All the Little Lights
Page 66

“Once my dad came in,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “he changed his tune, but oh, was he sure I knew something. Yes, I think she bashed out my headlights. That doesn’t mean I’d kidnap her or kill her or do whatever happened to her. Thompson was . . .”
“Relentless,” I said, staring down Juniper Street. The wind was blowing the branches of the bare trees, making me shiver.
“Yes, that. He said he might call us to the station. Me, you, even Sam. But he is obsessed with Elliott. Do you think . . . do you think it’s because he’s Cherokee?”
“His aunt Leigh seems to think so. I’m sure she’s right.”
Madison growled. “He’s the best of us! Elliott is a great guy. Everyone loves him! Even Scotty Neal, and Elliott took his quarterback position on the football team.”
“They don’t love him now,” I said. We’d been getting harassed with anonymous notes all day. “Rumors are spreading. They think because we were questioned, we did it. Whatever it is.”
“Some people think Presley’s dead.”
“Do you think she’s dead?” I asked.
Madison grew quiet. “I don’t know. I hope not. I hope she’s okay. I really do.”
“Me too.”
“If she was taken, it wasn’t us, but it was someone. He’s still out there. That freaks me out. Maybe that’s why everyone is so hell-bent on blaming us. If they know it’s us, then they feel safer somehow.”
“I guess,” I said. “Thanks for the ride home.”
“You’re welcome. Are you going to the game this weekend? It’s going to be weird cheering and having fun with Presley still missing. Some people are saying they’re going to hold a vigil before the game.”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure if it’s appropriate. I don’t want to leave Elliott alone, though.”
“We’ll go together.”
I nodded and pulled on the handle, stepping out of the Nissan, the dead grass crunching beneath my shoes as I walked from the curb to the sidewalk. The ground was dusted with billions of tiny specks of Oklahoma snow, much of what wasn’t blown away settling into the cracks of the concrete. I stopped at the black iron gate, gazing up at the Juniper.
Madison’s chipper goodbye was a jarring contrast, startling me for half a second before I waved.
The Nissan pulled away, and I reached for the gate’s handle, pressing down and hearing the familiar whine of the hinges as it opened and then again when the springs pulled it shut. I wished for Althea or Poppy or even Willow to be on the other side of the door. Anyone but Duke or Mama.
“Baby, baby, baby.”
I sighed and smiled. “Althea.”
“Give me that coat and come in here for some hot cocoa. It’ll warm you right up. Did you walk home?”
“No,” I said, hanging my coat on a vacant hook by the door.
I carried my backpack to the island and set it next to a stool before climbing up. Althea set a steaming cup of hot chocolate in front of me, complete with a handful of marshmallows. She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned on the counter, resting her chin in her hand.
“Althea, why do you stay here? Why don’t you stay with your daughter?”
Althea stood, busying herself with the dishes in the sink. “Well, it’s that man of hers. He says the house is too small. It’s just a dinky two bedroom, you see, but I’ve offered to sleep on the couch. I use to when the babies were tiny.”
She began cleaning more vigorously. She was uncomfortable, and I looked up, wondering if Duke was around. The guests seemed on edge when he was close. Or maybe he was close because they were on edge.
“How’s the cocoa?” Althea asked.
“Good,” I said, making a show of taking a sip.
“How’s school?”
“Today was long. I didn’t sleep well last night, and Mrs. Mason called me in first thing.”
“Oh? Was she asking questions again?”
“There’s a girl at school who’s missing. She was asking about her.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Presley Brubaker.”
“Oh. Her. You said she’s gone missing?”
I nodded, warming my hands on the mug. “No one saw anything. There’s a detective in town who thinks because I didn’t get along with her that maybe I had something to do with it.”
“And what does Mrs. Mason say?”
“She asked me a lot of questions today. The detective asked her to send him some kind of report.”
Althea curled her lip, seeming disgusted. “She’s the one who called the DHS on your mama before, ain’t she?”
“She was just worried.”
“Is she worried now?” Althea asked.
“Probably. She’s worried about Elliott. I am, too.”
“Lord knows you are. I’m glad you forgave him. You’re happier when you’re getting along. Forgiveness is good. It heals the soul.”
“I pushed him away for a while. Just like I did Minka and Owen.” I paused. “I thought it would be safer for him if I did.”
She puffed out a laugh. “Minka and Owen? Been a long time since you’ve talked about those two. They weren’t good for you.”
“But you think Elliott is?”
“I like to see you smile, and when you talk about that boy, your whole face lights up.”
“Althea . . . Mama was outside the other night. She was in her nightgown. Do you know why?”
She shook her head. “Your mama’s been strange lately. I just sit back and watch.”
I nodded, taking another sip. “So do you talk to Mama? Has she told you why she’s been so . . . different?”
“I spoke to her at the meeting.”
“The meeting about me.”
She nodded.
“You wouldn’t let anyone hurt me, right, Althea?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Not even Mama?”
Althea stopped cleaning. “Your mama would never hurt you. She wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, either. She’s proven it over and over. Don’t you disrespect her to me. Never.” She fled the room as if she’d been called. She rushed up the stairs, and a door slamming echoed through the Juniper.
I covered my eyes with my hand. I’d just offended my only ally.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Catherine
Madison held on to my arm, waiting for the Mudcats to break from time-out. We were down to the last few seconds of the fourth quarter of the championship game, on the twenty-yard line. The bleachers were packed, and we were tied with the Kingfisher Yellowjackets, 35–35. Coach Peckham was in a deep conversation with Elliott, whose eyes were focused on his coach’s every word.
Once they clapped and jogged out onto the field, the crowd erupted.
“They’re not going for the field goal!” Mrs. Mason said, covering her mouth.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Madison squeezed my arm, watching Sam bang Elliott’s shoulder pad with the side of his fist. “It means they have four seconds to make this play, or we go into overtime and Kingfisher has the ball.”
I looked up at the scouts in the press box. Some were on the phone, some writing notes. Elliott stood behind Sam, made a call, and then Sam hiked him the ball. The receivers spread out, and Elliott took his time, despite the screams and pressure from the stands.