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“Do you think Davis killed your brother and Ms. Jepson?”
Her question does not surprise me. The particular wording she uses does not surprise me. She wants me to be emotional. When emotions run high, intellect runs low.
But I will not give her what she wants, at least not fully. It does not surprise me I’m being treated like a criminal. I assumed that I’d be handcuffed, placed prone on the ground, locked in the back of a cruiser, possibly even jailed. It takes time to sort out the truth of any crime, and I was aware it would be likely that the police would do any or all of these things. So I don't take it personally. I don't resist or argue. Even though I want to. Even though those responses would be natural, even instinctual, I know that the best way to make this go away is to cooperate until things are sorted out in my favor. Which they will be. So I am direct, but respectful. “Like I said, I wasn’t there.”
“You were picking up your dress.”
“Yes. I had it altered for the party.”
“Did he tell you what happened in the cellar?”
“Roy?” I know who she is talking about, but I can also play her game.
“Davis.” She leans in and rests her elbows on the rickety table. “Did he tell you how he killed Chris Larsen?”
“No.” I don’t tell her I could see it for myself—that his head was barely attached t
o his body or that the floor was coated, and is still somewhat coated in that man’s blood.
“Did he say anything?”
“Who?” Facts are important.
“Davis.”
“He said he was dead.”
“Anything else?”
I glance at the clock on the wall once more and back at her. It’s obvious what she’s trying to do, and I won’t allow her to try my case on the spot. I know from years of hanging around Roy that police have more than one way to get you to talk. Aside from good cop/bad cop, she’s challenging the use of lethal force. I want to argue my case—or Davis’s case, she’s still deciding—but I won’t. I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’m not a lawyer and I’m not in a courtroom. Not yet, anyway.
“Ms. Channing. Did Davis say anything when he took you into the cellar?”
I wanted to see the look in his eyes when he knew it was over. I give it several seconds before I shake my head. “Not that I recall.”
Epilogue
Ruth
Eight years later
Daddy used to say a house divided against itself cannot stand. He’d look at other families, usually guests, and proclaim: That family is going to eat themselves alive from the inside out.
I didn’t know what he meant back then, but I do now.
I found Johnny’s notebooks in the workshop, detailing what he did. How he tried to kill me. It took several days for detectives to complete their investigation and clear the house, but once they did, it was slightly less messy.
I did not share the contents of those notebooks with the police. Sometimes less is more.
A house divided against itself cannot stand.
I’m just glad Daddy isn’t around to see what’s become of us. It’s not all bad, but it’s also not what it could have been. Cole calls my name, and I push myself forward, up out of the rocker, leading with my burgeoning belly.
“Look,” Shelby says. “Look at me!” She’s grinning from ear to ear, and she speaks animatedly as I waddle over to her. She has her Daddy’s smile and her uncle’s translucent eyes. It makes me ache for Johnny in a way I hadn’t known possible. It’s a tricky thing, and it’s nearly impossible to describe how you can hold such love and such hate for a person, and sometimes in equal proportion.
“I can do it!” she exclaims, jumping up and down.
Several members of the staff have lined up on the porch to watch. “Look at you!” Ms. Eve squeals. She’s not Julia, but we love her. And Shelby doesn’t know any different anyhow.
