Jiminy closed her eyes and tried to remember what she could about the Meredith Marches of 1966. She knew they had something to do with desegregation, something to do with voting, something to do with Martin Luther King, Jr. Unable to come up with anything more, she opened her eyes and looked around for a computer, but there was none to be found. Fayeville’s dearth of Internet connections was simultaneously charming and inconvenient. Jiminy reached for the encyclopedia set on a nearby shelf, feeling very old-fashioned.
Forty minutes later, she better understood that the summer of 1966 had been one of inflamed passions, of galvanization and conflict, of the South near its boiling point. This apparently had made for a place and time when innocent people could be slaughtered and forgotten. But really? Could they really?
She checked the July issues of the paper, and the August and September ones, just to be sure. There was no mention anywhere.
“Find what you’re looking for?” the librarian asked between bites of the salad she’d brought for her lunch.
Jiminy shook her head.
“No, actually. There were two brutal murders of people who lived right here in Fayeville, and there’s not a single mention of them anywhere.”
“You must have your dates wrong,” the librarian replied. “You can check the 1965 box if you like.”
“It was 1966. Lyn Waters’s husband and daughter, Edward and Jiminy, were murdered that June. They were driving back from a leadership seminar Jiminy had won an essay contest to attend and they went missing. Two weeks later their car was found stripped and burned on the banks of the river. Their bodies washed ashore nearby.”
The librarian’s expression changed as Jiminy recited these facts. She put down her fork.
“Those aren’t the sort of deaths the Ledger covered back then,” she said evenly.
“Do you remember hearing about them?” Jiminy asked.
The librarian met her gaze.
“I remember hearing that Lyn’s husband and daughter had gone and got themselves drowned. I didn’t ask any questions. We don’t talk about things like that.”
Jiminy stared back, then sneezed powerfully, grateful that her body instinctively rejected such attitudes. Unfortunately this town seemed rife with them, and she was beginning to feel allergic to simply being here.
She took her leave and exited into the bright sunshine of the courthouse yard, where, slightly dazed, she made her way to the nearest tree and sank into its shade. With one hand on her diaphragm and the other propped beneath her head, she lay on her back, closed her eyes, and focused on her breath. She began to count how many heartbeats she could fit into one inhalation and had just stretched herself to three when she sensed someone standing over her. Her heartbeat surged as her eyes flew open. It was Bo.
“You looked so peaceful,” he said.
“It’s a good disguise,” she answered.
His grin was easily unfurled. She gazed at his white, white teeth and thought of sails on Lake Michigan.
“Do you wanna go get some food or something?” she asked.
It wasn’t like her to usher an invitation, but she’d come to realize that spending time with Bo delighted her. Her life had been short on delight and she felt greedy for it now.
Bo’s grin tacked starboard as he shook his head.
“I’d love to, but I haven’t earned it yet,” he answered. “I’ve got a long date with the lymphatic system,” he said as he held up his MCAT book. “Maybe later?”
“Lymph node hussies,” Jiminy muttered.
Bo laughed.
“You sticking around?” he asked. “This is my favorite spot to study.”
Jiminy thought about it.
“No, I’ve got things to do, too,” she replied. “But call me later?”
“Will do.”
His promise flapped in the air between them, crisp and clear and healthy.
Chapter 5
Whenever Willa walked into the HushMart superstore, she felt like she was arriving in another country and should have to show her passport for entry. An entire populace could live in the building and have everything they needed at their fingertips, at low, low prices. It was a wonder of a place.
She still occasionally happened upon entire sections that seemed new to her, and she wondered if the store was secretly expanding at night. The lot that had been zoned for it backed up to a limestone cliff, so there wasn’t anywhere obvious for it to grow, but Willa had a hunch that those light green–vested managers were far too innovative to let a little geology hamper their progress.
“Have you sampled our hickory-smoked chew toys?” a voice chirped.
It was one of the green-vests, offering what appeared to be a barbecue-scented shoe.
“No, thank you,” Willa replied.
“They’re for dogs. Do you have a dog?”
Willa shook her head.
“Then you’re in luck! The store’s opening a pet zone next month, so you can buy one!”
“Buy one? Fayeville’s already got more dogs and cats than people who want them,” Willa protested.
It was true. Puppies and kittens were regularly deposited at the large collection of Dumpsters near the interstate to fend for themselves, or dropped from the bridge into the river to end things more quickly. This wasn’t a town that was sentimental about such things.
“Those are all mutts,” the HushMart minion said dismissively. “We’ll sell purebreds here.”
Willa absorbed this as she glanced around at the floor-to-ceiling shelves that seemed to stretch for miles.
“Can you point me toward the silver polish?” she asked. “I get so turned around in here.”
“Straight that way, past the photo zone, third left into Household Care,” the employee replied obligingly, before turning to thrust the chew toys in front of another shopper.
Willa made her ambling way through the photo zone, marveling at the variety of cameras and camera accessories she passed. Her husband Henry had been a photography aficionado, and Jiminy clearly enjoyed her Polaroids, but Willa herself had never had much interest. She appeared in photos if another pointed a camera at her, but she’d never played an active role in capturing images. When it came down to it, she was a fundamentally passive person—someone whom things happened to, rather than someone who made things happen. Though she and her granddaughter had never been close, until recently, she’d felt they shared this characteristic. But lately, Jiminy had seemed almost intent on shaking things up. It went beyond the Polaroids—there was a new restless questing to her that surprised and unsettled Willa. Willa didn’t feel up to any fresh challenges. She felt weary and nervous.
“Now, what was it I was looking for?” she said aloud as she turned away from an aisle filled with albums.
What she wouldn’t give to have someone sure and trustworthy beside her, whispering the answer in her ear.
Don’t be a coward, don’t be a coward, Jiminy repeated in her head, waiting for it to seep in and give her strength. She’d climbed over the fence and taken a long walk down the hill toward the river, in search of fresh views and solitude to think and plan. But now she was trapped and terrified, looking around for weapons.
The rock in her hand wasn’t large enough, and the only other things she could spot around her were twigs. Why didn’t her grandmother have a dog? Some vicious, snarling, loyal dog who’d never let her go on walks by herself? If she got out of this alive, she swore she was going to get one.
“GO AWAY! GO! LEAVE ME ALONE!” she shouted at the top of her lungs.
They moved closer, and she backed away farther, trembling.
“I guess she’s really scared of them.” Willa sighed as she stared out the dining room window. “That must’ve been why she was asking me how often they maul people. I thought she was joking. Who’s scared of cows?”