“Any idea who’d want to scare you like that?” Kezia asks.
“Are you serious? Most of Norton still believes I got away with the local murders, for a start. And that’s not even counting all the trolls, the stalkers, the families of Melvin’s victims . . .”
“Criminal hackers from the Absalom collective who slipped the net,” she finishes. “Yeah, I know. I was hoping for a more specific enemy, because pretty much everybody doesn’t narrow it down that much.”
“I know. But right now, it’s what I’ve got.”
She taps her pen against the pad of paper she’s using for her notes. “Yeah, not sure you helped with what went on TV today. What about the woman? The one from your interview?”
I don’t want to believe that, but the fact is, the most die-hard fanatical harassers were, for a while, the family members of Melvin’s victims. Including Miranda.
“Miranda Tidewell? She might put arsenic in a mint julep, but snake handling? I really don’t think so,” I say. “But . . . she might hire someone to do it. Just to scare us.”
“She did seem like she was on a mission to prove you were . . .”
“A monster? Yes. She’s always been, since my trial. I just thought—well, I hoped—that she’d moved on.”
“These days we’ve got obsessive freaks for everything,” she says. “Especially if it’s complicated and stupid. Sorry. Hate to say it, but, Gwen—”
“Yeah, look out for myself. I know. I’m on that.”
She studies me. “You forgot to carry, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t forget. I left it in the truck while I came to get the mail.”
“Truck’s up there,” Kez says. “And you’re a sitting duck out here, you realize that?”
“I did once I was stuck watching the snake.”
She nods. “Good. Don’t do that again. Most jackasses around here, I wish they’d leave their damn guns in the safe. But not you. You actually do need one. So make sure you have it.”
I give her a smile—thin, because I know she’s right, and I’m smarting a little from that. “Message received,” I tell her. I realize how dark it’s gotten. She usually walks her father uphill to his cabin well before this. “Did you get Easy home already?”
“Yeah, that’s why I wasn’t here first,” she says. “Sorry, but I had to see him safe.”
“Good. And you’re heading home?”
“To Javier’s,” she says. Javier is her lover, maybe even (though I haven’t asked) her long-term partner, but they still live apart. “Hey, Beto? You done?”
“Done,” he says. He’s closing up his kit. “Didn’t get a lot; a few good prints, but they’ll probably be either the family’s or the postal worker’s. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Maybe,” Kezia says. “Thanks, man. Get home safe.”
“You too.”
Her gaze suddenly shifts and focuses as he moves to his truck. She’s looking uphill, and I follow her gaze to see Sam heading down toward us.
“So you’ve got some explaining to do,” she says. “Good luck, girl, I’m rolling. Javier’s waiting dinner.” She’s gone before he gets there, and he watches her drive away as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet away from me.
“So,” he says, “Lanny said you lied about being okay, next thing I know Kez is here plus two more cars . . . What the hell is going on?”
I sigh. I’d been hoping to avoid this. “Let’s go inside,” I tell him. “Better I catch everybody up at once.”
I make a detour to the truck and retrieve my firearm; the instant I have it, I feel steadier. I know that’s wrong; the gun doesn’t make me any safer, just more capable of retaliating. PTSD, lying again. I’m going to have to train myself out of using a weapon as a comfort blanket. It’s a necessary evil for me, but that shouldn’t mean I need it.
“Gwen?” Sam’s concerned. I give him a smile I don’t really feel.
“Ready,” I say. I’m really not.
As soon as we come into the house, I lock the door and set the alarm to stay. Lanny stands with her arms crossed, hipshot. Connor even looks up from the book he’s reading. They’re waiting for an explanation too.
“How’s it coming?” I ask, trying to sound normal. It doesn’t work. Lanny keeps frowning at me, Connor shakes his head, and Sam’s look says that I am failing miserably at reassurance. “Okay,” I say. “So there was a snake in the mailbox.”
“A what?” Lanny blurts out. I’ve surprised the frown off her face. Sam stops stirring.
“What kind of snake?” Connor asks. “Was it a copperhead? I’ve seen a copperhead before.”
“Not a copperhead. I don’t want you to worry . . .” My voice fades, and I realize that I have to do this. “I’m lying—I do need you to worry. I need you to understand that after the day we had, things are not going to be the same. You need to be extra careful. And from now on, Sam and I will get the mail. Okay?”
“Mom, we’re always extra careful,” Lanny says. “Come on. You know that.”
But they’re not. They’re not. And it makes me feel sick all over again to think about Connor opening that mailbox, or Lanny, or even Sam, though his reaction time is even better than mine. My kids think they’re paranoid enough.
They never can be. Not enough to prevent everything that might come for them, and that overconfidence could be deadly.
Sam’s watching me very steadily. “Hey. Kids. Give us a minute, okay? Connor, go stir the beans. And you owe me a salad, kid.”
“Okay.” For me, Connor would have sighed as if the weight of the world had landed on him, but Sam just gets a compliant mood and instant acceptance. I envy that.
Lanny checks her phone. “The chicken’s almost done,” she says. “Like, three minutes.”
“Then take it out when it’s ready,” Sam tells her, and disarms and unlocks the front door. “Gwen?”
I follow him out. I don’t like being on the porch right now, and I turn out the lights. We’re plunged into darkness until my eyes begin to adjust.
“What’s going on?” he asks me.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Snake in the mailbox has me on edge, obviously. So does what happened today. I just feel—”
“Exposed?” he asks. Puts his arms around me. “I’m sorry. I really am. I know you didn’t want to do that damn show in the first place, and I’m sorry I didn’t warn you off it harder. I had a bad feeling, and I’m sorry to be right. I still didn’t think they’d dare pull that, not after all the agreements.”
“Neither did I, or I never would have been there.” I relax into his warmth. His strength. I can disarm for a moment here with him, even if it is out in the open. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe somebody left a fingerprint on the mailbox.”
“You never answered the kids,” he says, and tips my chin up. It’s dark, but not dark enough that I miss the look in his eyes. “What kind of snake was it?”