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SIXTY-TWO
DOMINIC
Relief sinks into Dominic’s body as his wife steps into the room.
She’s wearing jeans and a chiffon black blouse with sneakers. She never wears sneakers unless she’s working out. Her hands are hanging at her sides, but he notices a gun clutched in one of them. His relief vanishes.
“Jo,” he breathes, staggering on his feet. He blinks as she steps closer. She’s not smiling. Just staring. It’s weirding him out. And then it hits him—Shavonne is gone. Boaz is dead. No sign of Brynn? What the hell is going on? How much does Jolene know?
“Did you set that woman free?” he asks.
“No.” She purses her lips, tilting her head a bit. Then she points to the dark, slim hallway with the tip of her gun. “She’s back there. Shavonne and Brynn are.”
His eyes stretch wider. “Both of them? Back where?”
“In the smaller room. I assume that was your bedroom when you were a kid.”
Dominic blinks, wrapping his finger tighter around the trigger of his gun.
“How did you get them here?” he probes.
“Dominic, I told you I wanted to help. I told you we’re a team.”
He swallows thickly, looking past his wife to the dark hallway. “Well if you want to help, hand me your gun, Jo.” He’s not sure why, but he doesn’t trust her right now. Something about all of this feels off.
She blinks at him, then shrugs and walks toward him. He tries not to flinch as she offers the weapon to him. He takes it slowly while looking into her eyes.
“Did you . . . did you kill them?” he asks in a low voice.
“No. I figured you’d want to. We can bury the bodies in the woods behind the cabin. They don’t have much family so no one would ever come looking for them and if they do, they won’t find them.”
Dominic is shocked to hear his wife say all of this so nonchalantly. Jo has always been the morally conscious person—the kind of woman who’d rather him collect a spider in a cup and set it free than to smash it with a shoe.
“How long have you known about them?” Dominic asks.
“A while now. I had a hunch that something was going on. When I saw Shavonne at the rally, I looked into her. You seemed really disturbed by her presence. I wasn’t sure what she had over you, but then she and her friend came to me, trying to get me to side with them.” She rubs his arm, strokes it. “We’re supposed to have each other’s backs through thick and thin. I made them trust me, just so we could handle this together, babe.”
“I know.” He squeezes his eyes closed. “God, I’m so sorry, Jo. I’m sorry I hid this from you. I just—I didn’t want you getting involved with any of it.”
“But I am now. So, let’s go take care of this.”
He nods, and the relief anchors him again as his wife leads the way down the hallway. He follows her, and there is only a sliver of moonlight coming from the door at the end. His heart thunders as he passes his mother’s old bedroom—that same bedroom where she clawed at the walls and tore up bed sheets. It all circles back to her death and how sudden it was. He had school that day but remembers the house being eerily quiet, just like it is now, minus the moaning of the floor as he and Jolene walk. He had nothing to fear though because his mother was dead. He loved her, but also had never felt so relieved. He still remembers writing the suicide note for her. He could never bring himself to show it to the police, though. They’d ask too many questions, so he hid it in the floorboard.
Truth is, he wanted his mother to disappear again. He wanted her to die or be abducted once more because she made his life a living hell. He couldn’t stand the screams, the cries, the late-night lurking outside the cabin. She was unstable for a long time and all he wanted was a better life for himself. He had a sip of that better life while spending a few years with his uncle Ben, but then she returned, and it was snatched away.
He still remembers.
She’d burnt her hand on the stove while staring off again, and he wrapped it for her. This was the third time that month she’d burnt herself by not paying attention. She was fidgety. Anxious. Looking all around the cabin and whispering “They’re coming. I feel it. They’re coming.”
Dominic hadn’t slept well in weeks and felt his mother was becoming more of nuisance every day.
“Mom, why don’t you just go?” he’d said after finishing up with her hand.
Her big, wet eyes focused on him. “Go where?”
“Away,” he muttered, exasperated. “Just . . . go away so I can live a regular life. Maybe if you do, there won’t be any more voices. You’ll be free . . . and so will I.”
He didn’t think she’d go the route of suicide. He’d hoped she’d run away and never return so he could permanently live with his uncle. He imagined what his life would be like without her and the idea of it was bliss. He wrote the suicide letter after she passed as a way to make amends and to better the situation. He didn’t want to feel guilty for telling her to go. Writing the letter didn’t help, so he hid it. Why didn’t he burn it? Why keep it? Is it because he imagined she would be grateful for whatever excuse he conjured up for her? In a way, that letter was his way of making peace with her death and releasing the blame, and perhaps that was why he’d hidden it and kept it all these years.
