November 14, 2002
Jasmine
Dear Diary,
I am not okay. I keep finding things I shouldn’t.
This place and its secrets.
I thought the pranks were bad. This is worse. This is so much worse.
Meadow
Dear Diary,
I lost something important.
So help me God if one of those girls took it.
Chapter Eighteen
Riverbend, Louisiana
Saturday, February 16, 2019
6:37 a.m. CST
I drive through the neighborhood behind our property the next morning. It’s filled with houses that scream ’70s and ’80s. Beige siding and beige brick and roofs that look like they’ve seen a hail storm or ten.
I steer the truck to the end of a dead-end street past the last house. It’s another one-story with brown brick, and it has a neighbor on its left, but on the right is a forest with a dirt road leading into it. Bingo. I turn off the street and drive through the rutted grass to the trail’s entrance, hoping the neighbor isn’t looking out their window.
Several times I have to slow to a crawl to dodge branches. I arrive at the old metal gate and barbed wire fence that separates the back of our property from the neighbors and park on our side. I hop down and pull the heavy chain and lock I purchased from the bag in the back seat. My heels sink in the muck as I carry them to the gate and drape the chain over with a loud clang. Then I thread it through and click the lock into place. I choose my mother’s birth year for this code.
I stand back and look. Better.
The house is quiet when I roll my suitcase into the kitchen, carrying my muddy shoes and large to-go coffee I grabbed from thehotel lobby on my way out. Quite the walk of shame. Thing is, I don’t feel any shame. Last night with Grant was ... refreshing.
Debby is in her usual spot at the table with her crossword.
I walk to the coffeepot and add hot coffee to my to-go cup, then go to the drawer at Debby’s small built-in desk and find the bottle of Advil.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” she says, peering over her readers.
Debby is already dressed. I’m starting to think she sleeps in her clothes. I have yet to catch her in pajamas. My father is nowhere to be seen. I pop four Advil in my mouth and swallow them with the coffee.
I head to the mudroom by the garage and put on a large farm coat and slip my bare feet into paddock boots, then head to the French doors that lead to the back patio. My head throbs against the cold air, but it feels good as I pull my coat tighter. It’s what I need. I sit in one of the chairs and watch streaks of pink start to form in the cloudless sky.
The mornings here never cease to amaze me. They are soft and gentle, the sun easing up like a parent checking on a sleeping child. It’s a strange juxtaposition to the chaos happening inside me.
Birds chirp and zip through the air. Birds are a given in Louisiana any time of year, especially if you live next to a body of water. This farm is no exception. Gray herons and white egrets glide over the still water alongside wood ducks and geese. Geese that seem to be nesting in my father’s backyard.
Then the crack of a gunshot echoes over the lake, and I choke on the sip I’m taking. The barrel of my father’s shotgun is visible through his downstairs closet window.
“Dad!”
Another shot. My ears ring. A giant flock of black cormorants lifts off the lake and scatters in all directions.
“Goddamn scavengers,” my father says from the depths of his closet. A closet he added a window to when he built this place so he’d always have a view of the lake he built as well. “They’re gonna eat all my bass.”
