Page 3

March 4, 2019

Colly Newland stood on the porch of the old farmhouse, cradling a cup of coffee and staring out across the fields. The sun was rising, huge and orange, through a sickle-shaped gap in the distant bluffs, glittering and flashing on the spinning blades of the wind turbines that lined the heights. Mist drifted above the fence line, and a rich, loamy scent of damp earth hung in the air, along with a sharp chemical smell—the ranchers spraying the winter wheat.

Colly shifted uneasily. Beneath the squabbling of crows in the field next to the house, a heavy, aching quiet thrummed in her ears. Accustomed to the hum and rumble of Houston, she found the silence unnerving.

Twenty-five years ago, when Randy first mentioned bringing her home to meet his family, he’d warned her: “West Texas can be a little overwhelming if you’re not used to it—all the space and silence. And then there’s my family.”

“Crazy?” she teased. “I can deal with crazy.”

“Complicated. I just want you to know what you’re getting into.”

“All families are complicated.”

“Half of Crescent Bluff works for my father, so being a Newland there—you’re under a microscope. Everyone’s angling for something. And the family’s like a spiderweb you can’t escape.”

“You escaped. So did Russ.”

“Our bodies got out, for now. But up here ... ” Randy tapped his forehead and shrugged. “At least Russ and I tried. Willis and Lowell will be stuck there forever.”

Colly hadn’t taken his warnings seriously at the time. They were both twenty-one, graduating from college. She was going to be an FBI profiler and Randy a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist. They’d get married, move out east—to Washington, or New York, maybe. Reinvent themselves. Back then, it seemed inconceivable that anything could stand in their way.

But life hadn’t followed the script they’d written for it. Colly remembered with painful clarity precisely when their dreams slipped through their fingers, though neither of them recognized the moment’s full significance at the time. She’d been twenty-six, standing in her patrol uniform in the kitchen of their first little apartment, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce and holding two-year-old Victoria on one hip. They’d just given their landlord thirty days’ notice and were packing to move to D.C.

Randy came into the kitchen and sat down heavily. His face was bleak. He stared at the linoleum. “Colly, I can’t go.”

“What?”

He swallowed. “Momma’s going to need the emotional support. Willis, too. Prison’ll be tough on him. I’m sorry.”

Colly laid down the spoon and brushed her thick, dark hair away from her face, working to keep her voice calm. “Does it have to be you?”

“Dad’s no help. Russ is in South Korea, and Lowell’s a self-absorbed prick.”

“Are you saying you want to move home?”

Victoria began to fuss. Colly was gripping her too tightly. She set her down, and the child immediately began to toddle to her father.

“God, no. But I’d like to be close enough to get home on the weekends when they need me—just till everything’s more settled.” He stooped to pick up Victoria. “We both have good jobs. It won’t kill us to stay in Houston a little longer.”

He’d been wrong, though. A little longer became two decades, and staying in Houston had killed them—had killed Randy and Victoria, at least. And now here was Colly, on her own at forty-six and just as entangled in the Newland web as ever.

Behind her, the screen door slapped open, as loud as a gunshot. Colly jumped, sluicing coffee over her hand. A young boy in black pants and a rumpled t-shirt was watching her from the doorway with solemn blue eyes.

“Ow! Satchel, why?” Colly shook her burned fingers to cool them.

“Sorry.” The boy anxiously chewed his lip, a habit that had left one side of his mouth perpetually chapped. He was seven years old but small for his age, with white-blond hair and skin so pale it seemed translucent. A timid boy—so much like Victoria in appearance but so unlike her in temperament. Victoria had been fearless. “I’m ready to go, Grandma.” He squinted into the sunrise.

“Get out of the light,” Colly snapped. “What on earth are you wearing?”

He stepped back into the shadows. “My trilobite shirt.”

“You slept in that. Go get a fresh one from your suitcase.”

He shook his head. “It’s my lucky shirt.”

“Then you shouldn’t have slept in it.” They stared at each other. After a moment, Colly checked her watch and sighed. “Fine. Take it off. I’ll look for an iron.”

The darkened foyer of the house was cluttered with dim shapes that slowly coalesced into a jumble of half-unpacked luggage as Colly’s eyes adjusted. The boy was bouncing on his toes beside a large suitcase, his now-naked torso glowing in the dim light.

“Maybe the iron’s in here?”

Colly shook her head. “I didn’t bring one—Uncle Russ said this house was fully furnished. Go brush your teeth and get your sun-sleeves and hat. I’ll look around.”

The boy tossed Colly his shirt and raced for the stairs.

Colly rummaged through closets, then headed for the kitchen. It was an old-fashioned, cheerful space, with World War Two–era enameled countertops and white curtains festooned with cross-stitched cherries.

Colly checked the pantry and cupboards. “Wonderful. Guess I’m improvising.”

She set a heavy stock pot on the stove to heat, then layered several dish towels on the countertop.

A few moments later, Satchel entered the kitchen, still shirtless but with his backpack slung over a skinny shoulder. He wore a floppy bucket hat and in one hand clutched two dark strips of nylon that looked like a pair of women’s stockings.

“What’re you doing, Grandma?”

“Ironing.”

“With a pot?”

“It’s hot metal. What’s the difference?” She finished pressing the shirt and inspected it. “Good enough. Take off the hat, buddy.”

She popped the t-shirt over his head, then helped him slide the nylon sleeves onto his arms.

“I look dumb. Everyone’ll laugh.”

“You wear them in Houston.”

“People know me there.”

“They’ll get to know you here, too.”

In his pack, she found the tube of prescription sunblock, which she massaged briskly into his face, neck, and the backs of his hands as he grimaced and squirmed.

“Be still for the teacher when she does this today. She’s got a lot of kids to deal with.”

“It’s all gross and greasy. She’ll hate me.”

“Aunt Brenda explained things to her.” Colly dropped the tube into the pack. “Put on your jacket—we’re running late.”

“What about breakfast?”

“You can eat a granola bar in the car.”

“Why do I even have to go to school here?”

“It’s just for a couple weeks.” Colly rummaged in her purse for keys. “I don’t want you to get behind. Besides, you can’t stay here alone. I’ll be working.”

Satchel kicked the doorframe. “You said you retired. You promised.”

Colly sighed. “Uncle Russ needs my help. Nothing bad will happen. Let’s go, Mr. Worry-Wart.”

The town of Crescent Bluff lay only five miles to the west, but it took Colly twenty minutes to reach it over the rutted dirt roads that wound through a patchwork of wheat fields and undeveloped scrubland. Other than the addition of a twelve-pump gas station and adjoining Starbucks out by Highway 208, the place had changed very little since the first time Randy brought her home. As she drove down Market Street, with its antiquated Western-style storefronts, each landmark reminded her sharply of him. She felt her jaw tightening, and she forced herself to relax.

Ten minutes later, Colly parked in the elementary school lot and glanced in the rearview mirror.

Beneath the brim of his hat, Satchel’s face was white. “What if the other kids ask why I live with my grandma?”

“Satchel, I’m just forty-six. They’ll probably think I’m your mom.”

His eyes widened. “With white hair and wrinkles?”

Colly frowned and rotated the mirror until her own gray eyes stared back at her, wary and defiant beneath straight, heavy brows. The outline of her head was blurred by a nimbus of unruly hair—dark brown but threaded with a few undeniable strands of white. Her face looked leaner, tougher than the last time she’d been in Crescent Bluff, the fair skin more deeply furrowed, the once-generous mouth now pressed into a tight, cautious line. It was a guarded face, stripped for action—one that took in everything and revealed nothing.

Colly looked away. “You don’t have to tell anybody anything you don’t want to, Satch. Come on, let’s find Aunt Brenda.”

Inside the school’s main hallway, Satchel clung to Colly’s hand as they threaded through a crowd of raucous children. It was a relief to enter the comparative quiet of the central office suite.

“I’m looking for Brenda Newland,” Colly told the middle-aged woman behind the main desk.

The woman smiled pleasantly and regarded them over her half-moon glasses. “She’s expecting you?”

“Yes. I’m her sister-in-law.”

“Oh.” The woman’s expression soured. “Mrs. Newland stepped out for a minute. You can wait in her office.” She nodded curtly towards a door labelled “School Counselor.”

The office was small and meticulously neat. Colly and Satchel sat on a bench in front of the desk. On the opposite wall hung a framed poster of Texas wildflowers, and in its glass, Colly caught another disconcerting reflection of herself. She pulled out her hairband to smooth and retie the thick ponytail.

“How come the lady at the desk was mad at us?” Satchel asked.

“She’s mad at me, buddy. Not you.”

“Why?”

“Some people here think I did a bad thing.”

“Did you?”

“Not now, Satchel. Take off your gear and put it in your pack.”

Satchel removed his hat and stripped off the protective sleeves. “Did Grandpa Randy really go to this school when he was little?”

“Yes. Uncle Russ and Uncle Lowell, too.”

“Not Uncle Willis?”

“He went to a special school.”

“Why?”

“His brain didn’t work right. He needed extra help.”

Satchel looked at her. “How did Uncle Willis die? You said you’d tell me.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“You always say that, but we never do.” Satchel scowled and swung his feet.

After a few minutes, the door opened and a slender woman entered carrying a stack of folders. She was in her late thirties with short chestnut hair and the compact, muscular limbs of a runner. Her eyes, dark and intense, were set in a narrow face.

“There you are. I’m so glad.” Brenda Newland laid the folders on the desk and hugged Colly and Satchel. “How long has it been?”

“A couple years. Not since the funeral.”

Brenda winced. “Sorry to bring that up.”

“I love the haircut. You look great, Bren,” Colly said, though secretly she thought her sister-in-law seemed tired, her face more deeply lined than Colly remembered.

“You’re sweet, but I own a mirror.” Brenda ran her fingers absently around the margins of her lips, where the skin had begun to pucker slightly. “Shocking how much divorce ages a person.”

“How’s that going?”

“Nothing’s easy. You know Lowell. But we’re trying to be civil for the kids’ sake.” She glanced at Satchel, then mouthed to Colly, “ Later. ” Aloud, she added, “You got in last night? How’s the farmhouse? It’s been empty for ages. You could’ve stayed with me.”

“I like the quiet. Helps me work.” In truth, Colly wanted a refuge from the pressure of other people’s unspoken accusations. She needed a safe zone.

“I hope Russ remembered to check the mouse traps and turn on the electricity.”

“There wasn’t an iron,” Satchel said abruptly. “Grandma used a soup pot.” He plucked at his shirt.

“You look very nice.” Brenda laughed. “Logan and Minnie are so excited you’re here, Satchel. They can’t wait to see you.”

Satchel fidgeted with his backpack. “Okay.”

“He’s a little nervous.” Colly glanced at her watch.

“When are you meeting Russ?”

“I said I’d be at the station by nine.”

Brenda nodded. “Satchel, let’s find your classroom.” She turned to Colly. “Then we’ll do the paperwork.”

By the time they emerged from the school offices, the central hallway had largely cleared, though a few teachers were still shooing stragglers into classrooms. Colly took Satchel’s hand, and they followed Brenda down the hall.

“Here’s Mrs. Boyles, one of our second-grade teachers.” Brenda waved at a petite, energetic-looking African American woman in flats and a knee-length skirt who was moving briskly towards a classroom.

“Wanice, this is Colly Newland and her grandson, Satchel, the boy I was telling you about.”

Wanice Boyles welcomed them warmly. “Why don’t you go inside, Satchel. My aide will show you your cubby and desk.”

Satchel looked up at Colly and chewed his lip.

She ruffled his hair. “It’s okay, buddy.”

“Don’t forget to pick me up.”

“When the bell rings, I’ll be waiting. Promise.”

“Such a serious little guy,” Wanice said after Satchel vanished inside. “Brenda says he’s got health issues?”

Colly nodded. “It’s a genetic thing—solar urticaria. Direct sunlight triggers a severe histamine reaction. His throat can close up, and he can have seizures. Here’s his EpiPen, for emergencies.” She rummaged in her purse.

“What about recess?”

“He’ll be fine in the shade with his hat and sun-sleeves.”

Wanice glanced at Brenda, and then back at Colly. “Is there anything I should watch for? After what y’all have gone through, I’m sure there’s been emotional strain.”

Though the question was not unexpected, Colly felt her chest tighten. Strain? she thought. Do you want to hear about the night terrors? Bed-wetting? Self-inflicted burns?

She looked at Brenda, who said, “Satchel’s had some struggles, but he’s never lashed out at other kids. And he’s been better, recently. Right, Colly?”

“Therapy’s helped,” Colly managed.

The teacher’s brow furrowed, but she smiled. “I’m sure he’ll do great.” She hesitated. “I was so sorry to hear what happened. I knew Randy in high school.”

There was no flicker of accusation behind the woman’s eyes. Even so, Colly felt her face stiffening into the familiar mask. “Thanks.”

“I’m so damn tired of people telling me how sorry they are,” Colly said when they were back in Brenda’s office. “They get this look—it’s awful.”

“I know. It was the same after Lowell moved out.” Brenda rifled through a stack of paperwork. “People mean well. But for them, it’s a one-time conversation. For you, it’s a constant pity-barrage.” She handed Colly a form. “Sign this. I’ll be your emergency contact, if you want.”

“Pity’s the worst.” Colly bent over the desk. “I’d rather have them hate me.”

“You’ve come to the right place, then.” Brenda smiled wryly. “Most people aren’t as nice as Wanice. They hate me, too, if it’s any comfort.”

Colly handed back the paper. “I doubt that. You didn’t get anybody killed. Besides, everyone knows Lowell’s an ass.”

“But half the town works for him.” Brenda gave her another form. “Plus, Iris has been gossiping. I deserve it, I suppose. If I could do things over ... ” An indefinable look crossed Brenda’s face, a complicated mixture of wistfulness, regret, and anger. “You’d think a psychology degree would’ve stopped me making the most humiliating mistakes.”

“We all make mistakes, Bren. Even Iris knows that.” Colly signed the paper. “Here you go. Oh, by the way, Satchel doesn’t want other kids knowing he lives with his decrepit granny. So keep that quiet, if you can.”

Brenda laughed as she tucked the form into a thin folder. “There are grannies, and there are grannies .”

“Which kind am I?”

“You’re the badass rock-climbing kind. Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”

Out in the parking lot, Colly asked, “How’s joint custody going?”

“Tough at first, but getting better. I got a smaller place, and Lowell moved back to the ranch. We’re still doing holidays and get-togethers at Mollison like one big, happy family, for the kids’ sake. They love spending half their time on the ranch, with all that space to run around, and Iris spoiling them rotten. I don’t worry so much about them being there, now that—” Brenda stopped herself.

“Now that Willis is dead?”

“What was the governor thinking, commuting his sentence?”

“Iris is well-connected. Money talks.”

“With Willis, another disaster was inevitable. Honestly, that snake of his did us all a favor. Lowell thinks he would’ve gotten the death penalty this time. I’m not sure Iris would’ve survived that. As it is, she can believe whatever she wants.”

Iris can forgive Willis, but not me , Colly thought. “No mother wants to think badly of her child.”

“But she shouldn’t be blind to reality. You know Iris was behind this whole re-investigation, don’t you? Since Willis died, she’s been obsessed with clearing his name. She badgered Russ into dragging you out here. He can’t say no to her.”

“You think Willis was guilty?”

“Of course he was. Denny Knox was found at the pond, just like the Parker boy.”

At the car, Colly turned and regarded her sister-in-law thoughtfully. “That’s not proof.”

Brenda’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t think it was Willis?”

“I don’t think anything, yet. What’s the mood in town?”

“Jumpy. People are still keeping a close eye on their kids, worried the investigation might’ve got it wrong. But the Rangers seemed satisfied. Truth is, Willis was a psychopath. If Iris hadn’t pulled strings to get him out of prison, Denny would still be alive.”

“You’re the psychologist.” Colly found her keys and unlocked the car.

Brenda apparently felt she’d said too much. “Sorry, I’m rambling—you know me.”

“The distraction’s nice. I dread seeing Russ.”

“He doesn’t blame you for what happened.”

“I blame myself. Besides, looking at him is like looking at a ghost.”

“Colly, it’s just Russ—you’ve known him half your life.” Brenda hugged her. “Don’t worry about Satchel. I’m here till noon every day. I’ll keep an eye out.”