Page 36 of The Unmaking of June Farrow

The man was clearly confused, but before he could ask any more questions, I trudged back up the rocks, to where Eamon stood. Behind his truck, the glossy black-and-white paint of the police car reflected the sun. A single red light was fixed to the hood.

I didn’t even see Eamon moving before his arm came around me, hand hooking my waist. I stared at it, watching his fingers curl into my shirt. He pulled me closer to him, but I could feel the tension coiled tight around his body. Whatever was happening, Eamon was doing his best to smooth it over.

“Well, like I said, it’s good to have you back.” The deputy was still watching me intently. “Been a hell of a year.”

I nodded again, keeping my mouth shut. I wasn’t going to risk saying or asking anything that would make this more complicated. Not before I could figure out what exactly was going on here.

The officer tipped his hat before he walked back to the car, opening the door with one more glance in our direction.

“I, uh.” He hesitated. “I’ll need to let the sheriff know.” He said it as if he were apologizing.

“Of course.” Eamon nodded, his voice finding a more convincing ease. “Don’t worry about it, Sam.”

The man got into the car, and Eamon lifted a hand in the air. As soon as the car was out of sight, he dropped his arm from where it was wrapped around me, eyes pinching closed for just a moment. When he finally turned to look at me, it was with a coldness that made me recoil.

“Get in the goddamn truck.”

He didn’t say a word as he walked up the bank, not even waiting to be sure I would follow. For a moment, I considered refusing, but beneath the anger, that look on Eamon’s face had been desperate. He didn’t just know me. I also had the sense that he was trying to protect me.

The engine started up as I opened the door and climbed in. Eamon didn’t wait for it to close before he hit the gas.

“I told you to stay put,” he said, grip tight on the steering wheel. “What the hell were you thinking?”

I studied the inside of the truck. It was an old farm rig with wooden railings fit to the bed and mismatched tires that had probably blown in the fields. Straw and dirt covered the floor where the mats were missing, and the radio dial was fogged over, the numbers illegible.

We were headed back the way I’d come, away from town. I watched the steeple of the church disappear behind us.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Eamon stared at the road.

“You said that if I came with you, you’d tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know what’s going on.” He ground it out one punctuated word at a time, his accent deeper now.

“You know a hell of a lot more than I do. What did you mean, I don’t know you yet?”

He let his eyes land on me for just a moment before he pulled them away again. “We met five years ago. If you don’t recognize me, it’s because it hasn’t happened yet—for you.”

“How is that even possible?”

“How is any of this possible?” His voice rose.

And that’s when I saw it—the glint of gold on his left hand. A wedding ring.

“Oh my god.” I leaned forward, putting my head in my hands and trying to breathe.

“I came home one day and you were gone. I haven’t seen you since,” he said. “That’s all I know.”

“When was that?”

“Almost a year ago.”

I closed my eyes, trying to breathe. A year ago was when my episodes had started. When everything changed. Could that timing be a coincidence?

“It wasn’t me,” I choked out. “It couldn’t have been me.”

“It was you. I think I know my own wife.”