His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. For a minute, I think he’s going to yell at me, but then he visibly relaxes and the Sullivan I thought I knew is back. He’s cocky, self-important. He says insolently, “Dramatic much? The dog was a menace—he was getting into our henhouse on a nightly basis. And he killed himself. We didn’t stuff poison down his throat. You don’t know what you’re talking about, June.”
When I give an exasperated cry, it takes us both by surprise. But I don’t care. I’m not about to back down. “I am sick to death of being told that I don’t know what I’m talking about. If nobody will tell me what’s going on, how am I supposed to know?” I’m shrieking, but it feels good. “And why did you pick me up tonight? Why are you with me? Is this all some act? Are you—”
Sullivan slams on the brakes and hydroplanes for a few seconds, forcing me to brace myself against the dashboard. By the time he’s straightened out and slowed down, I’m breathing heavy and near tears. It’s mortifying. I don’t want to get upset in front of Sullivan Tate, and I certainly don’t want to cry in front of him. But I feel used. So confused. My whole world seems upended and I can’t put my finger on what exactly is different or why.
The rain is a gentle patter against the windshield now, and there’s no reason for Sullivan to stop, but he pulls down a gravel road and parks in a field driveway anyway. I’m about to let him have it, to unleash all my frustrations on the nearest Tate brother, but when he turns to me, he’s the Sullivan I’ve been getting to know. Softer, kind. His expression has changed completely from the hard irritation of only a moment before, and the first words out of his mouth are: “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He’s been so hot and cold, back and forth, that I lean away from him with my back pressed into the passenger-side door. I can’t get an accurate read on him.
“First of all,” Sullivan says, “I don’t know what’s going on with your brother. I know he’s been like a son to the Murphys, but in the last few months he started hanging around our farm. He met Dalton at a party and they started talking…”
It sounds far-fetched to me, but I can’t deny the signs—or the rapport that Jonathan seems to have with the Tates.
Sullivan shrugs. “They’re tight. I don’t know what to tell you, June. I think Jonathan feels taken advantage of.”
“What do you mean?”
He passes his hand over his face, and when he looks at me again, he seems reluctant to speak. Still, Sullivan asks: “Jonathan works a lot for the Murphys, right?”
I don’t understand the question but I nod. “Sure.”
“And have they ever paid him?”
“Jonathan would never accept payment from Cal or Beth,” I say, maybe too quickly. Years ago, when Jonathan would simply mow their lawn or help feed the calves, I remember Cal paying Jonathan in trips out for ice cream or tickets to the movies. But as far as I know, Cal has never truly compensated Jonathan for the time he spends on their farm. And if I’m being honest, my brother has put in a lot of work there over the years. Hard labor that would have earned him very good money anywhere else. What would that add up to over the course of, well, a decade? Maybe more. I couldn’t begin to guess. But, I remind myself, it doesn’t really matter. Jonathan loves the Murphys. He would never hold something like a little—or even a lot of—money against them.
“I think you’re wrong,” I say, but I don’t sound very convincing.
“I’m just telling you what I know.”
“What else?”
“What do you mean, what else?”
“What are they up to? Why did you show up at the campout a couple weeks ago and why does my brother keep disappearing?” A thought hits me, and all at once I know that I’m right. I speak around a lump in my throat. “What are they planning?”
Sullivan doesn’t deny anything. “You know the Murphys are suing us, right?”
I nod.
He heaves a sad, heavy sigh. “It’s a really big deal, June. Like, we could lose the farm. My family could lose everything.”
“And?”
“And we just want them to stop.”
A sense of dread washes over me. “Sullivan—”
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” he says quickly. “We would never hurt anyone. But if they’re scared or distracted or feel like they can’t win… Maybe they’ll give up.”
“So you—and my brother—are planning to ‘scare or distract’ the Murphys?”
Sullivan looks pained. “Not we. Not really. I mean, I want the lawsuit to go away just as much as everyone else, but I have no part in what they’re planning. In this.”
“But Jonathan does?”
I can tell it’s hard for Sullivan to say it. He swallows visibly and then nods. “Yeah.”
The betrayal I feel is a scalpel to the heart: sharp and clean. I can’t even begin to imagine how Cal and Beth would feel if they knew. I’ve never sensed an ounce of bitterness in my brother toward the Murphys, but if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that it stands to reason. All that time, all those years of free labor and last-minute phone calls for help for nothing but a warm handshake and paternal pat on the back when the work was done… It’s not unrealistic to imagine that Jonathan has had enough. But I can think of at least a dozen ways forward that don’t include intimidation and property damage. Or worse.
“How could he?” I whisper, and don’t even realize I’ve said it out loud until Sullivan has reached for my hand. When I don’t pull away, he laces his fingers through mine.
“People are complicated.”
He’s right, of course. I could have never predicted that I’d be holding Sullivan’s hand, drawing more comfort from his touch than I ever thought possible.
I push aside my misgivings and hold on tight, drawing strength from Sullivan’s warm grip to ask the question: “What are they going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
I study his face, but his gaze is unflinching. Honest. I believe he’s telling the truth. “What do you know?”
Sullivan doesn’t waver. “Whatever it is, they’re planning on doing it on the Fourth of July.”
Less than two weeks away. My mind is off, wheeling through plans and possibilities, wondering if I should confront Jonathan or warn Cal and Beth or involve my parents. Should I call the cops? It all feels a little surreal to me, as if I’ve somehow stumbled into the plot of one of the true crime shows Law likes to watch on TV. But I believe that Sullivan is serious. And the Murphys have already experienced some pretty awful harassment. Roundup on their lawn, trespassers at midnight, a keyed car. A dead dog. What’s next?
Sullivan reads me like a book. “I don’t like it either,” he says, leaning toward me.
His shoulder is so inviting I let my forehead dip toward his collarbone and close my eyes. When his arms go around me, I bury myself against him. It’s impulsive, but a perfect fit somehow. Sullivan smells of fresh-cut wood and the sharp zest of a cold lime. “What are we going to do?”
I’m not sure where it came from, this we. But Sullivan doesn’t contest it. Instead, he brushes his lips against my forehead and murmurs, “I don’t know, but we’ll think of something.”
And just like that, we’re together. In this moment, there’s no place I’d rather be.
CHAPTER 17
WINTER TODAY
“You look flushed,” Cora said when Juniper burst into the library a few minutes before it was scheduled to open. “Are you feeling okay?”
Juniper was not, in fact, feeling okay. Her trip to the Tates’ estate took less time than she thought it would, but it had been deeply unsettling. She felt pale and clammy. Sick. But she said, “I’m fine. And far more worried about you. How are you?”
“Never better. They adjusted my meds and I’m good as new.” That obviously wasn’t true. Cora’s skin had a gray cast and she looked as if she had lost a few more pounds. Juniper wanted to fuss over her, but Cora was having none of it. “Enough about me,” she ordered. “What’s going on?”
“Did Barry tell you what happened this morning?”
Cora nodded, then waved Juniper into her office on the far side of the circulation desk. “Barry can take care of opening. He’s salting the sidewalk.”