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Chapter 39

A s interim mayor of Juliana—appointed by the remaining members of the town council after Dixie’s arrest—my first official action was the removal of the bronze statue of Juliana Minette from the town square.

The event took place on a clear September morning. As the entire town gathered around, a giant crane ripped the thing off the marble pedestal, lifted and swung it around, and lowered it onto a flatbed truck. It would be hauled off to a recycling company to be melted down for scrap. The monument pedestal, a big square block of red marble that sat in the center of the fountain, was destined for the county dump. There had been a vote held whether to replace the monument with some other one, but with a resounding no, Juliana decided that the town would have no monument. We would look only to ourselves. Believe only in the strength of our commitment to one another.

Worship was for imaginary gods.

Love was for neighbors.

I also presided over the auction of all the properties in Juliana that had become available when a majority of its citizens were thrown in the slammer. Dixie Minette’s Pepto-pink Victorian went to the Slaters, a family of six from Arizona. Ox Dalzell’s green Italianate was sold to a couple from Texas, Rafe and Miguel, who opened a bed-and-breakfast. The Cleburne farm was sold to a Braves outfielder, an avid hunter and fisher, who planned to retire there. I held Alice Tilton’s house back, just in case she decided to return. I would understand if she didn’t come back. I fully believe the old guard wanted Major to kill her because she knew too much. All I know is if Alice doesn’t come back to Juliana, I think I’m going to turn her house into a bookstore. Every town needs a bookstore.

I moved out of the Dalzell-Davenport house and am working with a mining company out of California to investigate the gas leak and restart operations. I purchased fifty acres north of town and designed—along with an architect, an incredibly talented woman who moved here from San Francisco—a simple, modern farmhouse with a wraparound porch and a pool in the back. It’s a place where I can experiment with foraging wild plants to use in new recipes. Where Mere and Ramsey—and Jamie’s dog Ever, who’s come to live with us—can ramble as far and wide as they want.

Mom and Edge have been down to visit a few times. I think they’re dating or married or common-law. They do seem to be losing interest in The Gathering and have met with a real estate agent down here. I’d love to have them here, to start strengthening those family bonds I thought had snapped so easily during the pandemic. To see Mom, sitting at one of Billie’s tables, waiting to share a plate of French toast with me. Ready to talk about anything and everything. We’ll see.

Telling Mere about Peter was the worst of the aftermath by far. Without a doubt, the worst thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. I found her a therapist, a young woman who moved down from New Jersey. She and I visit Peter’s grave every day, out near Acworth, about a half an hour’s drive from our new home. I used to apologize to him every day, until I realized I was wasting my time. Peter doesn’t need my apologies. He knew everything, even before I did, and tried to put it all together for me. He was my guardian angel. After a while, I quit apologizing and started bringing sea salt dark chocolate squares. Every time I go, I leave one on his headstone.

In late winter, the entire Minette family—Dixie, Major, and Toby—as well as Ox Dalzell and James Cleburne Sr. were convicted on a laundry list of federal charges and sent to a variety of high-security penitentiaries around the country. The so-called “offerings”—coldblooded murders—had apparently been going on for decades, and there were remains to be recovered, mostly from the mill property, which they’d basically turned into a graveyard. There were families to be contacted as well, missing persons cases to be closed, and finally news to be announced to the citizens of Juliana. It was a grueling process, this macabre accounting for all the sins of the past, but I refused to skim over the facts. For Juliana to heal, its citizens had to face the truth.

I was drinking my morning coffee on my newly constructed back porch when I read the news that Jamie Cleburne was charged with three murders—Peter, Madge Beatty, and Isaac Inman’s—and was given multiple concurrent life sentences. I promptly vomited into a pile of sand that the bricklayers had dumped. I wiped my mouth, then shoveled out the offending lump and carried it over to the dumpster. For me, that was the end of Jamie.

I haven’t seen Alice Tilton since that night. I don’t know where she went, and so far, she hasn’t reached out. I wish I could see her, if only to thank her for how she helped me and Mere, but I understand why she stays away. I wish her well. I miss her.

I fully expect most of Juliana’s families to return to town after they’ve served their brief tax evasion sentences, and I plan to welcome them back. Like Lilah Street, they weren’t aware of the horrific things the old guard was involved in, so I cannot lay blame on them. But I do think they bear some responsibility. Their need to turn a blind eye to anything that looked remotely amiss created the right conditions for the old guard to wreak their havoc. The people of Juliana so desperately needed for their lives to go on as usual, to remain untouched by darkness or any trouble, that they failed to hold those who were leading them accountable. They let the power of their leaders go unchecked and paid the ultimate price. They won’t make that mistake again.

As for the old guard, I will never be able to explain how otherwise reasonable, educated men and women could be persuaded to believe that a child, dead for nearly two hundred years, held the power of health, wealth, and success in her hands. But we humans are frail, superstitious things. We long for something to fasten our hope on. Something unshakable to keep us tethered to the ground. And I guess it’s not the craziest thing a group of people has ever chosen to believe in.

And I include myself.

Down in the mine, the few items that the murdered women and children tucked into the rock crevices were salvaged and sent to Professor Argotte at the university for cataloging and archiving. They included scraps of lace, ribbons, and buttons. Wisps of hair. Scraps of paper with names written on them. The names of the dead, demanding to be remembered.

The results came back from the lab, and while there was a bit of carbon monoxide seepage in the mine, I was informed the levels were low. Negligible was the word. Not enough, they said, to cause the hand tremors the citizens of Juliana suffered. To turn a cat wild or a creek, rusty red.

So, yes, I suppose I’m as superstitious as anyone else. In the end, I can’t deny what I experienced. I saw those women and children. I heard their music and the curses they pronounced. It may defy logic, but I believe they were real. They were the voices of the dead calling through time and space for justice.

And we gave it to them. We gave all of those souls justice.

It was a difficult decision, whether to stay in Juliana or leave, but Mere and I made it together. “Juliana’s our town now,” she said when I asked her one morning if she missed New York. “Don’t you think, Mom?”

I did. For better or worse, Juliana did feel like our town. And with the old guard gone, the town felt like a ship without a rudder. I knew I wasn’t obligated to be captain of that ship, but I couldn’t deny its pull. After everything we’d been through, I couldn’t just walk off into the sunset. I wanted to stay and see the town recover and thrive. For my family and for every person who loved this place.

Gentle Juliana, My Forever Home.

So now it’s become my life’s mission to protect this little town in Georgia. To keep Juliana safe and healthy, free and fair, for me and my daughter and anyone else who comes seeking shelter and a place to rest from the turmoil of life. If they come, when they come, they will find Juliana’s arms flung wide with welcome. They will find a family. They will find home.