The sky above the blooming scenery is a mixture of clouds and sun. It’s the kind of sky that gives one the hope for the warmer weather to come and at the same time, sends a chill over your flesh, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
Don’t cause problems.
My knuckles blanch as I hear my mother’s voice and tighten my grip of the steering wheel. When Becky called and told me about Craig, I didn’t immediately decide to rearrange my schedule and take a series of planes to Michigan. The process was more drawn out.
I did what I do.
I began searching for details.
My curiosity grew until it morphed into the plan that now has me driving narrow country roads in search of civilization. Never once during that planning process did I set out to cause problems. Maybe—perhaps I want something completely different.
I want answers.
After six years of a life I never imagined living, I gave into a compulsory need to know if Craig ever thought about us. Was there ever a small sliver of regret?
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I inhale deeply and square my shoulders. I can’t allow this quest for answers to be personal. If I do, I’ll never see the clues. Instead, I must concentrate as Jill Thorne, criminal/legal visual-effects researcher.
With multiple big-box stores to choose from in Lawton, I pull into Wagoner’s parking lot. Thirty minutes later, with enough groceries to last me at least a week, I stop at a gas station in Lawton. All my wandering has depleted the tank. After starting the gas flow, my growling stomach reminds me that despite groceries, I’ve barely eaten. Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jacket, I walk toward the front doors of the small attached mini-mart. A bell jingles as I step inside.
I have a ready-to-eat salad in the car, yet my mind is debating the nutritional value of an apple or banana while my emotional self eyes the glazed donuts. As I turn toward the back refrigerators, I spot a woman down the aisle.
Our eyes meet.
The bottle of water slips from her grasp and bounces on the dirty floor.
It takes me a moment to recognize the blond woman. The pieces of the puzzle come together as the blood drains from her cheeks, and I notice her swollen eyes and the young boy at her legs. It’s been over six years since I laid eyes on her. The sight of her son causes my heart to ache.
My posture improves. “Mrs. Gilbert.”
She instinctively reaches for her son, pulling him closer. “Thorne? You’re the oldest Thorne girl?” The question comes from her increasingly pale lips.
Nodding, I offer, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Her eyes narrow and her voice is gravelly. “Why are you here? You moved away.”
Why am I here?
I’m here because I think there’s more to your husband’s death. That’s the reason, though I can’t make myself say it aloud. “I’m visiting. Julie’s graduation is coming soon.”
Serena Gilbert stands tall, her expression suddenly blank as if I’ve struck her.
“I am sorry,” I say again.
Shaking her head, Serena bends down, retrieves the bottle of water, and takes her son’s hand. “Come on, Joey. We need to get home.”
And just like that, she hauls the boy, his little legs trying to keep up as they head toward the cash registers. For more than a few seconds, I stand statuesque, my hand hovering over a banana, wondering why Serena Gilbert would be with her son in Lawton the day after her husband’s funeral. Surely, she has a house full of family and friends looking in on her.
Mom said the man in the blue truck is her brother-in-law.
By the time I make it up to the cash register with my donut—yes, I changed my mind—there isn’t any sign of the Gilberts. I contemplate asking the young man at the counter if Serena seemed odd, but by the looks of things, he’s more interested in whatever is on the screen of his phone.
Taking the faster route on my return from Lawton, I skirt past Old 44 toward town. Since I departed earlier this morning, the clouds have broken, giving way to late afternoon sun. The pale blue sky has me again wandering.
I turn and drive by the high school.
Not much has changed since I graduated, except that now, along the drive that goes up to the building, there is a makeshift memorial. The ground is littered with stuffed animals, flowers, and balloons. I slow the car as I drive closer, watching Mylar balloons blow and bob in the breeze. There are also letters tossed onto the ground.
I can’t help but wonder what each one says.
