Page 65 of All Good People Here

“You encouraged me to follow my dream and become a reporter. You taught me to be honest, to always tell the truth.”

The irony of this last one twinged in her chest, but it seemed to be working. His anger was slowly morphing into something else.

“My name’s Margot,” she said for what felt like the millionth time. “But usually you call me kid.”

And then, finally, the look of confusion on her uncle’s face cleared, as if a light had gone on in his head and he could finally see. “Kid?”

His grip on the rifle slackened, and when he looked down at it, it was as if he was seeing it for the first time. Panic flashed in his eyes and he fumbled, the gun slipping from his hands.

Margot lunged toward it, one foot through the doorway, the other still on the stoop, and seized the rifle from him before it clattered to the ground. She immediately aimed the muzzle toward the ground then stepped into the house. Luke instinctively backed away.

She hadn’t unloaded her uncle’s gun since she was probably fifteen years old when he’d taken her to hit Coke cans in an empty field, but she remembered how to do it. She emptied the chamber, then the magazine, stuffed the bullets into her pocket, then laid the gun down on the floor, tucked beneath the back of an armchair.

When she turned back to her uncle, her chest contracted. His gaze was fixed on the open doorway as if he could still see Margot’s terrified face through the scope of his gun. Tears werestreaming down his cheeks. His hands were shaking. She walked tentatively toward him and he turned his head to look at her.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he said through his tears. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

The sight of her uncle undone like this made Margot want to cry, but she swallowed it down. She wouldn’t let him see how much he’d scared her, didn’t want to cause him any more pain. She placed a gentle hand on his back, and to her surprise, Luke let himself be guided into her arms. He was almost a foot taller than she was, so his head didn’t reach her shoulder, but he sobbed into her nonetheless, his body trembling.

“Shh,” she said, rubbing a hand over his back. “It’s okay.”

It felt strange to be the one comforting her uncle, who’d always done that for her. And it felt even stranger to be hugging the man whom she still had lingering suspicions about. Because although she felt deep in her gut that Elliott Wallace had killed January and Polly and possibly Natalie Clark, that didn’t explain why Luke had gone to January’s recitals or kept her dance programs or lied about it all.

It was the same complicated feeling Annabelle Wallace must have had this afternoon. Despite everything her brother had done to her over the years, despite the fact that she knew he was being accused of murder, Annabelle had defended him because he was family. If it turned out Margot was wrong and Luke was a killer after all, she would hate him. She’d excommunicate him from her life, and whenever she’d think of him, she’d be filled with rage. And still, he’d be her uncle. Underneath all that anger and hate, she knew she could never quite stop loving him.

The two of them stood like that—Luke bent over, Margot getting achy beneath his weight—for a long time. And then, eventually, his crying slowed, then stopped.

“Why don’t we have an early night, okay?” she said. “Why don’t you go get ready for bed.”

She hated treating him like a child and knew he hated it too, but he seemed too wrung out to care. He simply straightened, nodded, and wiped his nose with the back of his wrist like a little kid. Then she walked him to his bedroom and waited outside as he brushed his teeth and took a shower. She had the urge to tuck him into bed, but stood by the door instead as he slipped beneath the covers. She waited till he got settled to turn off the light, and as she was closing his bedroom door, she could already hear his breathing lengthen with sleep.

She clicked the door shut behind her, then strode to the front door, outside, and all the way to the curb. The moment she felt there was enough space between her and her uncle’s house, she let go—all the resolve and strength that had gotten her through the last half hour finally crumbled.

She contracted, as if she’d been kicked in the gut, and buried her face in her trembling hands. She’d held back her tears for so long. She hadn’t cried that first day when Luke looked at her and saw someone else. She hadn’t cried when she’d gotten fired or when she received either of those threatening notes. She hadn’t cried when she’d seen her uncle in that photo at January’s show. But now, all those accumulated tears poured out of her. Her breath started coming in jerky, gasping gulps.

Vaguely, through the sound of her own sobs, Margot heard the hum of a car’s engine off in the distance. After a moment, she realized it was getting louder. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this—even in the blackness of night, Wakarusa was so small that whoever was driving by would no doubt recognize her—so she turned her back to the road and wiped the tears from her eyes. She was so preoccupied, so upset, she hardly realized when the car came to a stop only feet away, hardly heard the sound of a car door opening.

Suddenly there was someone behind her, a hand clapped over her mouth, an arm flung around her front, and then Margot’sworld was spinning—she was being yanked, twisted over the curb. She tried to break free, but her arms were pinned to her sides. She tried to run, but she couldn’t find purchase on the ground beneath her, her feet scrabbling blindly. She tried to scream, but she couldn’t even breathe. And then she was being dragged across the pavement and thrown into the back of a car.

TWENTY-NINE

Margot, 2019

Margot tumbled face-first into the bucket seat of an SUV, one of the armrests jamming painfully into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. The door slammed behind her and she spun around to open it, but when she yanked on the handle, it clicked futilely. Her eyes darted around for the unlock button, but to her horror, there was none. She lunged to the other side of the car, but that door was locked too. And then, her kidnapper, in a navy hoodie, was opening the driver’s-side door. In a flash, he was behind the steering wheel and already twisting the key in the ignition.

“What the fu—?” Margot shouted, but her last word was cut off as the car lurched forward and she was slammed against the back of the driver’s seat. She was momentarily disoriented, but recovered quickly and began clambering over the front console. She didn’t have a plan other than simply to claw at whatever her hands landed on—her kidnapper’s arms, shoulders, face—anything to prevent him from taking her wherever they were headed now.

But before she could reach anything, the man threw out an elbow, connecting with Margot’s mouth. Her head snapped backand pain seared through her face. “Motherfucker!” she shouted, clapping a hand over her mouth. On her tongue was the taste of blood. Her lip throbbed.

“Sorry,” her kidnapper said, and that’s when Margot realized that he was not in fact a he. Her kidnapper was a woman.

The woman made a sudden turn of the steering wheel and Margot was thrown to the right. She tumbled onto the other side of the car, darting out her hands to soften the fall. As she did, she caught sight of the woman’s profile, and to her complete lack of surprise, Margot recognized her as the auburn-haired woman she’d first seen outside Shorty’s, a few days and a lifetime ago.

“It’s you,” she said, and her bleeding lip stung from the movement.

“Yes. Now calm down.”

Margot’s eyes bulged as she climbed onto the bucket seat behind her. “You’ve stalked me, you’ve locked me into a speeding car, you just elbowed me in the face, and now you’re telling me to fuckingcalm down?”

---