Page 80 of Darkwater Lane

The barn is positioned at the end of a narrow valley with a river cutting through the center of it. As we wend our way toward it, Connor brightens at the sight of several horses grazing in large paddocks. Kez’s father, Easy, was the one to recommend it. It doesn’t have a formal equine therapy program, but the owner still embraces the theory of healing through animals and nature.

I called ahead on our way here, and the owner is waiting for us by a small gravel parking lot. She introduces herself and takes Connor to meet several of the horses.

Lanny and I hang back, our earlier conversation hanging awkwardly between us. “I didn’t see Rowan on the dock,” I tell her.

She glances my way quizzically.

“I was so busy chasing after you, I didn’t notice her. But you did. You clocked her right away, and your gut told you she was a potential threat. You were right.”

She shrugs.

“And then when you saw her, you knew immediately to go to the house and get Connor. You reacted instantly to protect your brother and yourself.”

“It’s what you always taught us to do.”

“You did good, Lanny. Not just this time, but before too. I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

She nods. “Thanks.”

Her response is distant, and I can still see the stings from earlier. The owner of the barn offers Connor the chance to ride one of the horses. He eagerly accepts, and Lanny and I sit on a bench in the indoor arena as Connor tacks up a Paint mare and leads her into the ring.

It’s impossible not to notice the shift in Connor once he mounts the horse. His shoulders relax, his expression softens, and he handles the reins with quiet confidence. At one point, the Paint veers toward the center of the ring, and he gently corrects her. I can’t catch his exact words, but I can hear the way he murmurs to her, keeping up a constant stream of lilting conversation.

The horse snorts at something he says, and Connor laughs. I realize, then, how little he’s laughed lately. Our house used to be loud and rambunctious. The kids used to argue and make up. Lanny used to blare music, and at times I swore Connor could nearly bring the house down with the bass rumbling from his video games.

I think about what it will be like next year if Lanny goes away to college. And then, years down the line, when Connor leaves as well, and it’s just me and Sam and the emptiness.

I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. But as both of my kids have recently pointed out, they’re going to grow up with or without my permission. My job is to make sure they’re ready for whatever comes next.

Today, Lanny proved that she is.

“I cried when I found those acceptance letters,” I tell her.

She shifts as though physically withdrawing from the conversation. I put a hand on her leg to stop her. “I was so damn proud of you, Lanny. Iamproud of you. To see all those colleges—some ofthe best in the country. Of course, they should want you. You’re amazing.”

Her mouth twitches in a smile, but she still doesn’t look at me. She’s watching Connor as he nudges the horse into a trot and then a canter.

“And yes, I cried at the thought of you going away to school. No parent is ever ready to let go of their kid. But mostly, I cried that you felt like you couldn’t share that with me. I think about what it was like when you got that first acceptance letter—the elation you must have felt—and I hate that I wasn’t there with you. I will always regret that.

“I wish I could tell you that I would have supported you one hundred percent, but I don’t know if that’s true. But I need you to know that I support you now. Absolutely and unequivocally.”

She reaches over and slips her fingers through mine, holding my hand tight. “Thank you, Mom.”

“Though you should know that New Haven has a terrible reputation when it comes to crime,” I add.

As I’d hoped, she laughs, some of the tension between us fracturing and splintering.

The moment is broken when my phone vibrates with an incoming call. I check the number. It’s Gutierrez. I wince. “I have to take this,” I tell Lanny. I’m already up and making my way toward the large double doors leading outside when I answer.

“This is Gwen,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and even despite my fluttering heart. I can’t imagine why he’d be calling and it has me worried.

“Ms. Proctor, hello,” says a familiar, deep voice. “This is Detective Gutierrez from the Knoxville PD. I heard about the incident at your house up near Norton with the SWAT team. I wanted to check in to see how you’re doing.”

As far as excuses go, it’s not a bad one. “We’re okay, thank you.”

“I didn’t realize you and Mr. Cade had left town.”

I can’t tell if he means for the statement to be accusatory, but I feel defensive, nevertheless. “No one told us we couldn’t.”