Before getting back on the main road, Jiminy stopped at a nearby hill, grabbed her backpack, and trekked to the top. The kitten followed her closely, picking its way through the long grass. Under a crabapple tree, Jiminy settled in the shade and looked down toward the river. The kitten climbed into her lap.

“Where’d you come from?” she asked it, wondering whether it was really as healthy as it appeared. The dump had to be an incubator for all kinds of disease.

“Maybe I’ll call you Cholera,” Jiminy said.

The kitten turned over and rubbed its chin on her hand.

In Jiminy’s opinion, Cholera was the most lyrically named of the deadly diseases. Jiminy opened her bag and took out her grandfather’s diary, along with another book her grandmother had given her upon her return from Texarkana. It was an old ledger detailing the business details of Henry Hunt’s Carpentry. Willa hadn’t said much when she handed it over, just that she hoped it might help.

The kitten was now purring in the grass beside Jiminy’s leg, a furry little motor humming against her skin. Jiminy was envious of how little it had taken for the creature to attain a level of contentment that caused it to physically vibrate. She found this amazing.

She flipped open the ledger, which appeared to be a fairly straightforward account of the woodworking business run by Henry and Edward. They’d sold handcrafted cradles, cabinets, beds, bureaus, doors, chairs, tables, and shelves in the first year alone. Jiminy knew that Edward had been the craftsman and her grandfather the sales agent, but this breakdown wasn’t reflected in the ledger. Along the left-hand side of the page was a list of all the paying customers, along with what they’d purchased and how they’d paid. Jiminy recognized many of the names. The Hatcherts had ordered a hand-carved chessboard. The Brayers had commissioned a table and chairs. The Connors had paid for a decorated front gate. All kinds of orders had been accepted, large and small.

After checking out each and every entry in the ledger, Jiminy turned her attention once more to her grandpa’s diary. With Carlos due to arrive in two days, she wanted to revisit all that she already knew. She wanted to feel as prepared as possible.

Looking at the June 24, 1966, entry gave her chills, just as it had before. “Edward and Jiminy found, buried.” Now that she knew more, she could better imagine how distraught her grandfather must have been as he’d written this. Henry and Edward had grown up together. They’d worked side by side in the carpentry business and on the farm, along with their wives and daughters. They’d been as close as family, according to Walton Trawler. The rest of Fayeville had apparently looked askance at the intimacy of their relationship, but that hadn’t stopped them from living their lives on their own terms. Only untimely death had stopped this, inflicted by a hatred that hunted and stalked and, finally, brutally pounced. What a world where that happened. Jiminy felt a searing anguish flash through her chest. She shut the diary and sank into the grass, laying her arm across her eyes to block the glare. There were times in her life, and this was one of them, when she wished she could just grow straight into the ground.

Chapter 11

Willa knelt on her knees by her bed, aware that this would be the proper position to take if she prayed. It was also the best position for fishing something out from underneath her mattress. She rooted around for a moment, grateful that she still had the flexibility for such a maneuver, and conscious that she was more than a little sore from her virtual tennis matches. Her hand finally found its target, which she slowly extracted.

She hadn’t looked at the album in years and she’d never shown it to anyone else. But now that Jiminy had brought Carlos here, and they were prying into what Willa had previously thought might stay buried forever, it seemed important to share its contents.

Henry had taken all the photos in the album, so when Willa looked at them, she imagined seeing the subjects live, from his perspective. There was a shot of Edward with a whittling knife. There was a shot of the house, which Henry and Edward had built by themselves. There was the big rock by the river, where they’d lain in the sun, warming themselves after plunges into the cold water. She imagined Henry capturing these moments in his careful way, determined to memorialize the people and places he loved best.

There was a photo of her, pregnant, with her arms around her stomach, standing in the kitchen doorway. Behind her was Lyn, rolling something on the counter. Biscuit dough, most likely. They’d always eaten a lot of biscuits, but Willa had craved them incessantly when she was pregnant. Willa was ostensibly the focus of the photo, featured in the center, but she’d come out slightly fuzzy. It was Lyn whose profile was sharp and clear. She wasn’t looking at the camera, but she was still turned slightly toward it, illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window. Covered in a fine dusting of flour, she looked like an angel.

What had Henry seen when he’d looked through that lens?

Because Willa was in the middle of it, he’d certainly seen a wife. One that he’d loved in a quiet, deliberate way. Willa had adored him, particularly in the early years of their marriage. And Henry had made her feel, if not adored, then certainly cherished, which had seemed permanent and holy.

And when he’d looked at Lyn, consciously or subconsciously focused on Lyn? He’d also seen a wife, certainly. The wife of his employee, partner, and friend. He’d seen a tenant and a servant and a parent. Willa couldn’t be sure what else Henry had seen in that moment. She’d never fully understood it, especially back then.

The only thing that had seemed certain was that Henry didn’t care for Lyn, which had always distressed Willa. Henry had mentioned early on in their marriage that he felt Edward had made a bad match. By that point, Edward and Lyn had already been married for years and were raising their daughter in the little house on the edge of the farm. Willa had liked Lyn immediately and was touched by how deeply Lyn and Edward evidently loved each other. Their affection was a palpable thing, something that sat alongside them in the room, constantly present. Because of this, Willa had argued with Henry when he’d made his “bad match” comment. She’d spoken up for Lyn, defended her, said she seemed like a very good wife.

But Henry had shook his head and told her sharply not to feel such familiarity. Not to feel such familiarity! They were closer with the Waters family than they were with anyone else, including relatives. But she’d stayed quiet, sensing that for some reason Henry needed to feel this way, and that she needed to let him. She’d bit her tongue when Henry had suggested Lyn spend her workdays elsewhere, and missed her silently when Lyn found employment at Brayer Plantation. But Willa had felt strongly all along that Lyn belonged with them on the farm. If only Henry had let her be.

Willa and Henry had tried for a baby for five years before they had their daughter. So when Henry was looking through the lens of his camera, partly at his pregnant wife and partly at a woman he couldn’t stand, was he feeling victorious? Or finally trapped?

The photos at the very end of the album were not pleasant to look at. They were in a separate envelope, tucked into a pocket on the inside of the back cover. The ones of the bodies were understandably gruesome, but even the still shots of the survivors had a pathos that repelled the eye. Some grief draws people in, but the kind Henry had captured was as harsh as a flashing hazard light. One look told a viewer it was best to steer clear.