Page 110 of The Unmaking of June Farrow

The red door was gone.

“You lied, June. And now you’re goin’ to pay for it.”

The tone of Caleb’s voice was flat as we turned right onto the river road, away from town. When Sam’s car went the opposite direction, my stomach turned.

Caleb’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his frame swaying left to right as the car rocked over the uneven road. I could feel him looking at me in the rearview mirror now. Those were the same eyes that had bored into me across the table at the police station. The same ones that had followed me at the Midsummer Faire.

Caleb knew he’d won, and he wanted to watch, second by second, as I realized it.

“The truth has a way of makin’ itself known, doesn’t it?” he said, reaching into the glove compartment for an amber glass bottle. It looked like whiskey. “My father taught me that, and it’s somethin’ I’ve never understood about people. It doesn’t matter how small the town is or how well you cover things up, there are always traces left behind. There’s always someone out there who saw somethin’ or knows somethin’ or heard somethin’. It’s only a matter of time before it washes up.”

He took a long drink from the bottle before he turned the wheel, taking us onto one of the county roads that wound deep into the hills. The sweet, oaky smell of the whiskey filled the car.

“I never liked you. Mostly because I had to keep an eye on my father once you came to town. He was erratic, possessed by this idea that you weren’t who you said you were. I have to say, I agree with him, June. So, imagine my surprise when I found that picture of him in your house.” His hand gestured to something in the front seat.

I leaned forward just enough to see it. The stack of papers he’d taken from my bedroom were sitting on the closed folder beside him, the photograph of Nathaniel and Susanna, our parents, on top.

“I had to ask myself. Why would this woman have that photograph?”

“Susanna was family,” I said.

According to what the town knew, that was true. I was a relative of the Farrows from Norfolk, Virginia, just like she’d been.

“Maybe. Or maybe there’s more to it than that.”

I met his eyes in the mirror.

“This picture got me thinkin’. All this mystery about that shoe and no one being in total agreement about exactly what you were wearin’ that night. I hadn’t thought about the photographer.”

The white-hot flash of the bulb ignited in my mind again. I could smell the smoke from the spark. The photographer from theJasper Chroniclehad been there that night. Taking pictures for the paper.

I clenched my teeth.

Caleb reached into the folder on the seat and raised something in the air, handing it to me. I pulled it into my lap, my heart sinking. It was a blown-up black-and-white photograph of the Midsummer Faire in 1950. The image was of the dance floor, a blur of people smudged across the frame. But in the background, I was in focus. I stood beside one of the tent poles, Annie asleep in my arms. We were both wearing what looked like white dresses, and I was wearing those shoes. They were exact matches to the one Caleb had at the police station. The one I said I’d never owned or seen before.

“How’re you gonna explain that to a jury, June?” Caleb laughed, taking another sip of whiskey.

He was right. He had what he needed. There was a recorded tape of me saying I’d never seen that shoe before, and a photograph to prove I was lying. Then there was Mimi’s statement. The items he’d found in my house. The reports of Eamon threatening Nathaniel. It was only a matter of time before they arrested him, too.

“What’d you do with the dress? Burn it?” he asked.

Those flames were like beacons behind my eyes, their glare making me wince. I could still see Eamon’s black shape as he crouched before them, feeding our clothes to the fire.

“I thought it was Eamon who killed him and you who’d helped cover it up.” Caleb continued. “But now I’m thinkin’ you’re the one who did it. Those scratches on his arms and his neck. That’s a woman’s work.”

Caleb’s foot pressed the gas, and the car picked up speed, taking the curves faster.

My hands pulled against the cuffs, metal biting into bone. “Where are we going?” I said, the prickling fear constricting my throat.

He ignored me, dumping the rest of the whiskey into his mouth. “Part of me understood when I saw you—why he couldn’t leave you alone.”

I braced myself.

“It’s not right.” He shook his head, voice straining. “It’s not right how much you look like her.”

I remembered that crazed glint in Nathaniel’s eyes as he pushed me down into the water. The unnerving tone of his voice. He’d known. Somehow, he’d known. The question was how much did Caleb remember about our mother? And how much truth was there in what Esther had said about what was passed down in the blood? My own veins were filled with it, too.

“Why do you look like her?” His voice changed with the question. It took on an unnatural tone that made me shiver.