Chapter 10

Faye

Five years ago . . .

“Mom, put the knife down,” I rush out. I can’t inhale a full breath into my lungs, so I swallow down the lump in my throat. Ignoring everything else, I stifle the wave of emotions that instantly drenched me when I walked into the kitchen. Instincts kicked in immediately.

Dark red blood drips over her hands and tracks down her wrists in rivulets, getting lighter the longer the air has a chance to greet it. It trickles and then disappears over the body lumped awkwardly on the linoleum floor. I may have hated the man, but I never pictured this. This can’t be undone.

I hold up my hands, showing I’m not a threat. I may not have a badge yet, but I know she needs to see I’m here to help. Tears stream down her face, her eyebrows pinched in anger and maybe confusion. Her chest rises and falls with every exaggerated breath, matching mine.

There isn’t time to process any of this. She may be shit in loving the right men, but my mother is kind and loves with her eyes and arms wide open. She’s always told me to follow my instincts and find a path that would make my soul happy. But this version of her, angry and shaken, is one I’ve never seen. I don’t want the rose-colored glasses removed or to know this version of her. But I catalog every detail without even realizing it. The low whistle from the wind outside. The glasses in the sink, the bourbon on the counter, the back screened door unlatched, the way she isn’t sad, but scared and in shock. I’m taking mental snapshots that’ll make it impossible to forget.

“Mom, look at me,” I say firmly.

She glances back up at me, slightly dazed. There’s a smear of blood along her lip from where it split. Pieces of hair stick to her neck. Shelby Calloway is a lot of things, but a murderer isn’t going to be one of them. I love her too much for that to be true.

I walk closer and hit the hot water valve with force. She doesn’t move; only stares into the stream of water beginning to steam.

I move around the body and tell her, “I’m going to call for some help ? —”

“No!” she snaps, breaking her trance as she points at me. Her black mascara streaks down her face as if the darkness around this moment is bleeding into her.

She held her own with Tullis, but it never looked like love. When I was home, it felt more like “benefits.” Arguments and gaslighting disguised as passion. The horses she trains are more loyal than her live-in partner—people know he fucks around on her. I wonder if she does too. But she loves her job, training thoroughbreds for Finch Tullis has friends, he and his brother have too much influence. There are too many people in higher places who would be able to spin this differently. She doesn’t deserve what would become of her.

I glance at Tullis again, his chest barely rising as his body awkwardly lies there.

I watch as the arm that’s tucked under his torso remains motionless. His fingers curve upwards, as if he’s holding a baseball. “A mishap of training,” he’d said. A horse stepping on a hand and the bones that hadn’t been set right. I hated his stories. They always seemed like half-truths.

I’ve always been good at thinking too many steps ahead, and every minute that ticked by would be studied and scrutinized by detectives and the district attorney. The longer we wait to call for help, the story changes from accident or self-defense to calculated and premeditated.

I turn it over in my head, heart racing and sweat beading along my hairline, watching her stare off and play over whatever just happened. She’s a single mother who had gotten caught up time and time again with trusting and loving the wrong people. It’s a cycle that got her here, to this moment. And it needs to stop now. I love her and Maggie more than anything, and I’ll protect the people I love over anything else.

I look again at Tullis, who’s bleeding out on the floor. There are two slices along each side of his neck, pulsing blood more slowly now. His chest stopped moving.

I clear my throat, making up my mind.

The things needed are in the barn.

My mom’s going to need something to calm down.

I’ll have to take off his shoes.

Gather his wallet and turn off his phone.

I factor in his weight.

The weight of this . . .

I can fix it. I have the foresight, training, and knowledge to know what has to be done. And it’s ugly. It will change every part of who I thought I was and who I had been planning to become. But I’ll deal with all of that later.

I grip onto the top corners of the blue plastic and pull. The sound of it crunches as I gather it tight in each fist, and I hold my breath as I use all of my strength to focus. “Focus on the task and do not fall apart.” I keep repeating those words to myself over and over as his body thunks down each step and onto the pavers of our back walkway.

The wet grass makes the tarp easier to drag than I expected.

“Mom, listen to me.” But she doesn’t even look at me. Endless tears track down her face as she stares ahead. “I’ll be back in a little while,” I call out.

The air stops moving—the calm before the storm.

I rub the back of my hand along my forehead and sop up the sweat dripping into my eyes. I need a minute. Dropping the shovel, I lean forward, bracing my hands on my knees. At least it was summer, and the ground is wet from the heavy rainfall that still lingers. I need his belongings buried as deep as I can dig. His phone and shoes are piled eye-level next to me on the edge of the hole I’ve been digging. I think through my forensics class and roster out the chemicals I need to clean the kitchen properly. I’ll make sure our clothes are burned and our bodies scrubbed thoroughly.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I look up as emotion builds. The strawberry moon lights the sky in a pink tint. It’s supposed to bring a broader sense of responsibility. Summer Solstice and a strawberry moon only happened every twenty years. The only thing I can do is huff a laugh—it’d be easier to blame the moon. Its gravity and pull can manipulate tides, but it isn’t powerful enough to force will or effect choices. It couldn’t undo what she had done. Dammit, this isn’t the life I want. I squint my eyes closed and yell again at the dead body. “Fuck you!”

This isn’t the life my mother wanted, either. She talks about horse training like it’s what she always wanted, but the goal for her was always building out a sanctuary—a place for the ones she trained to live out their lives in open fields.

I glance down the dark rows of corn, pull myself out of the muddy hole, and toss the shovel to the side, where Tullis is slumped and bloody. There were good parts of him, I’m sure. My mother fell in love with some piece of him, and she’s my compass. My true north. The person who always centers me when I find myself spiraling. But now, I have to be that for her.

I wipe my hand down the front of my shorts, pushing away the mud and sweat caked along my wrist and fingers. A blister on each palm already forms right where my heart line splits. I wonder if they’ll leave scars. The sky rumbles in the distance, making the night feel even more volatile, reminding me that there’s so much more to do. I wedge the shovel under Tullis’s hip and use it as leverage to roll his body into the ditch. I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the sound—a thud and squelch as he meets the mud.

Tossing on three cinder blocks, I close my eyes each time they hit him. I don’t need wet earth rejecting him and him rising from the dead. This isn’t Practical Magic —my sister won’t come to the rescue with spells, and a sheriff won’t ride up on horseback to help me bury the truth. My mother and sister are the dreamers in our family, and I’m the realist. If anyone were to find Tullis King along the edge of this cornfield, there wouldn’t be anything charming or enchanting about it.

Two hours later, soaked from the rain and reeling from the way my life has spun out so quickly, I return to my mom still sitting on those steps. I don’t tell her about Lincoln Foxx or the blackmail and ultimatum. But I just buried a body along with the life I had planned for myself with it.

“I have to leave. After tonight,” I tell her, swallowing roughly as my eyes glaze over. “I’ll take his phone and make it seem like he left. You need to withdraw a chunk of money and make it look like he did.”

“Faye . . . ” She covers her mouth. “This isn’t–”

But I cut her off and finish her words. “No, Mom, this isn’t okay. None of what happened here will ever be okay ... ” I stop talking and rest my head on her shoulder for the briefest moment. “Maggie won’t understand why I’m leaving. But you’re going to need to make it okay. Promise me that you’re both going to be okay.” And I know she can’t, even as I plead with her. After tonight, there’s no promising anything, but I need to hear it anyway.

Her voice cracks when she says, “I promise.”