Page 23 of Carry on Wayward Son

“It keeps the lights on.” She reached for another hushpuppy. “Any other questions for your interview?”

I suppose it did feel like that. But she wasn’t trying to shut it down, so I kept going. “You’ve met my sister. Do you have siblings?”

“Two. Sister and brother.”

“Where do you fall in the lineup?”

“Middle.”

“Are y’all close?”

“My sister and I are. We’re only a year apart.” She dunked the hush puppy in the Rotel dip. “Are you and Willa close?”

“Closer than we used to be.” I knew I had Sawyer to thank for that rather than my own efforts. Because I’d been traveling the world hunting shadows. The complicated weight of it lay heavy across my shoulders, and I twitched the sensation away. “Growing up, our parents were… hard on her.”

More than a flicker on her face this time, but she controlled it quickly. “Abusive?”

“I didn’t think so at the time. Looking back?” I stroked a thumb through the condensation on my water glass. “If not before I left for college, then definitely after. I had no idea what she was going through, and I wasn’t there to protect her when she needed it.”

She sat back in the booth, studying me. “You still blame yourself.”

“I absolutely do. That was my job, and I failed at it. If I’d been paying attention… If I’d been keeping my eye on her instead of handing her off to Sawyer so I could enjoy the party, I’d have seen when she and Gwen headed into the woods. Maybe I could have stopped all of it from happening at all.”

I didn’t realize I’d fisted my hand on the table until hers settled over it. The contact sizzled through me like electricity, immediate and involuntary, and I made myself hold still rather than react to it.

“If you’d stopped it that night,” she said, “they would have gone after Gwen some other time. People who operate like this don’t give up because of one obstacle. They had a point to prove and the means to prove it. At best, you’d have delayed the inevitable. At worst, you’d have gotten hurt, or killed.” The certainty in her voice sounded like someone who’d learned it from closer range than case files. “The outcome for Gwen would have been the same.”

I looked at her hand on mine for a moment, wondering what she’d do if I turned my hand up, palm to palm with hers. She moved hers away easily before I could examine the wisdom or insanity of the thought.

“She was just a kid,” I murmured. “A sweet, kinda goofy, sassy kid.”

Layla was quiet, watching me. “Will you tell me about her? Not her case—her. It helps to know more than what’s in the files.”

So I did.

“She and Willa were tight from diapers. Gabi came into the picture a little later, once they all started school, but those three were inseparable after that. She was three years younger than me and my friends, so obviously there was a phase where we were annoyed when they wanted to tag along.” I turned the water glass again. “But they always kept up. She was always in and out of our house. We weren’t close exactly—she was Willa’s person, not mine—but I knew her the way you know someone who’s just part of the fabric of things. She hated mustard. Loved chocolate chip cookies. Loved basically every animal she ever encountered, but had a particular preference for dogs over cats.” Koa’s tail moved once under the table at the word dogs. “Her favorite color was blue. She had the best laugh. Big and loud, and when she really got going she’d snort, which always mortified her but was actually pretty endearing.”

I was seeing it as I said it. At a picnic table, some summer afternoon, Gwen and Willa perched on the top with their heads together over something.

“She loved country music, which I used to mock her mercilessly for.”

Layla pointed a hush puppy at me. “Excuse me. What exactly is wrong with country music?”

“It’s all whiny nonsense about short shorts and sexy tractors.”

“That’s dude bro country, and you know it. This would have been fourteen, fifteen years ago. There were female powerhouses all over the genre. Not to mention Dolly, who should genuinely run for president.”

I held up a hand. “I will not disparage Saint Dolly. There are lines I won’t cross.”

“Nice to know you have one.” The corner of her mouth was doing the thing it did when she was amused and trying not to show it.

“She was a hell of a sailor, too, even at fifteen. Completely fearless on the water.” I paused. “But she was soft, too.”

“Soft how?”

“Willa—you’re meeting her on the other side of a lot of therapy and a lot of work on herself. But growing up, she had pretty severe social anxiety. She was withdrawn and quiet outside of her circle. Gwen was always gentle with her. Emotionally in tune with people in a way that was unusual for a teenager. She liked to look for the best in everyone.” I looked at the table. “I always thought that would get her in trouble someday. Being too trusting. I can’t help but wonder if it finally did. If she went because someone she trusted lured her in.” I stopped. “I’ll probably never get an answer, and I can’t decide if that makes it worse or not.”

“Whether a single known hell is worse than a thousand imagined ones.” She said it quietly, turning it over. “Tough to say.” She looked at me steadily. “But it’s very clear from meeting all of you that you were all profoundly impacted by this. That you still are. You’ve all kept looking and kept trying all this time, even knowing the answer probably isn’t going to be a good one. It’s more than most people do.”