Page 52 of Brimstone Hollow

“Miss Gore,” Will says, his voice edged with irritation. “This is aquiettown. You come here and get people thinking Brother Ezra was murdered when his death was a terrible, tragic accident. God, it was… You didn’t see it, Miss Gore. It was horrible.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s not my intention to stir people up. But, Will, if Brother Ezra was murdered, wouldn’t you want to know?”

“Of course!” Will says. I can picture him, red-cheeked, pacing back and forth wherever he is. “Yes, of course I would want to know. But I saw the bites. I saw the… the body. Brother Ezra died and…” His voice cracks with tears, raises an octave. I listen to him sniffle before he says, “Here I’ve had six different people calling me asking about whether a serial killer murdered Brother Ezra. Or whether there’s a cult of devil worshipers in Mount Zion! These people need quiet time to grieve, Miss Gore! And here you are just stirring them up!”

I give him a moment to calm down, wait for his breathing to settle.

“Will, I’m sorry, but I really need to look at this ledger. Maybe we could go through the parsonage and the church office together? I promise I won’t disturb anything too much.”

“No,” he says. “I can’t…”

“Listen,” I say softly, “Why don’t we all get some rest. Then, I could come by first thing in the morning?”

“I’ll think about it,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “Get some sleep.”

We hang up and I finish off the rest of the pizza, take a shower, brush my teeth, and crawl into bed.

FIFTEEN

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Two soda cans flip backward, toppling off the tree stump, and land in the grass behind. The third can stays where it is. Apparently, I’d missed it. I look down at my revolver, empty in my hand, still smoking.

Though it’s nearly August, I’m wearing earmuffs—a pair of fluffy winter ones my granny gave me the Christmas before—but they’re not much protection against the noise of the gunshots. My ears are ringing and it’s a moment before I realize my dad is talking to me.

“What?” I ask.

He’s standing beside me, reloading his own revolver.

“Do you think she’ll ever come back?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer.

My mom left almost two months ago. I’d expected the worst from him. But instead, without her there, he’d been a different guy. I’d seen no sign of the raging, roaring, bitter hostility I’d come to associate with my dad’s worst moods. Instead, hanging out with him was like hanging out with another kid. A giant twelve-year-old who fished and set off illegal fireworks and fired off guns in the field behind the house.

He spins the cylinder of his gun like a cowboy in a movie and then slams it home.

“Do you miss her?” I ask.

“Of course!” he says. “Of course. I’d give anything to have her back.”

It’s probably true, I realize. My dad loved my mom like kerosene loved a lit match.

I walk down to the tree stump, collect the shot cans, stand them up again, a line of aluminum soldiers.

“Don’t you miss her?” he hollers, from twenty paces back.

“Sure,” I answer. And it’s also true. I do miss her. I miss her laughter and her singing and her storytelling and the soft touch of her hands while she braided my wild hair. I miss the smell of her cooking and the scent of her shampoo and the way she always answered the phone: “Gore residence, this is Rochelle.”

But there’s also a lot I don’t miss. I don’t miss the fights, the screaming, the late-night trips to the ER. I don’t miss sweeping up broken glass the next morning while they stay in bed together, giggling under the covers, just winding up for another fight.

“What you want for dinner?” my dad shouts.

But my answer won’t matter. I know the cupboards are mostly empty. Neither I nor my dad can cook. We’ve been living on junk food and microwave dinners for two months. At first, I’d loved it. But a nonstop diet of frozen pizza, potato chips, and peanut butter straight out of the jar is only amazing for a couple of weeks. Even when you’re ten. I’d started to crave real food. My mom’s black-eyed peas, barbecue drumsticks, fried apples.

At first, I’d begged to go to my granny’s but—at least that summer—she’d been too set-upon by her own problems. Her health issues meant she was in and out of the hospital and now she had my great-uncle staying with her until she was in the clear. There was no way she could take me under her wing. Not yet.