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Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gina
The small town is abuzz with the news of Chad's death. Rumors are flying like birds. Personally, I find the whole thing exciting. It feels like I am living in a movie, with life spiraling out of control in a way that is both frightening and thrilling. Everyone is on edge.
Chad’s funeral is the biggest in years. Maybe even the biggest this town has ever seen. The church pews are packed with mourners, every single one of them silent. The only sound is coming from across the room, where Pastor Carol is speaking into the microphone. Chad’s father’s face is red and ruddy, his mouth quivering as he asks the congregation to pray for his family. My father leans over, kisses my forehead and pats my shoulder. Sitting behind us, Mona looks on as she listens to the pastor speak.
When we step out of the church, the midmorning sun is weakly shining through the clouds. Daddy goes ahead to warm up the car. I hang back and wait for Mona who’s speaking with the pastor.
Chad’s mother comes out, stoic and fashionable. Her face is lined with years of stress and grief. I can only imagine it has something to do with having a son like Chad. Two reporters are circling like vultures at the curb, and upon seeing them, she loses it. She starts beating at them with closed fists, angry and filled with pain. A deputy sheriff helps her get into the car, then turns back to the crowd. He looks like he's taking notes.
When I get through the crowd, I see my father’s car parked on the street. He is sitting in the driver’s seat with the door open, looking up at the church. I can tell by his expression that he is mad. Something bad has happened.
He doesn’t drive too much anymore, but the morning is crisp, like the crackle of autumn leaves. It feels like it does in the fall when school started—too warm for it to be winter. Maybe I’ll ask him to go for a drive, the way we used to when Oliver and I were kids. I don’t know how many more drives he has left in him.
On the street, men are gathered in groups, smoking and talking. A couple of the women stand outside their shops, gossiping, watching anyone who passes. They stop talking and watch as I walk by.
The world around me has a different look to it—small and gray, as if there is a haze of fog blocking the color. As if the entire world has gone monochromatic, like an old black-and-white movie.
I realize everyone is looking at me. They are not just looking; they arestaring. I adjust my hat, pull the collar up on my coat, and continue walking down the street.
There is a man hanging around the corner of the church, and I am sure that he is waiting for me. I don't think I've ever seen him before, nor do I get the sense that he's come on friendly terms. It’s something else, something more sinister. I tell myself over and over that I should just keep walking to my father’s car, drive to the house, and go inside. But I can’t do that. Something has taken over, and my legs have turned to stone, like they are not mine. My muscles are tense, and the sweat is rolling down the back of my neck. My heart is pounding. He starts toward me after I keep walking. I stop, turn back for the church, and then change my mind. I head for my father's car, and when I look up again, I see that the man is standing under a tree in front of the courthouse, smoking a cigarette, wearing a long gray overcoat.
The man looks up, and our eyes meet. He takes a long look at me and then throws his cigarette on the ground and stubs it out.
I stop walking. On the other side of the street, there's some sort of commotion. I look over to see that it was Chad’s father and another man in a gray overcoat. I feel like I am in a dream. It is like watching a movie and trying to figure out what is happening. I am looking at Chad’s father, who is gesturing madly with his hands and now is pointing at me. I feel like I am going to throw up. I have a sick feeling in my stomach, like it is going to turn inside out.
The man in the gray coat is walking toward me. He looks like he is frowning, as if he doesn't want to do what he has to do, but that he has to do it, anyway. He wears an expression that seems to say, “You brought this on yourself.”
“Are you Gina?” he asks when he reaches me.
My throat is so dry I can't speak. He looks at me and smiles.
“I hope you haven’t gotten yourself in the middle of this,” he says. “But you should know, we're keeping an eye on you.”
“Why?”
“That’s exactly the kind of question you should be asking yourself.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“We have multiple witnesses who state they saw an altercation between you and Mr. Hensley—Chad.” He widens his stance, shifts from foot to foot, and then stuffs his hands in his pockets.
“Anything you can tell me about that?”
“He was coming on to me.”
“Coming on to you? Since when is that a crime?”
“He put his hands on me.”
“And you put yours on him.”
I open my mouth to speak, but words fail me.
“Witnesses at the dance state you were in the company of a man. Can you give me his name?”
My mind races. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“We’re just checking every angle.”
“Look, Chad Hensley had a lot of enemies…”
“The man’s name, Miss.”
I shake my head and do a double-take, and then I don’t know why I say it, just that I do. “Norman. Norman Fells.”
“Thank you,” he tells me with a curt nod. “Enjoy your day.”
There is no opportunity to take back what I’ve said or even to give it a second thought. A car pulls up beside us and slams on its brakes. The driver leans over and flings the passenger door open. I watch as the man climbs inside, and just like that, he is gone.
