Chapter 43

43

Wylie and her mother were sitting in the closet, whispering. She squeezed into the space between them and rested her head on her mother's lap. Tas, not wanting to be left out, lay down in front of the open closet door.

Wylie talked while her mother and the girl listened. She told them about when she and her mother were young. Talked about school and overnights and birthday parties with cake and ice cream and balloons and long afternoons at the pool. Things that the girl didn't even know were possible.

Wylie and her mother had known each other before. Before her father, before the room in the basement, before her.

Wylie also talked about how she had moved far away when she was twelve, became a writer, got married too young, and had a baby named Seth. "I never thought I'd get married," Wylie said. "Or have children." She glanced over at the girl, then said, "I didn't think I deserved it after what had happened. But I miss my son. I miss Seth very much."

Wylie crawled from the closet and came back a moment later with a picture. "This is Seth, this is my son."

The girl wanted to know what she meant. Wanted to know what Wylie did that was so bad that she didn't deserve a nice husband and a son with laughing dark eyes and deep dimples, but she didn't want Wylie to stop talking. She liked the sound of her voice, wanted to know more.

For a while, her mother didn't say a word. She just listened and stroked the girl's head. The girl felt an ache in her chest that she couldn't quite name. It wasn't sadness or anger. It felt more like hope.

"I thought if I wrote everything down," Wylie said, "I might be able to move on. Live my life, be a good mom. Instead, I've been hiding out here, trying to write a book about what happened but not really wanting to face it."

The girl's eyes grew heavy. She was warm and safe and with her mother. Everything was okay. She could sleep now if she wanted, and all would be well.

"Your mother still works at the grocery store," Wylie said, and the girl's eyes opened. A small sound escaped her mother's lips. Her mother rarely talked about once having a mother. It made her too sad.

"I haven't talked to her since I've been back," Wylie went on. "I was too much of a coward. I haven't talked to anyone."

Her mother lowered her head. Tears spilled from her cheeks to the girl's, but she didn't move.

Finally, her mother spoke. "He told me she was dead. He told me that you were all dead — your family, your dog — and it was all my fault. But I snuck out of the basement and I called home. And she answered. My mother. She wasn't dead. But I couldn't say anything. I just hung up." Her mother wiped at her eyes. "But your parents? Your brother?"

"Yes," Wylie said. "He killed them."

Her mother's shoulders sagged. "I thought so," she said in a soft voice. "He put me in your brother's truck and told me he would kill me too."

"My parents must have gone to get Ethan's truck from the gravel road and brought it home that night," Wylie murmured.

"He hid the truck in his garage all these years," Becky went on. "It's the one we took when we ran. He painted it black, but I knew it was Ethan's. We had to get out of there. I didn't know how to drive but it was our only choice. With all the snow and ice—" she shook her head regretfully "—I couldn't stay on the road. I lost control and crashed. I'm so sorry."

Wylie reached for her mother's hand and held it gently in her own. They sat like that for a long time, waiting. For what? The man in the shed to come for them or someone else?

It didn't matter. For the first time in a long time, the girl felt like things just might be okay.