Page 62 of Into the Dark, We Go
I lingered at the back of the room, hesitant to approach the coffin. A part of me was afraidshewould show up. The other woman. The thought alone twisted my stomach in knots. I had seen them together with my own eyes. Yet, it still felt unreal. But did it even matter anymore? He died soon after. I had mustered the courage to confront him about what I’d seen, and just two uneasy weeks later, he suffered a stroke.
A slow procession of relatives and friends filled the seats in a steady, mournful stream. The front row, reserved for Mom and me, remained empty. I had just been passed from one aunt to another, each wrapping me in a tight hug, murmuring soft condolences—"You can always count on us, dear".
Their kindness should have been comforting, but instead, it only deepened the isolation. Soon, they would all be gone, leaving Mom and me alone in a house that suddenly felt too empty.
I wanted someone to confide in, someone to tell me I was overthinking it, that I had misread the situation. That it wasn’t my fault. I would have clung to their reassurance like a lifeline.
My mother detached herself from another group of newcomers with a flimsy excuse and began toward me. I didn’t want to engage with her, didn’t want to hear her agitatedcommands. So, I turned away and made my way to the front of the room, knowing she wouldn’t scold me this time. Not next to my deceased father.
I looked down at his face, and for a moment, I saw the familiar features I had grown up with—the same long nose, soft mouth, gentle yet strong hands folded on his chest. The old scar on his right hand was just where it had always been, a pale line below the knuckles. He used to tell a different story every time I asked about it. A fight with a raccoon. Saving a kid from drowning. A shark attack. But Mom eventually told me the truth: he’d slammed it into something back when he was drinking. One of the many nights, way before I was born, that got swept under the rug.
His skin was pale and waxy, with sunken cheeks and a slack chest. The features were his, yet different, like a painting that had faded and warped with time. My mind struggled with the disconnect between this waxen figure and the father I once knew, the man he had been and the version I had loved.
Had I ever really seen him? Do we ever truly know anyone, even those closest to us? Or are we only given fragments, carefully selected and arranged, until we convince ourselves they form a complete picture?
September, 2020
Nick askedme several times if I was okay going to Duane’s funeral. I checked in with myself and felt disturbingly numb, as if finding a dead body wasn’t a big deal. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or alarmed by that.
In the end, Mitch and I were the ones who went, leaving Nick and June behind. I had the closest connection to Duane, so it made sense. And while Mitch never said it out loud, I knewhe wasn’t about to leave June alone with me again. After what happened to Duane, he was already thinking about sending her home. The only things stopping him were her refusal and the fear that she’d be worse off without him.
I didn’t interfere, letting them sort it out while Nick and I sat in the corner, pretending not to eavesdrop on their bickering. At least Mitch was off my back.
When we got into my car—though he insisted on driving—I was still mad at him and couldn’t bring myself to start a conversation. June and I probably should have left a note for them that night, but I didn’t regret going. I even wished I had done it sooner. Maybe it would have saved Duane’s life.
The funeral felt like our last chance to learn something before we had to give up and follow the Sheriff’s order to leave town. I hoped we’d run into someone from Lucas and Duane’s past and get them to talk.
Then again, Mitchell was sure it was a sloppy cover-up, not a suicide, and that made asking questions a whole lot riskier. I didn’t doubt his expertise in firearms, bullets, and exit holes, but it was hard to wrap my mind around the thought that a serial killer was walking around, let alone believe the killer might be the Sheriff.
On our wayto the funeral home, Mitchell was the first to break the silence.
"Listen, what you said yesterday. I get that. But you gotta understand, June is all the family I have left."
I turned to him, still sullen.
"She’s a competent adult, and I will not take the blame for her decision to come with me. What was I supposed to do, go and snitch on her? Besides, I really needed to talk to Duaneabout Lucas, and you wouldn’t listen to me. And now, it’s too late."
He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming down. "It wouldn’t have done any good if you went there earlier. Could’ve gotten yourself killed, too. And I’d have another death on my conscience."
"I went because you only care about Amanda! But it’s about me, too. It’s about Lucas. And what do you mean, ‘another death’?"
He didn’t respond, his concentration on the road was exaggerated.
"If you keep hiding things from me, I swear, it’s all over. I’m so sick of being disregarded, of not being told things."
I didn’t just mean Mitch. I meant everyone, including my father and Lucas. Everyone wanted to keep their secrets, but in the end, it all only hurt more.
Mitch’s response was a tight-lipped silence, his hands clenching the wheel. I could tell I was getting under his skin. Given his volatile temper, it was a risky move, but I pressed on anyway.
"It’s not just about wanting to find out what happened to Amanda, is it? I know there’s more to it. What did you do?"
He pulled the car over, put it in park with a measured movement, and then allowed himself to snap.
"I didn’t stop it! I was just trying to get away! He’d been beating the crap out of me, and there wasn’t a single thing I could do. And I left. And now Mom is dead. And Amanda… She didn’t even want to see me. She blamed me for leaving. And I keep thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I’d stood up to him, if I’d done something… maybe she wouldn’t have detached herself so much. Maybe she would talk to me, and maybe she wouldn’t have gone missing!"
I didn’t know what to say. Whatever had happened with his family ruined them, and for some reason, he took the blame. He was just as broken as I was.
"It’s not your fault," I said, the words feeling inadequate, but the only thing I could think to offer. "And June is lucky to have you. I’m lucky to have met you, too. We just need to be more open with each other, even when it’s hard."
