The door was unlocked, of course, and she helped herself to sheets from the linen closet, a faded quilt, and a lumpy feather pillow that had seen better days. The futon in the spare room of the bungalow would work in a pinch, and though Juniper wanted to set up Willa’s room with things that would make her feel comfortable and at home, she didn’t dare to enter the inner sanctum of her daughter’s bedroom. Never mind that it was Juniper’s old room and that her fingerprints surely crisscrossed every square inch. What she saw as unimpeachable, Willa would surely consider the gravest of sins.
But Juniper had already done her worst, even if she’d never been charged with any of it: perjury, obstruction of justice, trespass, abandonment. Was it treason to turn against your own flesh and blood? To wonder—even secretly, silently—if everything she believed to be true about her life was a lie? Juniper stood in her mother’s kitchen with old bedding clutched to her chest and wished that she could click her heels together and go back to a time before everything fell apart. Before there was blood blooming from Cal’s chest and spilled on the ground. Staining her fingers.
That kind of wistful magic didn’t exist. But maybe the secrets she had buried in the Iowa soil were just now bearing bitter fruit. Maybe all she had to do was take a scythe and harvest the truth. Hold it, firm and heavy, irrefutable in the palm of her hand.
As Juniper slipped back into her car, outfitted with the barest essentials for turning the bungalow into a home for two, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
“Do you have Willa?” Cora asked, skipping the niceties.
“No. I—”
“Good.” Cora cut her off. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but someone poisoned Jonathan’s dog.”
“Diesel?” Juniper’s mind stumbled, trying to keep up. That sweet dog had lain by her feet throughout the entire sickening supper at her parents’ house only days before. Jonathan loved that dog.
Cora’s heavy sigh was confirmation enough. “Apparently the cops found him floating where Jonathan was pulled out. Either Jonathan was trying to rescue him, or…”
“Or what?”
“Look, I’m just telling you what I heard, Juniper. I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“So they think—what? It was a suicide pact? That if Jonathan was going to off himself, might as well take the dog, too?” Juniper pressed the side of her head to the cold window, trying to leech a little sanity from the cold pane. “Where did you hear this?”
“It’s Jericho,” Cora said. There was no need for more explanation.
“I have to go,” Juniper said. “I’m driving.”
But when she hung up, she sat in the icy car for so long that her fingers went numb.
CHAPTER 6
SUMMER 14 AND A HALF YEARS AGO
When Sullivan pulls down our driveway in his fancy new four-wheel-drive truck, Jonathan looks up from the mountain of pulled pork he’s devouring and raises one dark brow. “What’s he doing here?”
I know exactly how to needle him, so I lean with my elbow on my knee, chin in hand, and say all coy: “He’s here for me.”
We’re sitting on the porch steps, me flush against the banister and Jonathan hunched over a plate heaped with food he has balanced on his knees. It’s after eight o’clock, but he just got off work.
Normally when I sit with him at night, he teases me, tossing his filthy work gloves at me to get a rise, or regaling me with stories of his day. But he’s quiet tonight, and when his eyes snap over to mine, Jonathan’s not smiling. “You’re hanging out with Sullivan now?”
I shrug. “He’s my friend too.” Which isn’t strictly true. Sullivan is two years older than me—a senior when I was a sophomore—and our groups never overlapped. He ran with a wild crowd, a group of farmers’ kids and cowboys who never cared much about their grades or fitting in, and who spent their weekends splitting cases of cheap beer and shooting at stop signs on gravel roads. Their futures were determined the moment they were born: they’d work with their daddy, then take over his farm, marry a local girl, have babies, and start the cycle all over again. Me, I’ve never considered myself a local girl and I certainly don’t want to stay. Even after what feels like a lifetime here, I still don’t feel comfortable with townies who think Jericho is the whole wide world. Sullivan tops that list.
“Yeah,” Jonathan barks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You and Sullivan are besties, for sure.” He’s not happy.
“Lighten up,” I tell him. But my heart is beating faster than normal, and my mouth is dry as dust.
Jonathan fixes me with one last unreadable stare, then sighs and puts his plate down on the step beside him. “Yo, Sully,” he calls, pushing himself up as Sullivan hops out of his truck to meet us.
“Bro.” They meet on the sidewalk and bump fists. It’s strange and macho and not at all like my laid-back brother. But Sullivan has a way of making people meet him on his terms.
“Taking my sister out tonight?” Jonathan doesn’t pull any punches.
That’s my cue: I launch off the steps and slap on a smile. “Hey, Sullivan.”
“Looking good, Baker,” he tells me with a whistle. I’m wearing a pair of shorts and a vintage Tom Petty concert tee, my hair in a messy ponytail. My appearance is hardly worth a whistle. But I catch the wicked glint in Sullivan’s eye and realize he’s laying it on for Jonathan.
“This isn’t a date,” I tell them both.
“It’s not?” Sullivan presses the heel of his hand to his chest as if mortally wounded.
“Definitely not,” Jonathan agrees, then asks: “What is it, then?”
But Sullivan just laughs and turns toward his truck.
“I promise I’ll bring her back in one piece,” he calls over his shoulder.
“All good, my man.” Jonathan says the words casually, but his mouth is a thin, serious line when he looks at me. I can tell that he doesn’t dare to warn me with Sullivan close enough to overhear, but I can read his expression. Be careful, he’s telling me. And, I don’t like this.
Sometimes the connection between us is an almost tangible thing, a thread woven from shared experiences that tangles my brother to me. Our lives haven’t been traumatic or marked by loss, and we aren’t twins, but we’re knit together in a way that’s as inexplicable as it is comforting. Maybe it’s because we shared a crib when Jonathan was born. I wasn’t even a year old when he came howling into our tiny universe, and since I was too small to be moved to a toddler bed, Mom tucked us toe to toe. Or maybe it’s because we’ve always preferred each other’s company, a trait that our mother was sure we’d eventually grow out of. We never have. Whatever it is, I can feel it fizzing between us now, a sparking, anxious sense of foreboding that only makes me more uncertain about my outing with Sullivan.
“You coming?” he calls.
What choice do I have? I lift my hand in a little wave at Jonathan and jog over to let myself in Sullivan’s truck.
“Y’all are intense,” he tells me as we leave the acreage behind.
“Who? Me and Jonathan?”
“Your whole family.” Sullivan laughs. “Kinda oddballs, don’t you think?”
I’ve never had anyone tell me that my family is odd—at least, not to my face. I suppose we are, in a way. Mom, the Jericho outsider who plays cello in the alfalfa field when it’s a blooming sea of lavender, and who sometimes forgets to wear shoes when she goes into town. And Dad, almost twenty years her senior and already semi-retired. He looks old enough to be her father, and they get weird looks when they walk hand in hand. Even from people who know better. And then there’s me and Jonathan. Polar opposites in almost every way, but attached at the hip. Still, I’m not about to try and explain myself to Sullivan Tate.
“You should talk,” I say, rising to the challenge. “Wasn’t your brother in jail?”
It’s a low blow, and I know it. Another DUI, third offense. Dalton was driving with a suspended license, and there was no way the family could buy their way out of it. Two months, local jail, and a fine that was never accurately disclosed. I heard upward of twenty thousand dollars, but maybe that was exaggerated. Jericho’s unwritten code would suggest I never, ever bring it up, but I’m not great at following the rules.