The Unmaking of June Farrow(26)

She took me by the shoulders. “You’re not sick, honey.”

I felt myself still, the air in the room growing thin and dry. It burned in my lungs when I drew it in.

“Now, tell me exactly. How many times have you seen the door?”

I blinked. “I don’t know. Three? Four times?”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“The first time was about a year ago,” I rasped.

“A year ago?” She let me go, her voice rising. “That long?”

“I didn’t want to tell you and Gran. Not when Gran was so sick. I thought . . .”

Birdie pressed a hand to her mouth. She was paler now. “That’s not how—” She swallowed. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.”

“Birdie, tell me what’s going on.”

She crossed the room without another word, disappearing into the hallway. Her bedroom door creaked open, and I could hear a drawer opening and shutting. Then she was back, something pressed between her hands. It looked like another envelope.

“You’re not sick,” she said again. “You, Susanna, Margaret—further back, even.” Her words sped up, warping as I bit down on my lip painfully. “The Farrows are different. You know that.”

The pain radiating at my temples was spreading, my own heartbeat like the strike of a hammer in my ears. But the more she spoke, the more twisted it sounded.

“She didn’t disappear, did she? Susanna?” The words withered on my tongue.

“No. She didn’t.”

I looked around the room frantically, my hand finding the skin inside my forearm and pinching hard. I waited for the walls of the house to dissolve. For my eyes to wake to morning. But nothing happened. I was here, in our home, and I could feel the ground beneath my feet. I could hear the birds singing outside.

I pinched harder. “How long have you known about this?”

That childlike look returned to Birdie’s eyes. “A long time.”

“And what? You and Gran just decided to keep it from me?”

She looked down at the envelope in her hands before she held it out to me.

“What is that?”

“It’s something I’m supposed to give to you.”

I stared at it, eyes inspecting what I hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t one of the brown envelopes from the shop, like the one Gran had mailed to me. It was square and wrinkled with damp, the corners soft and worn.

When I didn’t take the envelope, Birdie extended her hand further. “I give you this, and the rest is up to you. I can’t say anything else. I can’t interfere in any way.” Her tone wavered as tears filled her eyes. But her mouth was set in that straight line again.

“Tell me what’s going on!” I was furious now.

“I made a promise. One I’ve kept for a very long time. I’m not going to break it now. Not even for you.”

I looked at her for a long moment before I finally took the envelope. There was nothing written on it, but it was sealed.

Birdie took a step toward me, and I moved from her reach, headed for the door. I couldn’t be here. I couldn’t look at her or bear to hear what she’d say next.

I’d made it only a few steps before she caught hold of my wrist firmly, and she pulled me into her arms, not giving me a chance to push her away. She held me so tightly that it hurt.

“The next time you see the door, open it.” Her voice shook before she finally let me go, but she didn’t look at me. She walked straight past me, taking her purse from the hook by the door. Then she left, and it slammed behind her.

I stood there, frozen, as her car pulled out from the drive. It was several seconds before I could even feel myself breathing. I looked down at the envelope, hesitating before I tore it open.

Inside, there was another envelope, this one different. It had once been white, now stained with yellowed edges. I slid it free.

There was an address written on the front.

46 Hayward Gap Rd



I knew Hayward Gap Road the same way I knew every road in Jasper. I passed it every time I went to the farm, and I was sure that at some point, I’d driven it. There wasn’t a single inch of this town that didn’t feel familiar to me, but I had no idea what made that address significant. Most of those farmlands were nothing but empty fields and the crumbling barns once used for drying tobacco. Looking closer, I realized this wasn’t Gran’s handwriting. This was a hurried, frantic script in smudged pencil. The fleeting, terrified thought that skipped through my mind was one that I couldn’t bear to consider. Could it be my mother’s?

I slid a shaking finger beneath the seal, and it opened easily. My heart all but stopped beating as I reached inside, but my fingers didn’t find a letter or a photograph. There was something else. Something small and spindly. Fragile.

I slipped it out of the envelope, holding it to the light coming through the window. It was a perfectly pressed flower. A stalk of bluebells. They grew wild all over Jasper each spring. I held the blooms up to the light, turning them slowly. The petals had almost completely lost their color.

I searched the envelope, turning it upside down, but there was nothing else inside. When the flap fell closed, two words stared up at me.

Trust me.





Eight