India lifted one slender shoulder. “Would be a whole lot easier than convincing all of Jericho that someone in the Tate family was behind it. Do you know how many people they employ? How many donations they’ve made to keep this town afloat? Without irrefutable proof, the Tates are untouchable.”
So all Juniper had to do was rewind the clock and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone in her former lover’s family was a cold-blooded killer.
“I can’t shake the feeling that we’re missing something. Like there’s a giant piece of the puzzle we’ve overlooked. What else happened that summer, Juniper?”
Something nibbled at the back of Juniper’s mind, but she pushed a strand of hair behind her ears and ignored it. “Thank you so much for your hospitality,” Juniper said, standing. “I really appreciate it.”
“I hope I haven’t chased you out.” India rose too, her pretty brow wrinkled in concern. “There’s so much more I’d like to talk about…”
“Another time,” Juniper assured her. “I have something I need to take care of.”
“Sounds ominous.” India followed her to the entryway and leaned against the wall while she watched Juniper slip on her shoes and grab her coat. “But then again, I see the world through a bit of a bleak lens.”
Juniper coughed out a stale laugh. “You certainly do,” she said. “Somehow, it suits you.”
India waited until Juniper had slid behind the steering wheel in Barry’s car, then clicked off the porch light and disappeared. Juniper couldn’t help but think that in another life she’d love India—her quirky interests, the mismatch of her charming exterior and dark inner life.
She turned the ignition in her borrowed car, then took out her phone and tapped a message.
We need to talk.
The three dots of an incoming message appeared and disappeared. After a full minute, Everett finally responded:
About what?
Juniper ignored the question.
I’m coming over.
CHAPTER 22
THAT NIGHT
I might be too late already, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take. Jericho’s shoestring police force and volunteer fire department are busy at the fairgrounds setting off the fireworks, so I careen through town with no regard for posted speed limits. Everyone knows that the annual fireworks show is the darling pet project of Jericho’s finest, and that for half an hour every Fourth of July the town is essentially defenseless. Not that we really need protecting. I think the worst crime that’s happened here in the last twenty years was when Wyatt Tate lifted a couple of stereos from people’s unlocked cars and sold them on eBay. Now it’s a story that’s relayed with a chuckle and a shrug, as if to say, Boys will be boys.
I’d love to believe that we’re still as innocent, but I don’t buy it for a second. My heart knocks painfully in my chest as I reach nearly seventy on the country roads, but I know that Dalton and Jonathan got a head start, and God only knows where Wyatt and Sullivan are. But I can’t go there, I just can’t. I push all thoughts of Sullivan out of my mind as I make the final turn down County Road 21 and accelerate toward the Murphys’ acreage.
I have no idea what I’m getting into, but as helter-skelter as this plan is, I do have the common sense to realize that I’d better take it slow. So instead of turning onto Cal and Beth’s property, I drive right past and pull into the lane that leads to Jericho Lake. It’s deserted, of course, because I’d dare to bet that the entire population of our small town is at the fireworks show—or at least somewhere they can watch it.
With a spray of gravel and a squeal of tires, I whip into a makeshift parking spot near the lake. It isn’t until the car is off and I’m hurrying along the path that Jonathan and I have worn down over the years that I realize just how dark it is. And how scared I am.
There’s no moon tonight, or maybe there is, but it’s hidden behind a wall of high, dark clouds. Although I can’t see the fireworks out here, every once in a while there’s a glow on the horizon, and for just a heartbeat the long, dark tendrils of withering fire etch themselves onto the face of the sky. It’s apocalyptic. It looks as if bombs are being dropped on my hometown, and I’m the lone survivor running through the wilderness.
Stop it. I’m freaking myself out, making matters way worse than they need to be. This is not a zombie movie and aliens are not invading Jericho. I’m on my way to do a little reconnaissance, to make sure that my friends and neighbors are safe, and that nothing gets out of hand. That’s all.
The raspberry canes are over my head, and when I jog down one of the rows, my skin crawls from the scrape of serrated leaves. Or mosquitos. Maybe both. By the time I finally crest the small hill at the top of the Murphys’ farm, I’m itching all over, hyperventilating a little, and convinced that I’m about to stop something truly terrible from happening.
But the farm is quiet. I falter in the darkness, squinting at the curved drive. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing there. No mysterious trucks. No one slinking through the shadows. If Betsy is outside, she’s found no need to bark, and the rest of the pastoral acreage is equally hushed. Every couple of seconds I can hear the faint retort of the fireworks, but when I check my watch and realize it’s almost ten thirty, I know that they’re nearly done. I was sure that if the Tates were going to do something, now would be the time. With everyone’s attention fixed elsewhere, it would be the perfect moment to strike. But I was wrong.
Except, it’s unusually dark. It takes me a moment to realize that the light pole near the old chicken coop is conspicuously dim. It should be lighting up the whole yard, but the bulb isn’t just faded, it’s out. I wonder briefly if it fizzled out on its own or if it was helped along by a rock or a pellet gun. But now that I’m here, my suspicions seem almost silly and I dismiss them out of hand.
For a minute or two I stand just outside the raspberry field and try to catch my breath. The high cloud ceiling is changing the weather, and I can feel the humidity rising. I’m unbearably hot from the run and the sudden shift in pressure, and for a moment I consider walking down the hill to the farmhouse to ask for a drink. There are lights on inside—I can see silhouettes moving behind the windows—but I’d probably scare Cal and Beth half to death.
I’m about to turn and go when a breeze lifts the hair off my shoulders and blows the barn door open. It slams against the side of the large building, making me jump, and causing Penny to snort and neigh in alarm.
Before I can consider what I’m doing, I lope down the hill in the direction of the barn. It’s so dark out that I don’t worry about anyone seeing me trespassing on the Murphys’ property. The only light comes from the glow of the farmhouse windows, and everything else is layer upon layer of shadow and black. But I can make out the bulk of the barn, and even if I couldn’t, I know the way.
At the door of the barn, I pause. What if someone is in there? What if it’s Jonathan? Or Sullivan? I gasp a few shallow breaths and force myself to take the last several steps. I’m pressed tight against the side of the building, head cocked and ears craning for the slightest movement, the slightest sound.
I hear the shuffle of Penny’s feet in the hay. The creak of old wood in a rising wind. A hoot owl in a nearby tree.
Nothing more.
My breath leaves me in a hard exhale, and I lean against the open door, spent. This has been a waste of time, and I will clearly be the butt of every joke forever. I can almost picture the Tate boys and my beloved brother holed up somewhere and laughing at my expense. At the way that they have all strung me along and made me see a specter in every trick of light. I swallowed it all, hook, line and sinker, and greedily gulped down the lie that Sullivan could want me. Could maybe even love me.