Page 26 of The Fall of Iris Henley
I would never admit it to Sophie—would never admit it to anyone, honestly—but if I’m honest, some tiny part of me has always had a hard time believing that Rocky could do something so violent. It’s not because Rocky was some kind of angel. He wasn’t. For one thing he was obviously a cheater. And for another, yeah, he had a temper. He once broke his hand punching his locker after a loss to Westlake. He tailgated people in his glossy black F-250, laying on his horn if they cut him off or slowed him down. And there was that one fistfight with Frankie Herrera the night Frankie got too drunk and said out loud that Rocky’s sister was going to burn in hell for being a lesbian. Frankie ended up with stitches across his cheek. But most people—even people that maybe privately agreed with Frankie, that Kendra was hellbound—said Rocky’d been in the right to protect his little sister.
None of that had ever set off alarm bells for me. He’d never felt dangerous or violent, as a rule. I know, I know, I can’t just dismiss those details. But it seems like a long walk from “a fistfight with a homophobic jerk” to actual abuse and murder.
My reverie’s interrupted by the door, the bell on the handle tinkling lightly as someone else arrives.
It’s Katy. Max’s girlfriend. I watch as she walks briskly behind the counter, taking an apron off a hook and looping itover her head. Laurie says something to her, and Katy nods in response, picking up the coffee carafe.
Then she looks out into the diner, and her eyes meet mine.
I groan inwardly. I came here to avoid people I know, and she’s not exactly at the top of the list of people I’d want to talk to anyway. But she puts on a tight little smile and comes out to where I’m sitting.
“Hey,” I say in greeting. “I didn’t know you were working here.”
“Just for the last few weeks,” she says. “I’ve got early release Mondays and have to start saving for next year. More coffee?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks. I was just about to ask for my check.”
“Sure, I can get it.” She stands over me for a moment, though, almost looming. “I’m surprised to see you here, honestly. I assumed you’d still be in jail.”
That startles me. “I wasn’t arrested. The sheriff just wanted to find out what was going on.”
She nods, but she looks skeptical. “Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Well. I’m glad you’re okay.”
No one has ever sounded less convincing. I smile, though, and nod. “Thanks, Katy. It’s been a long day.”
She lingers another moment, her eyes probing at my face. Then she shakes her head, like she’s shaking off a thought. “The check. I’ll be right back.”
Behind the counter, she leans in and mutters something to Laurie. For the first time since my arrival, Laurie looks directly at me. Her eyes have gone sharp and narrow.
A moment later, she leans on the counter and says something to the three old men sitting there. One of them turns in his seat to gawk openly at me.
Well. It seems the world of the Not-Very-Online has finally heard the news about me. Thanks, Katy.
I decide not to wait for the check. I leave a ten on the table—it’s way too much but what the hell, enjoy the tip—and get up. Then I push my way out into the bright light beyond, more eyes than ever following my every step.
I pick up my car from the school parking lot and start home. I’m in no mood to go back today. But halfway to my house, I pull a U-turn that’s unhinged even by my standards and head up the farm-to-market road that cuts past Koenig Ranch.
I haven’t been near it since before the night of the murder. It’s hard to avoid—there are about three main routes through the county, and it’s smack in the middle of the most common one. Sometimes I have to drive an hour out of my way to get where I need to go without accidentally getting a glimpse of that wrought iron gate. But now I steer straight for it, along the wending hills and down through the gullies I know like the back of my hand.
The main entrance is decorated with horseshoes and the nautical-style stars everyone here calls “Texas stars.” It used to have a button you’d press to swing the gate open. Now there’s an intercom and a camera out front instead. But there are other entrances. It’s hard to secure every inch of a two-thousand-acre ranch; there are smaller gates along the road, some of them hidden behind the brush. There are also places where the fences are easy to climb without being seen.
Could I have done that the night of the murder? Could I have driven over here in a blackout, parked my car, squeezed through the fence, walked or run the two miles across dark and scrubby ranchland in pitch darkness, seen Rocky’s truck outside the cabin, grabbed the gun out of the back, kicked the door open, and…
Could I have done all of that—all that and more—without remembering?
I follow the road along the fence for a few miles before I pull off near a rusted old pickup. The pickup has been there for as long as I’ve been alive and is mostly decorative, an ancient farm truck that serves as a landmark for the locals. Behind it I walk to the ranch’s fence and lean my forearms on the top. I’m on the far side of the ranch from the cabin, thank God—I don’t ever want to lay eyes on that again—but the land is still familiar, painted in the siennas and ochres of autumn. There’s an earthy smell of feed and manure, and also a diesel tang—someone must’ve been nearby with the tractor in the last few hours. I can hear cattle, lowing just out of sight.
The Koenigs had been simple ranchers once upon a time, but by the time Rocky and Kendra were born the family’d diversified their fortunes into investments and real estate and even a chain of car washes throughout the county. Still, the ranch is operational and more than just a hobby farm. Which meant Rocky spent his weekends digging post holes and tracking down wayward cows. That surprises some people; they assumed that because he was rich he didn’t have to work. But he’d had chores to do like any farm kid.
I used to go with him some afternoons. Sometimes we’d take the ATV out, but more often he’d saddle up Fidget, his chestnut gelding, and we’d ride together to some far pasture where he’d fix a fence or shovel feed. I can still recall the feeling of the horse moving under us. The way Rocky’s arms felt around my waist. The way his laughter would tickle my ear.
It’s been a long time since I’ve thought of Rocky as I actually knew him. Since April it’s been like those memories are gone, replaced by a cardboard cutout, a cipher. Maybe that’s just how I’ve protected myself against all the questions I can’t answer. Because otherwise I can’t hold all the pieces togetherin my mind. I can’t connect the boy behind me on that horse, smelling of cedar and hay, with the boy who caused so much pain.
“Iris?”
My thoughts go jagged at the sound of a girl’s voice. I step back from the fence, startled.
Kendra Koenig is on the other side.
