“What did you talk about?”
Juniper couldn’t imagine what difference it made. “Nothing. Nothing important, anyway.” But in a flash of sudden, absurd disregard for an unspoken family rule, she added, “I wanted to talk to him about the Murphys.”
The air around them seemed to freeze and shatter. At least, it felt that way to Juniper. Clearly Mandy was right: Law and Reb didn’t know about how Jonathan was being tormented. Juniper hugged the wad of protective coverings to her chest and tried to suppress the current that pulsed through her limbs. She had done this. She had made her mother’s face crumble like dry earth between her fingers. I’m sorry. The words rose to her lips, but she didn’t speak them.
The Bakers didn’t talk about what happened. Ever. It wasn’t explicitly forbidden, but it was understood that to mention the murders of Cal and Beth Murphy was to call into question everything they feigned to be true. There were too many uncertainties, too many unanswered questions. So many things they couldn’t say without inflicting irrevocable damage. But the alleged podcast, Jonathan’s harassment, and Everett’s makeshift incident room had convinced her the truth would come out. And they all had to be prepared for it.
Of course, her parents knew none of that. Lawrence was glaring at her, and Reb’s eyes were swimming. “How could you?” Law said through gritted teeth.
Juniper took a tiny step back. “We have to talk about this. What if Jonathan’s accident has something to do with what happened?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Law hissed.
It wasn’t, but she couldn’t tell them about the private conversation she was supposed to have with Jonathan, her necklace that was found in his pocket, or the newspaper clippings and photographs that she had seen in Everett’s house. She just wanted to tip off her parents so that when everything blew sky-high, they weren’t incinerated by the blast.
“I think we need to be ready,” Juniper said, lifting her chin so she could hold Law’s gaze. “People are going to ask questions. They already are. We can’t pretend they’re not justified.”
“And you can’t pretend to know anything about us.” Law’s words were razor-sharp. “You’ve been gone a long time, Juniper Grace.”
Know your place. Law didn’t say it, but Juniper could read between the lines. It was the undercurrent of her life with her family, the careful boundaries that silenced her when the Murphys were killed, and then relegated her to little more than big sister status when Willa was born. Juniper couldn’t deny that at nineteen years old she was terrifyingly young and unprepared to be a mother, and when Reb heroically stepped into the role, Juniper had been relieved. But that didn’t make it right. Juniper understood now that she had probably been suffering from PTSD and postpartum depression. She had needed professional help, not to be edged out of her daughter’s life and sent off to college as if nothing had happened.
All of Juniper’s questions about the night the Murphys were killed—and now, about Jonathan’s fall through the ice—deserved to be heard. She wasn’t going to be silenced this time.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Juniper said. And then she walked away. She didn’t feel bad about leaving her parents, but it hurt to go without getting the chance to say goodbye to Mandy. Instead, Juniper texted her:
Had to go. I’m so sorry. Back soon.
She hoped it was enough.
* * *
Juniper wasn’t supposed to pick up Willa until after supper, but she found herself pulling into Jericho when the late afternoon light was just starting to bleed away on the horizon. It was snowing again, big, fat flakes that were postcard perfect but deceptively dangerous because they stuck to the road almost immediately. Her rental was the safest place for her, but Juniper didn’t want to go there alone. She thought about popping in on Cora, or maybe seeing if Barry wanted to grab a bite to eat, but she dismissed both of those options without much thought. Juniper drove right through town and out the other side, not even sure where she was going until she found herself turning down County Road 21.
The old Murphy place was still picturesque in a run-down, forgotten way. A few renters had circled in and out of the farmhouse, but they never lasted long. Sober Midwesterners weren’t prone to superstition, but there was something about the ramshackle acreage that conjured spirits. Juniper suspected she was one of the only people in Jericho who would call it what it really was: haunted.
Her tracks would show in the inch of snow on the curving driveway, but all at once Juniper didn’t care. She needed to be here. Flicking on her blinker even though the road was abandoned, she crunched gravel and ice beneath her tires and pulled up beside the old coop where Beth had once sold dahlias the color of sunrise and pale, speckled eggs. Now the stones were sagging, the windows empty-eyed and jagged with smashed glass. The door that Cal had painted turquoise was gone completely.