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Chapter 37

T he Emma Jackson file was first.

Like Alice’s files, Jackson’s were all video recordings. Emma was a strikingly attractive woman with funky angular green eyeglass frames, bright pink lipstick, and brown hair she wore in a long braid over her shoulder. The session was recorded, like Alice’s had been, but this was clearly no therapy session. It was more like an interview. She told the whole story of how she met and married Jamie Cleburne, but how when she moved down to Juliana, things had gotten off to a rocky start.

She thought it was sweet at first, Jamie’s unwavering devotion to his father. In fact, all the younger people in town seemed to defer to the older generation in a way that was really refreshing. But then it started to feel off to her. No one traveled unless they had to for work; everybody seemed perfectly content, even preferred to hang out in Juliana all year round.

Emma had brought her dog with her from D.C., a scrappy little Jack Russell who, wild with his newfound freedom in the country took to breaking out of his electric fence enclosure and running all over the town. One day, he was picked up on the road next to the Dalzell-Davenport property. He was a filthy, matted, snarling mass and had attacked the man who rescued him—almost like the poor thing had a case of rabies—and they’d had to put the dog down. It had pushed Emma over the edge and started the unraveling of her and Jamie’s marriage.

“That town is fucked up,” Emma told Peter. “The founding families don’t pay for anything; they barter. They do deals with each other for everything. I don’t even think any of them pay property taxes. The county commissioner may not be one of the three main families, but he’s one of the originals. And if you’re a Tilton or a St. John or a Childers, Calhoun, Street . . . you do whatever the old guard tells you to do.

“But it’s more than that. My dog was sick. Like he was possessed or something. It’s like they’re all possessed. Or obsessed. There’s something in the air. Or the water. Literally, I think.”

Then Emma Jackson had taken off her glasses and leaning forward, had pointed at the camera. “I’m telling you, you and your wife should get out of there, Dr. Hope. I don’t know what it is but there’s something really bad going on in that town.”

I clicked through the other files. The Minette Gold Mine one was basically a collection of archived papers and old newspaper entries about the 1832 Georgia land lottery in which Alfred Minette had been awarded forty acres, part of it right where the Dalzell-Davenport house stood now. Peter had obviously been piecing the mystery together long before I was, connecting dots in his typical calm, well-thought-out, methodical way.

I clicked on the last document, the video file labeled For You . Peter, my husband, the man I’d loved for almost thirteen years, appeared before me in his office, kicked back in his creaky old office chair. He wore a wrinkled white button-down and jeans. Brown hair tousled, tortoiseshell glasses, and freckled skin. The sight of him sent a lightning bolt of sharp, searing pain through my entire body. I touched the screen, as if somehow I could touch him.

Onscreen Peter cleared his throat. “Hi, Billie, it’s me. Obviously. There’s a lot I have to say, so you should probably grab a paper and pen. You’re going to want to take notes.

“I’ve been doing some research,” Peter said, looking directly into the camera. Directly at me. “That’s all I’ve been doing, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. You can always sense when we’re disconnected, Billie. When I’m not fully present. I may be the therapist, but you’ve always been more in tune in that area.”

I swallowed back the threatening tears.

“I’ve called every history expert I could find,” Peter went on. “And they all say the same thing. There was no official record of a gold mine in Juliana, Georgia. There’s a public record that Alfred Minette won a lottery for forty acres, on which he established the town of Juliana, but the official story is that he never found any gold. He built a mill.”

Peter went on to tell me he’d come to believe that there was no well, uncapped or otherwise, on the property. It had all been a ruse to keep us from finding the gold mine. Alice Tilton had confirmed its existence. Also, his sleeplessness, our nightmares, and Ramsey’s odd behavior pointed to poisoning from leakage from the mine. He suspected Doc Belmont of purposefully misplacing his labs. And he worried we were being watched. He had somehow managed to track down Wren Street and they’d compared stories. Compared nightmares.

Something was terribly wrong in Juliana, he said, and we were at the very center of it.

He leaned toward the screen, his expression serious. “I’m worried I’ve made myself—that I’ve made all of us a target. If you’re watching this . . . I’m guessing something has happened to me. If that’s the case, I need you to listen to me carefully.”

I sat very still.

His voice lowered to a growl. “Run, Billie. Take Mere and get the hell out of this place. These families have killed people, and I have no doubt they’ll do it again. There’s no use trying to prove it or trying to hold them accountable. Murder is a state crime, not a federal one, and from everything I’ve found, local and state law enforcement takes orders from the three families as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if the State Attorney General is a fucking St. John or Calhoun.”

He was right about that.

“Just get out, Billie—get yourself and Mere to someplace safe and start a new life. And one more thing . . .” He hesitated and I did, too, waiting for him to speak.

Just say it, Peter. Tell me it’s my fault.

“I don’t blame you for moving us here,” he said, as if in reply to what I’d just thought. Like we were still connected by a cord that hadn’t been broken, even by my betrayal. Even by his death. My throat felt tight, my eyes burned with tears.

“I don’t blame you for any of it. Sometimes you do what you do to survive. To live. I know after you lost your restaurant, you lost your mom, that moving away from New York was what you had to do. It was a cruelty, what happened to you, and I didn’t see how much it hurt you. I didn’t see how much you were suffering and keeping it inside.

“I’ve been a bad husband, Billie. I’ve failed you and Mere, and I’m ashamed of how badly I’ve handled all this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything, and I just wanted to tell you . . . I love you, Billie. So fucking much.” His voice broke. “I will always love you—you and Mere—I will always love our life more than anything. Don’t ever forget that. Don’t ever believe anything different.”

I let the tears go and, as if somehow it would get me closer to Peter, pressed my hands onto the iPad screen.

* * *

I cleaned the kitchen, then absently sifted through the pile of mail stacked on the counter. I hadn’t gone through it in weeks, and it was in danger of creating an avalanche. As I was sorting, one caught my eye—a bill from the Bartow County Tax Commissioner.

Shit . I’d totally forgotten about our county property tax.

I opened the envelope and eyed the balance due amount. It was almost three thousand dollars—an amount I’d known was coming due on the house and twelve acres we’d gotten for a song but hadn’t thought of in weeks. And then I noticed the return address. Bartow County’s Tax Commissioner, someone named Lemmy Street. One of Lilah’s many cousins, no doubt.

Emma Jackson’s words echoed in my brain. I don’t even think any of them pay property taxes. And then Major’s: You know there ain’t no property taxes around here. Not if you know the right people. Then Peter’s: Murder is a state crime, not a federal one....

And suddenly I had it. Our way out of Juliana.