Uncle Boone lumbered into the room. So much sadness etched in his face. Not a hint of his usual jovial expression. He sniffed and wiped his cheeks. I’d never seen him cry before.
The social worker opened her mouth. “I’ll need to—”
Aunt Em straightened but kept her arm around my shoulders. “We need to take him home.” She shot a glare at the social worker. “Fill out whatever paperwork you must, but he’s coming home with us. Tonight. Now.”
My body sagged in relief. I’d overheard the cops and other lady talking about finding a “placement” for me. It didn’t sound good, but I couldn’t force any protest out of my mouth at the time. Someone else suggested I might be involved. Many people tried talking to me. Asking questions. I couldn’t remember answering any of them.
“He killed her,” I whispered. “He killed Mom.”
A sob lodged in my throat. My mother’s lifeless body floated in my memory. The harder I tried to push the image away, the more vivid it became.
Aunt Em pressed me to her chest. “I’m so sorry,” she kept repeating.
What would’ve happened if I’d been home? Somehow I found the courage to voice the question that wouldn’t leave me alone. “Would he have killed me too?”
A strangled sob lodged in her throat. She didn’t answer but she didn’t let me go either.
“I can refer you to someone in your area,” the social worker said. I tuned her out as they discussed “options” for me.
School—I didn’t love the place, but part of me mourned that I’d never return.
Who would keep Jensen out of trouble? Who would stop the bullies from relentlessly teasing him? What if he snapped one day and actually carved up someone’s face?
What would happen to our house? My room? Mom’s artwork? I couldn’t ever go back there. Couldn’t see that again.
Mom. Mom. Mom.
I’d never see her again.
In the back of Uncle Boone’s car, I stared out the window, watching the scenery rush by but not really seeing any of it. I knew the way to their house. We visited often enough. Thanksgiving, Uncle Boone’s birthday, weekend trips, a couple weeks over summer break.
I’d always loved visiting their small town. Everyone knew everyone, although Aunt Em often complained there were too many nosy neighbors around. Everyone knew me as “Boone’s nephew” and I liked that.
“This is my fault, Emily.” Uncle Boone’s low voice penetrated my thoughts. “I never trusted that bastard.”
“Not now,” Em hushed him.
I snapped my eyes shut, wanting them to think I was asleep.
“She was my little sister. I should’ve looked out for her better. I knew something wasn’t right.” His voice broke. “I should’ve made Leigh move in with us when Logan was a baby. We knew after—”
“Stop it,” Em seethed. In a voice so soft it almost didn’t rise above the road noise, she added, “He’s been through enough. If you want to honor Leigh, pull yourself together so we can take care of her son.”
I cracked open one eye and caught him nodding. “You’re right.” He drove for a few miles in silence. “Thank you, Emily.”
Why didn’t Mom go to Uncle Boone sooner? Guilt threatened to squeeze the air from my lungs. Why hadn’t it occurred to me to call him and ask for help?
Em listed a number of things they had to do once I was “settled,” whatever that meant. Why did everyone keep saying that? She’d need to clean my parents’ house and pack up my belongings. Go through my parents’ things and decide what to sell and what to set aside for me.
“Mom’s paintings,” I blurted out, not caring if they knew I’d been awake and listening. “Photos of her.”
“Anything else?” Aunt Em asked.
I fell against the seat again and crossed my arms over my chest. “Nothing of his. Not one thing.”
Chapter Ten
Rooster
Present day…
Shelby’s gentle touch continues to anchor me.
“Your aunt sounds like a strong woman,” she says.
“She was.” The ache of missing Em settles over me. “She tried so hard to make everything…normal. My uncle couldn’t handle talking about it, but she always listened and answered my questions.”
Shelby strokes her hand over my arm. “Moving away after all of that, losing your home, your family and friends…it must’ve been hard.”
The familiar flood of relief washes over the memories of leaving everything behind. “It was for the best. Everyone knew about it. A murder-suicide is a huge story for a small town. Trying to go back to school after all that coverage would’ve been hell.”
“I can understand that,” she says softly.
“They changed my last name before I started my new school. I wanted to take my uncle’s name—my mother’s maiden name. I didn’t want any part of my father tainting my life.”
“I don’t blame you.”
She doesn’t bother asking for the old name, which is a fucking relief. As hard as I’ve worked over the years to bury most of the articles about the incident, with enough diligent searching, some still pop up from time to time.