Page 60 of Poison Wood

I scroll through my texts, and the muscles that were just starting to loosen tense back up. I have several from media outlets asking for a comment on Heather Hadwick, on why I didn’t disclose my connection to the story when I first went live, on how I feel about other journalists speaking out about what I did.

I pause on the last one, then open my phone and google my name. The ripple effect of my decision to stay quiet about my source to Dom is starting to show. Journalists across the country are posting comments and videos on social media about how my actions do not represent the actions of all journalists. Four days ago, the opposite was being said. I was being praised for my reporting on Broken Bayou. I was being honored for it.

Years of hard work are being ignored for one moment. But I know the rules of this game, and I broke them. Maybe, somehow, with this story I can find a way to rebuild what I knocked over.

I delete the text messages, then spot one from Carl.

Erin wants to talk.

I respond:

Okay. When?

I’ll let you know.

Can we talk?

Later.

That’s all he writes, and I leave it alone as my thoughts drift back to lunch with Summer and Katrina and to the journals on my bed. I work to remember who was driving the truck we stole one night. I want to say Kat was, but we stopped several times, swigging vodka from the bottle and jumping out and switching places. I only know it wasn’t me driving, but I can’t be sure it wasn’t me who covered the driver’s eyes.

As I turn the faucet off with my foot, my cell rings. I sit up straighter in the tub, almost dropping the phone when I do. It’s the number from Martha’s note.

“Hello?” I say.

Silence.

“Hello?” I repeat.

“Who is this?” a woman says.

“Martha Lee gave me your number,” I say. “I went to Poison Wood. My name is Rita Meade. It was Carita when I was at Poison Wood.”

She exhales as I stand up out of the tub and grab a towel.

“Martha gave me a note with your phone number on it and the wordsfollow the money,” I say, hoping she won’t hang up. “Do you know what that means?”

“You’d have to ask her.”

I dry off and find a robe hanging in my closet. “Will you tell me your name?” I cinch the robe belt around my waist.

“This is Rosalie.”

“Rosalie who?” I say as I open my phone and type the name in my notes.

“Rosalie Adair.”

My fingers freeze on the keypad. “What?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Because of you and your father, my brother has spent the last seventeen years of his life behind bars.”

“Rosalie,” I say.

“Don’t ever call this number again,” she says, and she hangs up.

I stand for several seconds in stunned silence.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Debby yells up the stairs and snaps me back to attention.