Page 16 of A Sea of Unspoken Things

Now, sitting at the kitchen table, I was thinking the same thing. I studied the photograph again, tracing the contrasted lines of the rockface with my finger. The photo paper was still glossy and fresh, slick to the touch, and the reflection of light on its surface obscured the image just enough for me to imagine Johnny up on that ledge. He’d earned himself a reputation for being fearless, but that day was the first time I began to realize that we weren’t immortal. That I couldlosehim. And that terror had opened a kind of doorway between us.

For years after that, the same link would wake from time to time, connecting us in an impossible, metaphysical way. I could feel what Johnny felt in those moments. Almost like Iwashim. Spaces and things that held on to bits of my brother felt like conductors. That, I expected, was what had happened in the diner. The darkroom. The first time I’d sat down at his desk. The traces he’d left behind were still alive all around me, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d keep tripping those wires.

I set the photograph down, clicking my tongue, and Smoke leapt up from the heap of blankets on the sofa. He was out the front door as soon as I had it open, trotting down the drive ahead of me and turning toward town before I even had the door locked.

It was even colder than the morning, the cloudy sky painting everything in shades of dusty blue, and the thin jacket I’d brought was proving to be useless. I couldn’t stomach the idea of taking one of Johnny’s coats, and I wouldn’t risk it now that I was convinced I was somehow connecting with him. I still hadn’t even dared to step foot in his room.

I followed Smoke, tugging on the beanie I had stuffed in the pocket, but my steps faltered when I spotted the truck in the Walkers’ driveway. The slow, creeping sense of dread I’d had since I arrived in Six Rivers opened its gaping mouth inside my chest and I picked up my pace, watching the house from the corner of my eye. It wasn’t until I was past the turnoff that I saw the flash of a red checkered shirt beneath a pair of canvas overalls.

I nearly tripped over my own feet when Rhett Walker came into view. But it was the blood on his hands that made me stop breathing. Before him, a deer was strung up by its hind legs, its middle cut open over the dirt. The silver coat gleamed beneath the stain of blood painted over its body. The same blood that painted Rhett’s forearms as he reached into the cavity and swept his hand from top to bottom.

I instinctively covered my mouth and nose, as if the scent would find me all the way out in the middle of the road, and a nauseous feeling swirled in my stomach. As if he could feel me watching him, Rhett’s head slowly turned, eyes finding me over his shoulder.

He recognized me right away. I could see it in the way his pale, clear eyes sharply focused, his hands slipping from the carcass. The last time I’d seen Rhett Walker, he’d had a fistful of my hair, shaking me so hard that I’d bit my own tongue. Only a few days after his son Griffin died, he’d shown up at our door drunk, barely able to stand on his own two feet. Before I’d even known what was happening, he had his hands on me, his voice so loud it distorted in my ears. He wanted to know what I saw that night. What I knew. And if there was ever a moment that I was close to breaking the promise I’d made, it was then.

Ranger Timothy Branson had managed to haul Rhett off before Johnny got home, and I’d never told him about it. I was terrified of what he might do if I did. That was the same night I decided to leave—that I knew I had to. It was the very first time in my life that I’d admitted it to myself. That I didn’t just love Johnny. I was scared of him, too.

Rhett didn’t so much as blink as he watched me, and I forced mygaze ahead, walking faster. I had to resist the urge to keep checking over my shoulder as I walked, the unsettling vision of the man hovering bright and heavy in my mind. Like I was dragging it behind me.

Smoke didn’t pick up his pace until the first sight of town came into view, and the sound of the music took shape in the quiet. Johnny Cash’s “Cry, Cry, Cry” echoed out in the darkening trees, the lights of The Penny like glowing rainbow smudges in the descending fog.

The bar had been closed up and quiet when I’d walked past that morning, but now it was filled with people. Its windows were open to the street, the small parking lot packed with cars, and a few had their tailgates down, where several people sat with bottles of beer dangling from their fingertips. Their attention drifted in my direction as I came up the road, and I tried to ignore the way their voices hushed. A few of them gave me a nod as I passed and I returned the gesture, determined to make it through the door without having another stilted, half-true conversation about Johnny.

I ducked inside and the music exploded around me, twice as loud once I was within the walls of The Penny. It smelled like stale beer and old, unpolished wood. Bright lights washed over the little stage at the back, where a band was set up, and there wasn’t an empty table in the whole place. License plates covered the walls, reflecting the neon glow of the beer signs over the taps, and it took several seconds for my eyes to adjust enough to spot Olivia sitting at the end of thebar.

As soon as she saw me, she sat up straighter, waving, and I followed the line of stools to the seat she’d saved for me. The lowball glass of whiskey that sat in front of her looked untouched.

“You made it.” She was already flagging down the woman behind the bar, who was setting down two glasses of beer in front of the women beside us.

“What would you like?” She was looking at Olivia, but she tipped her head toward me.

“Go ahead,” Olivia said. “I doubt I know your drink anymore.”

Immediately, I was reading into the comment. Was it an attempt to make the point that I’d been gone for too long? Or maybe animplication that I drank something pretentious now that I lived in the city? But when I looked at Olivia, that innocent, sweet look was still in her eyes.

“Vodka soda, please,” I said.

The bartender nodded, plucking a glass from the counter behind her.

“Okay, maybe I do still know your drink.” There was a grin at the corner of Olivia’s mouth now.

The cymbals crashed behind us, and all at once the music died out. It was replaced by the sound of the loud voices in the room. Laughter and shouting and the clink of glasses hitting the tabletops. The vodka soda landed in front of me and I thanked the bartender with a nod, lifting it to take a sip.

Olivia did the same with her whiskey, her glass drifting toward me in a mock salute. There were a few awkward seconds before she finally started talking. “Remember when we used to hang out in the parking lot and pay the loggers to buy us beer?”

I smiled, and this time it was a genuine one.

“Amazing what a ten-dollar bill and a pretty smile could get you back then.” She snickered.

“To the loggers.” I lifted my glass again, repeating the mantra we used to say.

Olivia clinked her glass against mine. “To the loggers.”

We took a synchronized drink, and Olivia pushed her glasses back up her nose.

“Can’t believe this place is still here,” I said.

“Really?”