Page 65 of You'll Be Sorry

But just then, Mason flipped a chunk of pages in the diary, and a scrap of white paper fluttered out. Betty swooped down to snatch it off the floor.

The old woman straightened slowly. “Oh my,” she murmured, holding out a note that was clearly written on the recent side of history. “I guess the library did determine the original owner of the journal.” Betty’s gaze rose to meet their own. “This says to please contact Dave and Janet Dixon.”

Then a heartbeat later: “I guess we now know what day this journal was dropped off.”

Another heartbeat after that. “Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.”

Raquel just got a chair beneath the older woman before she collapsed.

“I think I might take a minute,” Betty murmured.

Raquel didn’t blame her at all.

I see you. Is that your second or third nightcap? Or maybe fourth or fifth?

Are you grateful to have another day behind you? Collapsing into your favorite chair, exhausted by the relentless grind of pretend-normal?

Your dreams are growing more turbulent. You’re catching other sounds in a sudden gust of wind, maybe the shriek of a young woman while a creeping sensation of bony fingers crawls up your spine. You’ve taken to whirling around suddenly, but no one’s there.

Blood. You can smell it. Gore. You can taste it. A crack of violence, you can hear it. Things that both do and don’t belong to you. Things you can and cannot explain.

You want to say, This is my life. I know exactly who I am and precisely where and when I fucked up.

But lately, you’ve been wondering. Your nightmares are that much more vivid, including shadowy scenes that are both foreign and familiar. Almost as if there’s something for you to see.

You remember something more?

Youaresomething more?

It’s okay to admit it. You don’t understand everything yet, but on some level, you know.

Here, let me help you.

A second memory for your consideration:

I can’t tell you why I did it. I want to say I was responding to instinct, but more likely I was acting out of rage. The four Dixon kids, standing on my front porch with their bright, shiny eyes and headstrong ways. The four Dixon kids, without a care in the world. Witch hunting.

It ate at me. Day after day. I resented their happiness.

And I was jealous.

How dare they race around these mountains in blissful ignorance, when I was too early forced to know too much? The past shouldn’t have to be solely my burden. Certainly, in the sins of the father department, I didn’t stand alone. This town was built on blood and secrets, and lies.

Why were we all still pretending otherwise?

Brewing and stewing until in a fit of self-righteousness, I decided to do something about it.

If a moth is drawn to a flame, then the Dixon family has always been my bonfire. The past fifteen summers, watching them from the safety of the tree line. First Dave and Janet. Then Janet pregnant the first time, second, third, fourth. Until there were half a dozen Dixons swarming the land. Dave puttering about like some gentleman farmer, the kids dashing off on various madcap adventures, and Janet…Janet settling in on the front porch, content with her glass of iced tea and latest paperback novel.

She’s the one who gave me the idea.

I did what I did best. I watched. I waited. And then, I made my move.

I remember when the previous generation built the “new” Dixon house. So many of us locals wandering through the bare-framed skeleton of such ridiculous proportions. Watching the bones of the house get covered in their drywall sheath, the picture windows so heavy they required a winch hoist to lift them into place. And then the fireplace, that mantel.

We sniggered, swapped snide comments at the local diner. Oh, the pretentiousness of it all.

But also, we paid attention. And possibly roamed the house after thefamily left for the season, trailing a finger across their dining room table, putting our feet up on their sofa, lying in the middle of their massive marital bed. So this is what it felt like to be a Dixon.