mean Dr. Koning?”
He stepped back on his good leg. “Oh, sweet Jesus, no, Hanalee. Don’t you dare kill the doctor.”
“But . . . is it the Dry Dock, then? The restaurant?”
“Yes, the Dry Dock. If I’d just stayed away from that place that night, if I’d been a stronger man, I’d still be alive today.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “W-w-what happened to you there?”
“Don’t you dare go to that place by yourself. Don’t even get close to it.”
“What happened? Tell me.”