“Mia, do you regret taking this semester off? Maybe it isn’t what you thought it would be.”
“Nothing ever is, in my experience.” She looks up with eyes much older than her years, but it’s clear she’s not complaining or looking for sympathy. “But I don’t regret it. Annie needed me. She still needs me. And whatever this is, it’s sure as hell not boring.”
“Nope. It’s like living in the eye of a storm. With people getting hurt all around us.”
Mia nods. “To that point, Serenity’s still not back. You think she’s okay?”
I give it a few moments’ thought. “Serenity can handle herself in most situations. Maybe she’s with Carl.”
Mia laughs, but it sounds forced. “He was sure into her, anyway.”
With that she scoops up the book and slips her feet into a pair of sandals that she’d slid under the sofa.
“I’m going up,” she says, bouncing to her feet. “See you tomorrow.”
I raise a hand to wave, but she’s already turned away, and she doesn’t look back as she passes through the door. The quick beat of feet on wood tells me her young legs swallow the long staircase without effort, and then I’m alone in the silence.
I’ve been lying in bed about five minutes when a soft knock sounds at my door. I hate to admit it to myself, but I’m hoping it’s Serenity. I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t have texted me that she was okay, even if she’s lying in bed with Carl somewhere. With all that’s been happening, surely she knows I’d be worried.
“Come in,” I say, sitting up against the headboard.
A vertical bar of light appears at my door, and then I hear my mother’s voice in the darkness. “Penn? Are you awake?”
“Yeah. I just laid down. Come in.”
Mom slips through the door and pads over to my bed, then sits on the edge of the mattress, a silhouette in the dark. I’m about to switch on the bedside lamp when she touches my hand and asks, “Did you see your father tonight?”
“No,” I tell her, leaving the light off. “Doris Avery called me. I had to go hold her hand for a while.”
“Oh. Did you learn anything? Something that could help?”
I’m not about to let my mother in on Doris’s worst-case fears. “I’m afraid not.”
After a period of silence, Mom says, “I noticed that Serenity’s not back. Is she staying here tonight?”
Something in my mother’s tone sounds more than concerned for Serenity’s safety. “I thought she was. I’m not sure, though.”
Mom makes a noise I can’t interpret. Then she says, “You’ve been very nice to take time out to help her with her research.”
“She’s helped me too, Mom.”
“Oh, I’m sure. She’s had quite an exciting life.”
“Mom . . . what do you want to say?”
“Nothing, really. I just hope you’re not getting too attached to her. I know she seems glamorous, winning that award and everything. But she’s a troubled soul, Penn. I sense it. She’s seen a lot more of the world than you. And I just don’t want—”
“Mom, I’m forty-five. You don’t need to run interference for me.”
In the dim light spilling from the door, I see the trace of a smile, but it quickly vanishes. “I know. But I also don’t want Annie to feel uncomfortable in her own house.”
When I switch on the bedside light, Mom shields her eyes from the sudden brightness. “Do you think she does?” I ask. “Feel uncomfortable.”
“Well, she’s certainly having a tough time right now. And I know Mia senses something between you and Serenity.”
I chuckle at this. “I think Mia’s got a little crush on me, Mom.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. She’s working wonders with Annie, and she’s whip-smart. And you’re a single man with a good—”
“Mom, this isn’t a Jane Austen novel. She’s only twenty years old.”
At this, my mother actually says, “Pshaw,” or something similar. “Twenty-year-olds today know more about life than I knew at thirty. Most girls these days are on the pill by fifteen. Girls from good families, even.”
The subtext of this is painfully clear: A twenty-year-old white girl is a more suitable choice than a thirty-five-year-old black woman.
“It’s bedtime, Mom.”
“All right. I don’t have to be told twice.”
She gets up with a soft groan, and just as I think she’s about to close the door, she says, “Will you promise me something, Penn?”
I sigh. “Sure.”
“Don’t give up on your father.”
Jesus. “I won’t, Mom.”
“I know this is hard. It is for me, too. But Tom has always stood by us. He’s always taken care of us. Now we have to take care of him.”
“I understand,” I tell her, trying to keep the resentment out of my voice. “But it would be a lot easier if he would help.”
There’s a long silence. Then she says, “You can do it, son. I know you can.”
Desperate to change the subject, I ask if she’s had any more migraine or stroke symptoms.
“Not one,” she assures me. “Now that the battle’s been joined, I think I’m going to be fine. It’s the waiting that kills me.”
There’s a lot more waiting to come. “I’ll see you in the morning, when we board the tank.”
“Good night, Penn.”
The door creaks, and the bar of light vanishes.
One restless hour after my mother left my room, something prods me to get up, put on a robe, and walk down to the kitchen. I’m not sure whether I heard something or nervous hunger is driving me. As I move up the hallway in my bare feet, I hear tapping coming from the kitchen. Sliding left, I slip into the dark den and peer through the far door at the kitchen table.
Serenity Butler is sitting at the table with a cup of steaming coffee, her eyes locked on her computer screen. Seeing her bent over the machine, her fingers flying faster than mine ever do when I’m writing, I wonder if she’s somehow found her way onto the same trail where Caitlin fell, just as Caitlin stepped into Henry’s footsteps after he was nearly beaten to death. Serenity’s passion for her work burns as fiercely as Caitlin’s, and this frightens me. I can’t let this young woman lose herself in those old cases and go rogue the way Caitlin did. As tough as Tee is, she might just stumble upon her own Bone Tree in the forests that line the Mississippi River . . . and meet a similar fate.
“You gonna stand there in the dark all night?” Tee asks, never lifting her eyes from the computer. “Or come in here and have some coffee?”
“Can you see in the dark?” I ask, walking into the kitchen.
She holds up her coffee mug. “You want a sip? Just made it.”
“No, thanks.”
Without missing a beat she goes back to typing.
“Something inspired you?” I ask.
“Not exactly. Just getting down some notes and observations. I like to do it when they’re fresh.”
I smile, but I’m envious of her work habits. “So where have you been? I was worried. I think everybody was.”
“Sorry about that. For a while I was where I couldn’t text, and then my battery went dead.”
A teenager’s reply. “I see.”
She glances up, still typing, then suddenly stops and leans back in her chair, faintly amused. “Look, I was out interviewing some people.”