Page 109 of Poison Wood
“Please.”
I scan the perimeter of the house for muddy footprints, but I don’t see any. Then I walk into the kitchen, and my father is sitting in his chair at the head of the table. Debby sits next to him in a bubble-gum-pink sweatsuit. The kitchen smells like spices and roast.
I come in guns blazing. “Were either of you out walking around by the back gate?”
They look up from their plates.
Debby tilts her head. “No. Well, maybe. It’s possible. I did walk the dogs back there earlier.”
“I saw footprints,” I say, and as I say it, I realize how paranoid it sounds. But being paranoid can also mean being prepared. Locking something out, even with a steel chain, doesn’t guarantee you can’t get hurt. My memories have taught me that. The things we want to keep out the most always seem to find a way in. And the last person I want finding their way in here is the person who killed Laura Sanders or Archibald Crowley.
Debby motions toward my father with her hand. “Your father is back home. Early.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, sorry. Hi, Dad. I’m glad you’re back home ...” I trail off as I study my dad’s face. “You saw the news,” I say.
He nods.
“All of the news?” I say.
He nods again.
Debby shakes her blond bouffant. “That school,” she says, but she doesn’t mention the news about my mother. She doesn’t need to.
“You knew, didn’t you?” he says.
Now it’s my turn to nod. I lean against the kitchen counter. “Did you know anything about him? Archibald Crowley?”
He shakes his head. “Just what everybody else knew. That he was a thief. And that once he was gone, it was good riddance.”
“Did anyone reach out to you after Crowley left the school?”
“Why are you speaking to me in your reporter voice?”
“This isn’t my reporter voice, Dad. This is my concerned-daughter voice.”
“Nobody reached out to me,” he says. “Do you think I would have kept that man’s death a secret if I knew anything about it? What kind of person do you think I am?”
It’s a rhetorical question, and it’s one I thought I could answer a week ago. Now the answer seems a little more complicated.
“It’s going to be okay, kid,” my dad says, and something in my heart cracks and pops and splits open, and I’m horrified to realize I’m about to cry. I dig my thumbnail into my palm until the pain is strong enoughto distract whatever is happening inside me. I’ve pushed so hard on my skin I’m afraid I may have drawn blood.
Then my father’s eyes widen as he looks over my shoulder.
I turn, and Grant is standing behind me.
“What happened to waiting in the car?” I say to Grant.
“I did wait,” he says. “Now I’m done waiting.”
I start to say something, but he holds out his hand and approaches the table. “I’m Grant—”
“I know you,” my father says in a voice that sounds as if he’s on the bench. “You were speaking at that conference for Johnny Adair.”
“Hello, Judge,” Grant says. He drops his hand since my father hasn’t offered his.
“Hello, Grant,” Debby says. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Debby.”
“Hello, Ms. Debby.”
