Page 16 of The Devil Knows Her Name

They all shambled through the doorway after him, and I trailed along numbly, not trusting my own voice to make an excuse for myself. I didn’t want to draw attention, and part of me was certain that if I started to plead out, I’d simply flee. Inside, the house was exactly as I imagined all parsonages must have been—plain white walls, dark wood trim, the faint, warring smells of mold and bleach. The décor amounted to a rough wooden crucifix and a couple needlepoint Bible verses.

Just stay quiet and keep your head down, I told myself. Get through this and—

“Honey!” Zeke boomed, and I ducked like a gun had gone off over my head. “We have guests!”

Despite the fact that I remembered her obituary from thirty years ago, there was a part of me that expected Laura Macoun to emerge. Far from the stout, corn-fed girl who had been engaged to Norman, the woman who appeared was a scrap of a thing. I stood a full head taller than her, and her narrow shoulders seemed to pull in even tighter when she saw us. She had a sharp, elfin chin, sunken cheeks, a large, sloping forehead, and hazel eyes that bulged in her small face. Her hair was mousy and thin, pulled into a low ponytail that made her look childish despite the lines in her skin.

She was followed by a boy, and had I not already experienced the shock of seeing Zeke, the boy would have sent me reeling. He was the spitting image of Norman as I’d known him—still growing into his frame, but he had the same curling dark hair and crooked grin and big hands. The only thing he seemed to have taken from his mother was the color of his eyes, which were a woodland palette of soft brown and green, nothing like Norman’s stone blue.

Zeke went over to his wife and put his arm around her shoulders. “Honey, I told you you’d love it here. These great folks came over just to welcome us.”

She smiled at us, revealing two rows of small teeth that bucked inward toward her tongue. “Thank you so much for coming. This is just what we hoped for when we moved here—people who share our values and still know how to be neighbors.”

The assumption—and the phrasing—made my skin crawl, but Georgie stepped forward, shifting her casserole dish to one arm and extending her free hand. “Georgie,” she said briskly; I knew she hated when wives didn’t introduce themselves.

“Oh, this is Rachel,” Zeke said. Rachel gingerly took Georgie’s hand, and Georgie pumped it vigorously enough that the other woman winced.

“And this is my son, David.”

The boy waved awkwardly, smiling Norman’s crooked smile, and ducked his head. “Nice to meet you all.”

There was another bit of shuffling as everyone deposited their casseroles and platters on the kitchen counter, and then Sharon said, “Rachel, I couldn’t help but notice the beautiful quilted jacket on the coatrack. Are you a quilter?”

To my surprise, Rachel’s pinched face lit up. “I am, actually—I was working on something new before you arrived. Not many women have any interest in quilting anymore. Would you like to see it?”

I was one such woman who had no interest in quilting, but apparently I was the only one, because in short order I found myself in the kitchen with no one but Zeke and David, still clutching my basket of fruit.

“Would you like me to take that?” David asked.

“Oh, sure.” I thrust the basket in his direction, then realized I’d have nothing to do with my hands when he took it. He wrested it gently from me, his eyes meeting mine questioningly over the top of the handle when I didn’t release it at first.

“The apples are Black Oxfords,” I said when the silence was too much. “They’re an heirloom variety, so you might find—well, they’re an acquired taste if you’re used to apples from the grocery store.”

David took an apple from the basket, buffed it on his sleeve like his father had, and bit into it; I looked away. “Mm,” he said thoughtfully. “Yeah, it’s sweet, but there’s a little bit of—I don’t know. Cinnamon, almost?”

“I always thought allspice, but yeah.”

He took another bite, the scent of the apple reaching me in the stale kitchen. I couldn’t look at this boy; every movement and glance reminded me of Norman, bringing up memories and thoughts I shouldn’t have.

The pastor cleared his throat, propping himself against the linoleum counter and folding his arms loosely. “So, Tess,” he said, “Christine said you have a wildlife sanctuary?”

In my periphery, I saw David perk up. “Yes, I’m a licensed wildlife rehabilitator,” I said.

“And what does that entail?”

“Oh, well, a lot of cleaning up poop, honestly. Lots of waking up through the night to do infant feedings. Then there’s wound care, giving antibiotics, giving baths, that kind of stuff. That’s the day-to-day, and you have to kind of love it on its own, because compared to that, the release days are few and far between.”

“Ah,” Zeke said. “Doesn’t sound like it would pay the bills. What does your husband do?”

“I’m not married. I’m the town’s animal control officer. That’s what pays the bills.”

The pastor made a noncommittal noise. “But the town doesn’t own the sanctuary?”

“No,” I said, a sharp note creeping into my voice. “It’s my private property.”

“It sounds really cool,” David said eagerly. “Do you ever need volunteers? I used to walk dogs at the shelter where we lived before.”

“Uh, well, I don’t have a volunteer program at the moment. It’s been a long time since anyone asked. But if I come up with anything, I could let you know?”