The Unmaking of June Farrow(41)

Another wind picked up and the chimes knocked together, sending another throng of high-pitched peals into the air. I walked toward them, up the porch steps, until I was standing beneath them.

What Esther had said about the fraying rope made sense where there had never been any before. The things I’d seen—the things that had happened to me—weren’t hallucinations or delusions or any of the things that Dr. Jennings had written in his notes. They were actual, real events bleeding through from another time.

Voices sounded at my back and I blinked, tearing my eyes away from the chimes. I could see Esther and Eamon through the window, Eamon standing in the kitchen with his arms crossed over his chest and shirtsleeves pulled up to his elbows. His hair was damp with sweat and falling into his eyes as he looked at Esther, but I couldn’t read the look on his face.

I took a step closer to the window, listening.

“. . . much choice here.” It was Esther’s voice.

“He’s not just going to let this go. You know that.”

The rumble of a car on the road drowned out the next words, and I caught only the end.

“. . . she’ll be gone.”

They stared at each other another moment before Esther finally made her way back to the door. When it opened, she looked surprised to find me on the porch.

Her chin jerked toward the house. “Come on, then.”

Again, I looked to Eamon through the window. He was watching me now, in a way that felt both wary and threatening. The white fabric of his shirt was darkened with sweat across his broad chest, the muscles of his arms corded under the skin. He was tense. On alert, as if he were ready to protect this place from me.

“Well?” Esther looked at me, waiting.

I took a steadying breath before I gathered the will to step inside. Esther gave me an encouraging smile as I passed, letting the door close behind me.

I found a place to stand beside the fireplace and tried not to study the little trinkets on the mantel. A speckled feather, a seashell. A small bronze box with an engraved lid. Across the room, a curtain half hid a small nook with what looked like a bed, where a little rag doll was tossed on top of the blanket. I hadn’t noticed it yesterday, maybe because the curtain had been closed. It had to belong to the little girl I’d seen in Eamon’s arms yesterday. I’d been careful not to think too much about her.

“Now,” Esther began. “The best thing we can do is to act as normal as possible. June, you’ve been in Norfolk taking care of your mother after a stroke. She’s doing much better, so you’re home for good.”

I stiffened. “For good?”

“As far as the town’s concerned, yes.”

Eamon watched me, dark eyes studying my face in a way that made me shift on my feet.

“People will be curious.” She continued, “They’ll ask questions. So, it’s important that you’re careful with your words. Don’t embellish, don’t share details. Do you understand?”

I gave her a small nod. I did understand, but I didn’t like the feeling that filled the room. I didn’t have any idea what had taken place here in the last five years. The choices I’d made. The people I’d hurt. All of this felt like being dropped into a stranger’s life and it was clear I wasn’t welcome here.

“I’ll take Annie for the night. Give you two a chance to . . .” She paused. “Talk.”

She gave me one last, long look before she went out the back door. Seconds after I heard her call Annie’s name, the little girl was standing in the open doorway of the barn. The remains of what looked like a muffin were clutched in her small hands as she followed on Esther’s heels toward the truck.

When I looked back to Eamon, he hadn’t moved, but the coldness in his eyes seemed to thaw just a little. He looked more curious now. Appraising. Like he was just beginning to let himself take in the sight of me standing there.

“I don’t have to stay,” I said, my attention dropping to his hands. They were darkened, streaked with something black that had been only half-heartedly wiped off.

“That might have been true if you listened to me yesterday and stayed out of sight.” The words were buried beneath the deep tenor of his voice. The accent was easier to pick out now, a dim Irish lilt that had lost its most recognizable traits. “But everyone in town will know by now that you’re here. There’s no getting around that.”

I folded my hands together, unsure of what to do with them. He wasn’t trying to make me more comfortable or put me at ease, the way Esther had. This man was angry, and he didn’t care if I knew it.

“You’ll stay here until . . .” He didn’t finish, as if he couldn’t even bring himself to say it.

“The door,” I murmured.

He nodded. “When it comes back, you’ll leave, and we can all get back to our lives.”

My jaw clenched, my whole body going rigid at the thought that followed. “And if it doesn’t?”

“It will. It always comes back.” He dropped his gaze from mine. It sounded like there was more meaning to the words than I knew. “You can take the bedroom. I’ll sleep out here.”

I looked to the door off the kitchen. Behind it, the remnants of a life I didn’t remember were preserved like a tomb. The thought of going back in there made my stomach turn.