up a bunch of dollar store hummingbird and flower solar lights, which provided a small rainbow starfield in the bed of pansies that fronted the porch. Shepherd’s hooks held chimes that danced over the flowers when the wind blew.
Thomas and Marcus encouraged her to stay in the main house during their New York absences, but she only used their kitchen on occasion, for the cooking that couldn’t be done in her kitchenette. The flat screen didn’t interest her. She’d watch short bursts of TV with Rory’s family, usually excusing herself partway through a program, and she had no interest in having a television herself. He’d never seen her make it through a full movie, even one she seemed to enjoy.
She preferred to read her books. Most nights, if he went by there on his bike ride, which he usually did, he’d see her on the patio. She’d be curled in a chair, reading, her head bent in concentration, her hair falling softly along her face. She still moved her lips when she read, because the words didn’t come easy or fast.
She always lifted her head when he came by, and would wave. He didn’t usually interrupt her, but he liked to confirm that she was all right.
It wasn’t about her physical safety. Crime wasn’t a big issue in their town. A little vandalism and petty theft were the extent of it. Or Mrs. Marten reporting her goat Molly missing again, although she was always found in someone’s garden.
The only serious crime that occurred in their county was the kind that could happen anywhere, to anyone. Out in the country or in a big city, to the rich or to the poor.
Al Moorfield had lived in their town most of his life. When Al died, his son, Oscar, and his maternal half-brother Burton, had moved in. They’d come from Nashville. Oscar had explained that he was a widower with one child, a six-year-old daughter, and they’d wanted to move out of the city. He lived on a military pension and was a disabled veteran with a prosthetic leg.
He said he homeschooled his daughter, so the only time Daralyn had been seen was when they came to town with her in their company. She’d been a tiny, skittish shadow in baggy clothes, her uncle’s hand firmly clamped on her shoulder.
They did bring her to the Baptist church, even though they discouraged conversation with anyone, and went home without attending any of the Sunday afternoon socials.
Though they were considered “somewhat peculiar,” people assumed they were okay. They made regular church appearances and had roots in town, which were reinforced as they settled in and years passed without them causing any waves. The first thing made them “seem” like good people, and the last two meant they’d earned the right to be left alone, no matter how eccentric they seemed.
In hindsight, they’d all been clueless about something that should have been so fucking obvious.
Daralyn had been out of that hellhole for five years now, so Rory didn’t know why he was getting himself worked up thinking about it. Maybe because the more he went over what had happened before she got into the van today, the more certain he became that he should have gone with her.
The rhythmic sound of an axe being swung told him Thomas was behind the house. Marcus would be close to where Thomas was.
Rory pushed himself up the ramp onto the porch and followed it to the back.
Marcus was on the phone, no surprise. He owned a gallery in New York, and was always scouting talent, promoting talent, buying or selling. Rory’s mother had once tartly suggested he have the cell surgically implanted into the side of his head. Marcus had told her he’d thought about it, but it would mess up his hair.
When Rory came around the corner, he saw Marcus was in one of the roomy rockers, painted a clean white with a blue patterned seat cushion. He wasn’t relaxed in it, though. He leaned forward with a tablet under his long fingertips while he spoke in the strong, smooth voice that fit the rest of him.
He glanced Rory’s way and gave him an absent nod, gesturing toward the backyard. Thomas was currently stripped down to jeans, splitting cords of wood for the stove and fireplace inside.
Rory shook his head, and pointed to Marcus. A flicker of surprise went through Marcus’s green eyes, but he inclined his head and held up five fingers. A few minutes, then.