Page 45 of The Unmaking of June Farrow

Her chin jerked toward the house. “Come on, then.”

Again, I looked to Eamon through the window. He was watching me now, in a way that felt both wary and threatening. He was tense. On alert, as if he were ready to protect this place from me.

“Well?” Esther waited.

I took a steadying breath before I gathered the will to step inside. Esther gave me an encouraging smile as I passed, letting the door close behind me.

I found a place to stand beside the fireplace, studying the little trinkets on the mantel. A speckled feather, a seashell. A small bronze box with an engraved lid. Across the room, a curtain half hid a small nook with what appeared to be a bed, where a little rag doll was tossed on top of the blanket. I hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because the curtain had been closed. It had to belong to the little girl I’d seen in Eamon’s arms yesterday. I’d been careful not to think too much about her.

“Now,” Esther began. “The best thing we can do is to act as normal as possible. June, you’ve been in Norfolk taking care of your mother after a stroke. She’s doing much better, so you’re home for good.”

I stiffened. “For good?”

“As far as the town’s concerned, yes.”

Eamon watched me, dark eyes moving over my face in a way that made me shift on my feet.

“People will be curious.” She continued, “They’ll ask questions. So, it’s important that you’re careful with your words. Don’t embellish, don’t share details. Do you understand?”

I gave her a small nod. I did understand, but I didn’t like the feeling that filled the room. I didn’t have any idea what had taken place here in the last five years. The choices I’d made. The people I’d hurt. All of this felt like being dropped into a stranger’s life and it was clear I wasn’t welcome here.

“I’ll take Annie for the night. Give you two a chance to…” She paused. “Talk.”

She gave me one last, long look before she went out the back door.Seconds after I heard her call Annie’s name, the little girl was standing in the open doorway of the barn. The remains of a half-eaten apple were clutched in her small hands as she followed on Esther’s heels toward the truck.

Across the kitchen, Eamon hadn’t moved, but the coldness in his eyes seemed to thaw just a little. He looked more curious now. Appraising. Like he was just beginning to let himself take in the sight of me.

“I don’t have to stay,” I said, my attention dropping to his hands. They were darkened, streaked with something black that had been only half-heartedly wiped off.

“That might have been true if you listened to me yesterday and stayed out of sight.” The words were buried beneath the deep tenor of his voice. The accent was easier to pick out now, a dim Irish lilt that had lost its most recognizable traits. “But everyone in town will know by now that you’re here. There’s no getting around that.”

I folded my hands together, unsure of what to do with them. He wasn’t trying to make me more comfortable or put me at ease, the way Esther had. This man was angry, and he didn’t care if I knew it.

“You’ll stay here until…” He didn’t finish, as if he couldn’t even bring himself to say it.

“The door,” I murmured.

He nodded. “When it comes back, you’ll leave, and we can all get back to our lives.”

My whole body went rigid at the thought that followed. “And if it doesn’t?”

“It will. It always comes back.” He dropped his gaze from mine. It sounded like there was more meaning to the words than I knew. “You can take the bedroom. I’ll sleep out here.”

My eyes went to the door off the kitchen. Behind it, the remnants of a life I didn’t remember were preserved like a tomb. The thought of going back in there made my stomach turn.

The light in the house changed suddenly as the clouds drifted in, and outside, the wind caught the leaves of the tobacco, making asound that reminded me of the ocean. Eamon’s eyes found the window, a distracted concern surfacing in his expression.

“What were you searching for yesterday,” I asked, “when you looked at my arm?”

He considered the question, taking his time with the answer. “I was checking for something.”

“What?”

The muscle in his jaw clenched. “A scar. A couple of years ago, June burned herself on the stove.” He glanced to the kitchen, like he was remembering it. “It left a scar on the inside of her wrist.”

That was how he’d figured it out. I’d never been burned because I’d never been here. But the fact that he’d known my body that well made my pulse race. For a fleeting moment, I thought I could feel the remnants of heat there, below my palm. A faded, throbbing pain.

“Why did you come here?” His tone was flat, but there was a strained sound beneath it, like he’d been biting back the words since I’d walked through the door.