The knowledge sat like a hot stone in my stomach.
I considered, again, asking Brenda or Claude to go with me into the tunnels, to that door Junie had opened, and figure out what was on the other side. I was afraid to do this alone, but I also didn’t want to put them in jeopardy. If Maureen had been murdered for what she’d done in that basement, her bedroom ransacked looking for evidence of it （evidence that I now sort of possessed, in the form of her diary）， then what I was going to do was dangerous.
That’s when I realized there was one person I could tell, someone who could protect me.
My dad.
Now that Maureen was dead, I didn’t have to guard her reputation. I could share what I’d seen. The realization that I didn’t need to return to the tunnels after all, didn’t need to break into that basement, moved across me like cool water. I’d tell Dad everything, about the three men, the bracelet, the message I’d discovered in her diary, the awful things she’d described, things she’d surely done in that same basement. My face grew stove-coil red just thinking about saying those words to him, but I’d do it.
I cooked hamburger hotdish for dinner and even mixed up some strawberry Jell-O 1-2-3 for dessert. I made enough for four, but Mom never left her bedroom, and Dad didn’t come home. I practiced smiles in the mirror with Junie, even though my face resembled a Halloween mask. I scoured the kitchen, even cleaning the inside of the fridge, drew Mom a bath, tucked her in bed after, and popped into Junie’s room to say good night.
Then I waited on the sofa, watching the front door.
The emotional release of knowing I didn’t have to do this alone was overwhelming.
Dad would realize it wasn’t suicide once I told him everything.
It was the Pantown way to go it alone, but alone didn’t mean without your parents.
CHAPTER 30
The scream of the phone woke me.
Was it for us? I glided toward the kitchen, pulled by an invisible line. I was out of sorts, disoriented from sleeping on the couch—had Dad even come home?—but my body knew that you did not let the party line ring if it was for you. That was rude to your neighbors.
The call stopped when I reached the kitchen, then immediately started again. Three long rings and a short one. I snatched the handset off the wall. “Hello?”
“Heather?”
I leaned against the wall. The clock above the stove said 7:37 a.m. I couldn’t believe I’d slept downstairs all night. “Hey, Brenda. What’s up?”
Yesterday’s worry hadn’t yet caught up with me. I padded to the threshold between the kitchen and living room, trailing the coiled cord behind me. No noise from upstairs or this floor. Mom, Dad, and Junie must not be up. But that didn’t make sense for Dad. He needed to be at work by eight.
“I’m scared,” Brenda said, yanking me back into the conversation, her voice as tight as a snare wire. “What if the same thing happens to us that happened to Maureen?”
The rules of the party line were unspoken but rigid. You talked around anything scandalous, never mentioning specifics that could be used against a person. “It wouldn’t. We weren’t doing the same things.”
“It was my name on the shirt.”
I blinked, wiped at crust in the corner of my eye. “What?”
“You were wearing Jerry’s shirt, Heather. His name is on the chest patch. My name. Taft. Anyone . . . anyone in that room looking out could see it. He saw it.”
He. Jerome Nillson. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” The word bulleted out, so much pressure built up behind it.
“I’m going to tell my dad, Brenda. Okay? We need to come clean. That’s the most important thing. Justice.” The word was top-heavy on my tongue, abstract but important, like “reputation” had been until it wasn’t.
Brenda was quiet for a few seconds. A toilet flushed overhead. It was too early for Junie to wake up. Must be a stay-asleep pee.
“All right,” Brenda finally said.
“All right,” I agreed.
If Dad had come home last night—he must have; where else would he spend a night?—he’d arrived and left on mouse feet. Mom was alone in her bed, Junie tuckered out in hers. I combed my hair forward, tossed on my last clean pair of underwear—I never had gotten to that load of laundry—shorts, a bra, and a T-shirt, crammed down a couple pieces of toast, and hopped on my bike.
I couldn’t Sherlock it alone. This wasn’t television. Good thing my dad happened to be one of the top law enforcement officials in the county. It was unfortunate he was friends with Sheriff Nillson. It would make things awkward, but my dad always did the right thing.