Uncertainty coiled itself around Juniper’s neck and she backed away, yanking out of her sister-in-law’s insistent grip. Hurt registered so immediately on Mandy’s face that Juniper quickly reversed course and folded her in a hug. “I know,” she said, but the assurance rang hollow.
The distance between Mandy’s confidence and Juniper’s own misgivings was razor thin. But it was there. When Cal and Beth Murphy were murdered nearly fifteen years ago, no one could have predicted it. And in some ways, everyone should have.
No one was entirely innocent. Not even Jonathan.
CHAPTER 4
SUMMER 14 AND A HALF YEARS AGO
My cell is a slim flip phone in sparkly pink. It was a birthday present to myself, a splurge that still gives me a little burst of pleasure when I slide it out of the back pocket of my shorts and thumb it open. I feel guilty for loving it, for having even a brief, happy thought when the sky is darkening to cinders above me and Baxter is buried beneath a couple feet of freshly turned earth in the grove.
I’ve missed several text messages, most of them from Ashley, who has undoubtedly been trying to get a hold of me all morning. But of course I didn’t dare to answer my phone with Beth alternately sobbing into a crumpled-up tissue and muttering angrily under her breath.
“Where have you been?” Ashley demands when I call her.
“Long story.”
“I have time.”
I sigh, uncertain that she’s ready to have this conversation. The low-grade drama that has surrounded Cal and Beth Murphy for as long as I can remember feels changed this morning. Darker, somehow dangerous. But if I’m honest with myself, the slow simmer has been developing into a fast boil all along. First, there was the slur bleached onto their pristine front lawn. It took an entire summer for the four ugly letters to become indistinguishable from the rest of the carefully tended, bottle-green grass. KOOK. I wasn’t even sure what it meant. What were they trying to say, those mudslinging, property-destroying tormentors? It seemed laughable at first. But the Murphys didn’t find it funny. “It’s not about property damage,” Cal had said. “It’s dehumanizing. They’re trying to isolate us.”
Then the Murphys’ trees were toilet-papered, their roadside stand egged, and a single leaded window broken by a rock hurled through the vintage door. Later, Jonathan had told me about threatening phone calls and a truck that drove onto the Murphys’ property one night and spun a few donuts in the gravel before honking madly and careening off into the darkness. Popular opinion pointed to teenage hoodlums as the culprits, but everyone knew there were other threats at play. Still are, apparently.
But I’m not interested in talking to Ashley about any of that right now. The strange angle of Baxter’s neck is haunting me, making me feel jittery and scared. And Jonathan’s proclamation: This wasn’t an accident. I can’t help but feel like whoever poisoned him is crouching in the ditch grass right now. Watching.
“Later,” I tell Ashley as I hurry toward home. I’m taking the road, too shaken to follow the footpath past the lake without Jonathan leading the way. Gravel crunches beneath my feet and sticks to the rubber soles of my flip-flops. I don’t bother to stop and brush it off. “Anyway, I’m hungover. You too?”
Ashley hoots. “I knew it! You are the absolute worst. We have to build up your tolerance before you leave.”
My best friend isn’t going to college. She’s taking a “gap year,” if you can even call it that, because she doesn’t plan to travel or even get a job. Ashley’s mother had twins less than a year ago and, at late forty-something, is drowning beneath the responsibilities of being a round-two, brand-new mother. I’ll be like a nanny, Ashley says, but I know what a sacrifice she’s making for her mom.
“Not interested in being the college drunk,” I say too brightly. My head still pounds and I feel like the scent of death lingers in my clothes, my hair. I’m desperate to scour myself. “I’m taking a quick shower and then let’s go to Munroe.”
“Today?”
“Yes, today.”
“Mom wants me to watch the twins this afternoon—”
“It’s the first day of summer break!” I interrupt. The thought of being stuck at home, of being trapped with Jonathan and my angry mother for the afternoon, makes me tense. “Camp starts next week, and you know I’ll be busy every single day after that.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Ashley!”
“Fine, okay.” A big sigh whistles through the line. “I’ll tell my mom I can’t.”
I sag a little in relief. “Half an hour. Can you drive?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ashley cuts the line.
When I slip in the side door of the farmhouse, a soft rain is just starting to fall. It splats on the black hood of Jonathan’s truck and hisses at the sting of hot metal. The air is electric, charged with warm rain and summer ground, dusty and savage. It’s a relief to shut the door and be enveloped by the smell of detergent, clean clothes. Mom’s been doing laundry, and it’s heaped on the counter beside the washing machine in neat piles. Whites and lights and darks. I can see the thin blue stripes of the master bedroom sheets spinning circles in the dryer. Clearly the ominous morning sky discouraged my mother from hanging the laundry on the clothesline outside. She’s bound to be irritable knowing she won’t fall asleep in sunbaked sheets tonight. I add it to the list of things that will weigh her down today, and I’m grateful that Ashley will soon whisk me away.
I can no longer hear Mom playing cello. Save the hum and bump of the washer and dryer, the house is eerily silent, holding its breath, and as my chest tightens, I realize that I’m not breathing, either. I’m rattled, even though I don’t want to be. Even though I want to pretend that all of this is quite safe. Normal.
From the outside looking in, Jericho is as spit-polished and shiny as a pearl button. Friendly and close-knit, to be sure, but in the way that mob families are. If you fit the mold, honor the customs and routines that have been passed down for generations, you’re gold. If not, well, don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you, as Law likes to so eloquently say.
I have a feeling that’s why the Murphys have targets on their backs. They’re different. They dared to put up a political sign last year that didn’t match every other one in town. Their vegetables are organic (or nearly so—Beth told me they’re a year away from full certification), and their chickens free-range. Worst of all, they’re smack dab in the middle of the biggest drama Jericho has ever seen. I think there are lawyers involved.
“Juniper?”
I slip into the upstairs bathroom quick as can be and ease the door shut. There’s no use pretending I didn’t hear her, but I can put off a face-to-face confrontation for a few minutes at least.
“In the bathroom!” I shout, yanking off my T-shirt and turning on the shower.
Even with the water running I can hear Mom coming up the stairs. They creak, or at least some of them do, and Mom doesn’t avoid the squeaky ones like Jonathan and I do. I kick off my shorts and hop in, even though the water is still cold. It spills over my warm skin and makes me gasp.
“We need to talk,” Mom says, sticking her head in the bathroom. I forgot to lock the door, damnit. Thank goodness for plaid shower curtains.
“I’m showering here.”
“When you’re done.”
“Ashley’s coming. We’re going to Munroe.”
“It’s raining.”
“It’ll stop.” I duck my head under the lukewarm spray and silently curse myself. The beach is hardly appropriate for a stormy day. “We’ll kill time at Starbucks, or Target.”