Page 65 of What She Saw

“What clues?”

“I’m not sure. But I always know it when I see them.”

A slight breeze teased the edges of her gray hair. “You’re here because of a T-shirt.”

“Sheriff Taggart found you in one of the tents, covered in bruises. Some were old but many were fresh. Taggart assumed Billy beat you up.”

“I remember Sheriff Taggart. He reminded me of a boxer. All muscle and frowns. But he was kind when he spoke to me.”

“Billy beat you up that night?”

She slid her hands into the back pockets of her overalls.

“Billy is gone. There’s no one else to protect.”

“I was confused in those days. Those were several lost years.”

“Billy told Taggart that someone from the woods grabbed you. He said they beat you up that night. That he saved you.”

A breath filled her lungs and then trickled over her lips. “Someone did grab me that night.”

“That was true?”

“Yes. Taggart asked me about it, though I didn’t have answers for him. But whatever happened that night is embedded in my bones and psyche. It was one of the reasons I had trouble getting sober. But I did. After a few years of sobriety, I reached out to a counselor.” She glanced at the clock as if reminding herself how long she’d been sober. “Do you want some tea?”

I wasn’t going to push her. “Yeah, sure.”

“I have a pot in my little office. I’d feel better not having this conversation out here.”

“Right.” I followed her, then remembered the dream catcher and reached back and grabbed it.

She vanished around a curtain. I followed, my dream catcher’s feathers and beaded cords bouncing around. She filled an electric kettle and then filled two tea strainers with loose leaves.

The space was six by six, and the walls were covered in botanical posters featuring ivy, lemons, wildflowers, and fruit trees. There were seven dream catchers on the walls and dozens of small ailing plants around the room.

“Looks like a plant clinic,” I said.

“It is. You’d be surprised how many people return with half-dead plants, wanting their money returned. I always take the plants back and tell them if I can’t revive it in thirty days, I’ll issue a refund.” She poured boiling water into two cups that read “Amy’s Garden.”

“A second chance, right?”

“We all deserve one.”

I didn’t like small talk, but I didn’t mind trying for Amy’s sake. “Anyone take you up on the offer?”

“A few come back. When they see that the plant is thriving, they leave.”

“No one wants their plant back?”

“One. I refused.” She handed me my cup.

I blew the steam off the top. It smelled like grass. I sipped. It tasted like lawn clippings. “Delicious.”

She cradled the hot mug in her hands and held it close to her chest. “In my counseling sessions, I went back to that night.”

Memories of traumatic events could be tricky. Old facts sometimes tangled and stuck to other experiences that had nothing to do with the original trauma. “What did you remember?”

She sipped and then set her mug down. “I had to pee. And the line to the latrine was fifty people deep. I decided the woods was the best way to go.”