“Did Wyatt go back? Sterling? Dalton?” Each name spills off my tongue, barely a whisper.
“I don’t know. I’ve been driving around, trying to figure out how to tell you, how to make this all right. I was thinking about going to the police station and confessing to what we had done.”
“Shooting out a light?” My head feels gritty, my thoughts wrapped in knots. “I don’t get it.”
“That was just the beginning. The plan was to go back later and set the roadside stand on fire.”
I should be stunned. Horrified, even. But in light of everything I’ve seen, the image of the quaint roadside stand ablaze is almost frivolous. It could be rebuilt. Insurance money would have probably allowed the Murphys to design something even bigger and better. But nothing can fix their bodies broken on the ground.
“They figured they could get away with it if it happened on the Fourth. An errant firework, a drunk drive-by…” Sullivan trails off, and I carefully peel my fingers from his shirt. Step back.
“They’re dead,” I tell him again, unnecessarily. The haunted look in his eyes assures me he knows. “Somebody shot them. I was there.”
“Oh, June.” Sullivan raises a hand and touches my cheek, running the tip of his finger along my jawline before I turn my head away.
“Did you…？” I ask, hating myself for having to voice something so vile.
“Of course not.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
His voice is steady when he says it, but there’s something closed off in his gaze. I don’t know if I believe him. And yet, what choice do I have?
A peal of thunder cracks the night, and a swift wind lifts my hair off the back of my neck to whip it around my shoulders. The temperature drops a couple of degrees as the storm finally reaches the place where we’re standing. I’m shaking uncontrollably, and when Sullivan crosses the space between us and gathers me in his arms, I let him.
“We were here,” I tell him. “That’s our story. We met up at our farm: you, me, and Jonathan. We watched the fireworks from the bed of Jonathan’s truck. And then you went home. I went inside to shower. And Jonathan heard the gunshots.”
“He’s there now?” Sullivan asks, and I can tell that he’s crying.
“Yes. And the police will be coming here soon. You have to go.”
Sullivan squeezes me hard, crushing me against him, and then he threads one hand into my hair and tips my head back. It’s dark, but I can make out his expression in the light coming from the cab of his truck. It’s pure anguish. He kisses me, long and so hard I can feel his teeth scrape against my chapped lips. I can taste the salt of our mingled tears.
“Go,” he tells me, pushing me away. It’s exactly what Jonathan commanded. “Throw your clothes in the washing machine and get in the shower. I’ll move your car.”
I should thank him, say goodbye maybe, but I don’t. I turn and run, skipping every middle step on my way to our porch, and wrenching the screen door open just as the sky erupts. It’s an instant downpour, and I whirl around in the relative safety beneath the overhang to make sure Sullivan is okay. But he’s already in my car, one arm slung over the seat back as he throws it in reverse and parks it neatly exactly where it’s supposed to be.
I watch him for a minute, his long strides as he lopes back to his truck and climbs in. He pauses when he’s in the cab and scans the front of the house, looking, I realize, for me. But the house is pitch-black, the rain falling in sheets, and he can’t see me standing just beyond the screen door. I lift my hand to my lips and then press the spot where he is, my fingers obscuring him as I say goodbye.
CHAPTER 25
WINTER TODAY
Juniper pulled over several blocks away from Everett’s house and called Cora. Her fingers were numb and unresponsive, and it took her a couple tries to get the number right. But by the time Cora finally picked up, Juniper had managed a few deep breaths and was feeling laser-focused. She trained her eyes on her rearview, watching for headlights or—worse—flashing lights and an accompanying siren, and said without preamble: “It’s Everett Stokes.”
“Wait. What?” Cora sounded half-asleep. “What are you talking about?”
“He poisoned Diesel. He’s been harassing Jonathan for weeks. I think he slashed my tires.” She didn’t bother mentioning the podcast. It would all come out soon enough.
Cora’s voice took on a steel edge. “Are you serious?”