Chapter Ten #3
She wraps her arms around herself. “I ruined the mood.”
“No.”
“I asked about vows and then made it weird.”
“You asked about vows because you are thinking about your own.”
Her lips press together.
I wait.
That is something I have learned from Legend, though he would be offended by being credited with patience. Sometimes silence lets truth come without dragging it.
Amelia looks toward the open door, where laughter rises from the main room again. Cornbread yells something about pulled-pork cornbread being misunderstood.
“My wedding was pretty,” she says.
Her voice is distant.
“That’s the part I hate. It was pretty. White flowers. Church candles. My mother cried because she thought I’d done better than her. Jeremy cried during the vows, and I thought that meant he loved me.”
She laughs once.
No humor in it.
“Now I think he was proud of himself for getting the door locked.”
My chest hurts.
I sit on the edge of the desk, giving her space. “Marriage did not cage you. Jeremy did.”
Her eyes shine. “What if I can’t tell the difference anymore?”
“You will.”
“How?”
“By watching what happens when you say no.”
That lands.
I can see it.
Her mouth trembles. “Derby stopped.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted him to kiss me.”
“I know.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
I smile a little. “Not the details. But I know something happened because Derby came back looking like he got hit in the soul with a brick.”
Amelia’s cheeks turn pink. “He stopped because I didn’t know if it was pretend.”
“Good.”
“It made me want him more.”
“That also sounds right.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“Probably not.”
She gives a tiny laugh. “You’re supposed to tell me I’m being sensible.”
“I try not to lie to women in crisis.”
Her laugh fades. “I’m still married.”
“Yes.”
“I have a child.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t need a man.”
“No.”
“But I want one.” She looks horrified by her own confession.
“Not a man. Him. And I barely know him, Sophie. I know his motorcycle’s name.
I know he makes terrible grilled cheese and fixes blanket forts like structural integrity matters in dinosaur caves.
I know he stops when I don’t know what I want. That is not enough to want somebody.”
“It can be enough to start.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t trust myself.”
“That may be the smartest thing you’ve said.”
Her eyes lift.
“You don’t have to trust every feeling,” I say. “Feelings can be bruised. Starved. Drunk on relief. But you can notice them without obeying or punishing yourself for having them.”
She wipes under one eye. “You sound like you know.”
I think of Legend. I think of my father. I think of the secret sitting between my ribs, spreading poison through every wedding decision I make.
“I do,” I say.
Her expression changes. “Are you okay?”
That almost makes me laugh.
Amelia, who came to us with her whole life in boxes, her husband hunting her, and her son asking about locked doors, is looking at me like I might need help.
“I’m engaged to a man who would burn half Kentucky if someone messed with me,” I say.
Then I think, I’m planning a wedding in an old jail clubhouse with his pregnant ex, Becki threatening Royal over pickles, Cornbread inventing meat cake, and Derby accidentally becoming a family man. Of course I’m not okay.
She smiles.
Then the smile softens. “That’s not what I meant.”
No.
It ain’t.
I look toward the open door.
Legend’s voice comes from the main room, low and rough, arguing with Derby about something. My heart moves toward him automatically. It always does.
“I’m carrying something I need to tell Legend,” I admit. “About my father.”
Amelia stills.
“About your father?” she asks.
“My father may have been connected to some things around here before,” I say carefully. “Money. Church people. Maybe more. I don’t know enough yet.”
“But enough to worry you.”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t told Legend.”
“No.”
“Because he’ll be angry?”
“He’ll be furious.”
“At you?”
That’s the question, isn’t it?
I want to say no. I know Legend. I know his love. I know the difference between fury and blame. But fear rarely asks permission from knowledge.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Amelia looks at me for a long moment. “Secrets turn into cages too.”
The words hit so hard I have to grip the edge of the desk.
She looks almost apologetic. “Sorry.”
“No.” My voice is rough. “You’re right.”
A silence settles between us, strange and new. She ain’t only the woman I’m helping. Not only Legend’s possible sister. Not only Derby’s fake girlfriend. She is a woman looking back at me from inside her own wreckage and seeing mine.
That is how family starts sometimes. Not blood. Not proof. Recognition.
From the main room, Becki’s voice rises. “Royal, if you tell our child one more thing about death as metaphor, I’m naming the baby after your least favorite enemy.”
Royal answers something too low to hear.
Becki snaps, “I will. Try me.”
Amelia laughs through her tears.
I breathe easier.
“We should go back,” I say.
She nods. “Before they choose pulled-pork cornbread.”
“God forbid.”
When we return, the room has rearranged itself in our absence because outlaws can’t sit still without legal supervision.
Legend is by the clubhouse bar, talking to Oaks and Royal.
Brittany is holding the ribbon samples hostage.
Becki has stolen my chair and is eating the honey butter cornbread like she’s a vacuum.
Cider sits beside her, eyes on a small photo someone must have pulled from the box of old photos Legend was looking through to see if he found more evidence of Caroline Bell.
I slow.
The photo is old. Fire Pit, years back. A group of girls outside during some charity event, maybe. I recognize the banner in the background. Pearly Gates Food Drive.
Cider’s face is blank.
Too blank.
Royal sees it at the same time I do.
He moves toward her, but Becki touches his wrist and shakes her head.
Careful.
Cider holds the photo with both hands.
“I know her,” she says.
The room goes quiet.
Legend turns from the bar.
I step closer. “Who?”
Cider points to a girl in the picture. Brown hair. Thin face. Maybe fourteen or fifteen. Smiling like someone told her to.
“I don’t know her name,” Cider whispers. “But I know her.”
Royal’s voice is soft enough to be terrifying. “From where?”
Cider’s breathing changes.
Her fingers tighten on the photo.
“There was a room,” she says. “Not here. Somewhere with blue walls. She cried at night. Someone called her Mercy, but I don’t think that was her name.”
Becki goes pale.
The missing girls.
Legend’s eyes meet mine.
There are no wedding plans now.
Only the old rot again.
Pearly Gates.
Missing girls.
Cider’s missing years.
My father’s possible involvement sits in my chest like a live coal.
Tell him.
Tell him now.
My mouth opens.
Before I can speak, the front door swings open.
Derby steps inside from the porch, phone in hand, face dark. He looks first at Amelia.
Then at Legend.
“We got a problem.”
Amelia’s body tightens. “August?”
“He’s fine,” Derby says immediately. “Still at the house. Lottie’s niece has him building a dinosaur courthouse.”
Relief hits her so fast she almost sways.
Legend steps forward. “What problem?”
Derby holds up his phone.
A picture fills the screen.
Amelia and Derby at the Fire Pit last night, dancing. His hand at her waist. Her face tilted up, laughing. She looks alive. Happy. Unafraid.
The photo should be beautiful.
The caption under it makes my blood go cold.
The harlot took Jeremy’s son, left him for a low life biker.
Amelia goes white.
Derby looks ready to snap the phone in half.
Legend doesn’t look at the photo for long.
He looks at Amelia.
Then at me.
Then at Royal, whose face has gone still in the way that means someone somewhere should start praying.
“This came from Pearly Gates,” Legend says.
No one argues.
The wording has their stink all over it. Shame dressed up as warning. A woman turned into a sermon. A private moment turned into a public punishment.
In my pocket, my own phone buzzes.
I pull it out with numb fingers before I can think better of it.
Unknown number. As always. One line of text.
Ask your father what he paid for, Sophie.
The room tilts.
Legend sees my face change.
“Soph?”
I look at him, at my dangerous, loyal, almost-husband standing in the middle of our wedding plans, and the secret I have been carrying finally stops being mine alone.
My voice barely works.
“I need to tell you something.”