It Ends Here Page 12

  Finally, Margot turned her head and looked directly at me. Her usually so sparkling blue eyes had grown matte and lifeless. Half a smile slid across her face.

  "What does it matter? You know the prisons are filled with people claiming to be innocent, right? What do you even care? You have a life. You have your family. Why don't you go back to them and leave me alone? I have nothing left. Nothing!"

  "But surely, you must have some…"

  She lifted her hand to stop me. "Just leave, will you?"

  Her eyes drifted once again toward the window, and I could tell it was my cue to go. I turned around and walked to the door, then paused. I glanced once more back at her. I felt compelled to tell her how sorry I felt for everything, but I didn't.

  Instead, I left, phone clutched tightly in my hand, calling Julie.

  46

  "Do you have anyone we can call to come and get you? Any family or friends maybe?"

  The nurse stood in the doorway while Margot sat on the edge of the bed. The doctor had just done his rounds and told her she would be discharged. Her daughter had died from burns to her respiratory system, while her husband had suffered a heart attack from lack of oxygen because of smoke inhalation. Meanwhile, Margot seemed to be perfectly fine. They had kept her for two days for observation for smoke inhalation and taken care of the burns on her arms and legs. Now, they had told her she was ready to go home.

  "Home?" she had asked. "Where is that?"

  To that, the doctor had answered with merely a shrug, then left. They had given her a set of clothes that some other patient had left behind, and she had put them on. The pants were big, and she had to hold onto them to not lose them when she walked.

  "I'm good; I don't need to be picked up," Margot told the nurse, then rose to her feet in the shoes that were two sizes too big.

  "Are you sure? A traumatic experience like this, it might be good to have someone to share it with…"

  Margot walked up to her and looked her in the eyes. "I'll be fine. I don't need anyone. Not anymore."

  Then she left. With her head held as high as she could, hiding her devastation on the inside the way life had taught her to, Margot walked into the elevator, pushed the button, and let it take her down to the lobby. Outside, she stopped a taxi and let it take her back to her estate, or what was left of it.

  Luckily, Theodore always kept cash in the car, and since it was still parked outside, unlocked, she could grab some to pay the taxi driver. Much to her surprise, she found both money and one of Theodore's credit cards. He had also left the keys to the car in the glove compartment like he often did because he didn't want to have to search for his keys in the mornings when he had to rush off. But that meant she had a car and a credit card she could use to go and buy some new clothes and food.

  There was a house behind the stables that was used to house the caretaker of the horses. There was even a small bed in there where she could sleep. The caretaker didn't need to come anymore since she would take care of the horses herself from now on. They were all she had left.

  Margot stared after the taxi as it disappeared down the road, then turned to look at what was left of her house, of her entire life. Her once so beautiful house that had once contained so much joy, so much love.

  It was all gone.

  The horses whinnied. They were still running in the field and had probably already forgotten everything that had taken place just a few nights before.

  Oh, to be a horse, she thought to herself. To be able to let go of the past and the pain just like that. It must be heaven.

  Margot approached the ruins of her life, then reached down and touched a wooden beam that had fallen and blocked the entrance. She pushed it aside, then walked into the empty ruins, looking around to see if there was anything she could save.

  The roof was gone. Most of the walls were still standing but had turned black with soot. Her metal patio furniture was still on the porch, or what was left of it. Margot grabbed a chair and sat on it, then stared at the remains of her house.

  She looked up at the sky above her, then wondered why God had let her live. Instead of dying with the others, Margot had survived and was now left completely alone.

  Was God really that cruel? Did He hate her that much?

  47

  I cried helplessly for almost an entire day. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to help Margot, but she refused my help. I couldn't bear what had happened to her. It felt so unfair, so unbelievably cruel. I stayed inside my motel room, pacing back and forth, then called my dad back in Denmark and told him the entire story.

  "Maybe you can only do so much, Rebekka. It can't be all your fault. You only did an interview. There is no way you could have foreseen what would happen, what chain of events would unfold afterward," he said. "It was unfortunate, yes, but I find it hard to see how it could be your fault."

  "But if I hadn't done the stupid interview in the first place, then her mother would never have found out about her, and she would never have revealed her," I said.

  "How were you supposed to know? You can't control what people do, Rebekka. There will always be heartbreak; there will always be crazy mothers hurting their children. It happens. That doesn’t mean it's your fault, you hear me?"

  I sighed. He made me feel slightly better, but I still couldn't escape the thought that all of this had happened because of me, because of my article. I didn't even want to do it; I just wanted to make some money to make sure my family had a roof over their heads.

  "Maybe you should just go home, Rebekka. I’m sure the kids miss you and Sune is in way over his head. Drop the story and let it go. You don't have to write it. You can always find another one."

  I nodded, realizing he was right. I had spent so much time in this place, and nothing good had come of it. I wasn't even close to cracking the story open. My children needed me, and to be honest, I needed them just as much.

  "I think I will go home now. Tomorrow that is. It's late now. How are you feeling, Dad?"

  "I’m actually doing pretty well," he said. "Haven't felt this well in a long time, I might add."

  I wondered if he was lying to make me feel better. I had made sure he had a nurse who came to his house several times a day to make sure he ate and got out of bed. I usually kept in touch with her, but lately, I hadn't been calling her much. Not since all this trouble began with Sune.

  "That's good to hear. I’m really glad you're better, Dad," I said, choosing to believe him. He sounded well and even slightly happy. It made my heart ache. I missed him so much, but there wasn't really any prospect of me getting to see him anytime soon. I had promised myself I would go home in the summer, hopefully bringing the kids, but that was so far away. It was torture for him to be without us like this, especially since we used to live with him. He never complained, though. That wasn't exactly my dad's style. He always saw the positive in any situation and tried to make the best of what he had.

  "I miss you," I said and held the phone closer to my ear. "I miss you so much, and I wish you were here."

  "I miss you too," he said. "Now, take good care of yourself and your family, okay? Promise me that."

  We hung up, and I sat for a while, staring at the display of my phone. I had received a text from Julie, who once again asked me when I was coming home, then added:

  WILLIAM IS DRIVING US ALL CRAZY.

  I chuckled, knowing my son could be a little much to handle sometimes. I wondered how Sune's girlfriend dealt with suddenly having three kids to handle that weren't her own. It couldn't be easy.

  I AM PACKING UP NOW, I wrote back. COMING HOME TOMORROW.

  48

  Allan Cunningham looked at his own reflection in the mirror after finishing shaving. He touched his neck and cheek gently, thinking he wasn't doing too terribly for a ninety-two-year-old. He was still living in his own home, even though he had moved into something smaller when his daughter took over the cucumber farm. His wife was dead—four years to the day now—and losing
her had made him feel ten years older. Other than that, he was doing pretty well, he thought. He had outlived everyone else, all his siblings and every other relative. He had even outlived his best friends and was now the oldest man in town.

  He had lost his vision in one eye but did fine with the one he had left. He was still an avid reader and read both the local paper and the Wall Street Journal from cover to cover every day. He enjoyed keeping up with the news of the world and could still win any political debate, should one occur. It wasn't often that Allan was invited out anymore, but his daughter would have him over for dinner at the farm every now and then, and sometimes Allan and her dimwit of a husband, Mark, would engage in a discussion of current affairs. Allan had always believed that his son-in-law was an idiot—and a Democrat on top of it all—and it was no secret that Allan was quite reluctant to let him and his daughter take over the cucumber farm. But Anna, Allan's wife for almost sixty years, had wanted it to be this way. Allan had believed he could run the place until he died, but she didn't want that for them. She wanted to be able to enjoy retirement; she wanted to read books and travel, she said. Allan had told her she could still do all those things, but Anna had given him a look, then said, she wanted to do them with her husband, not alone. Anna had bugged him about it for almost ten years before he gave in. Now, his daughter and that fool were running the place alone. And they were running it into the ground if you asked Allan. He had tried to tell them how it was done, he had tried to give them advice but little did it help. They had taken out loans, and that was going to end up killing the place. If there was one thing Alan had always known, it was you never ever took out a loan from the bank. The bank would own you for the rest of your life, and they could take you down if they wanted to. No, you bought everything cash, and if you didn't have the money, you waited till you did. That was the right way to do business, and that was the way the Cunningham farm had always been run, but oh, no, not anymore. His daughter and her idiot husband had said it wasn't like that anymore in that condescending way they always spoke to him these days like he was a child who needed to have it explained. The cucumber business was changing, they said. It wasn't as lucrative as it had been. There was lots of competition now, and they needed to expand if they were to survive. And in order to expand, they needed money.

  "Fools," Allan spat out as he dried off his face with a towel. He shook his head, wondering if this would be the end of the family business. Since his grandchild Alexander had died, there was no one left to take over after them. If there would even be anything left once they were done.

  Allan exhaled, then walked into the kitchen. He had been fishing all day since early in the morning with his fishing buddies out in the swamps, and he’d caught a big red snapper. It was on the counter now, ready to be gutted. Allan was looking forward to that since the gutting was Allan's favorite part. He liked the sound the knife made as it cut into the flesh of the animal. He liked the feeling of slicing through the meat.

  As he approached the big fish, he looked for his gutting knife, but it wasn't there. Allan shook his head. He was so certain he had put it out on the counter right after he came home. The plan had been to shower, shave, and then he wanted to prepare the fish and cook it for dinner. He had put the knife on the counter, right there, so it was ready.

  Hadn't he?

  Oh, you old fool. You can't remember anything these days.

  It was true. The day before, when going to Wal-Mart, he had forgotten where he parked the car, and the day before that, he hadn't been able to recall his phone number. His own darn number!

  It was normal at his age, he guessed, but it was still annoying as heck.

  "Maybe it's in the drawer," he said and pulled it open, but it wasn't there either. Annoyed, he stared at the big fish. Could he have placed the knife somewhere else without knowing it? Maybe in the garage when he got home? Maybe he dropped it in the car?

  Confused, Allan was about to turn around to retrace his steps but stopped himself as he heard footsteps coming up behind him. Someone was in the room with him, standing right behind him.

  "Looking for this?" a voice said as something cold was pressed against his newly-shaved throat.

  Allan didn't have to see it to know it was his gutting knife. He didn't have to turn around and look to know who was holding it either.

  "I know why you're here," he said.

  "Good. That saves me the time to explain."

  Allan opened his mouth to speak, but as he did, the knife penetrated the skin on his throat, and nothing but gurgling sounds escaped his mouth. As he sank to the floor and the light abandoned his eyes, he wondered if it was an angel or the devil he saw before him.

  49

  Webster, Florida 1979

  Carol showed the sheriff through the bushes and guided him to the boy in the well. He had brought all his deputies with him when he heard who she had found. The sheriff went down on his knees and looked inside the hole in the ground. He spotted the boy, then exhaled deeply.

  "Oh, my God."

  One of his deputies, Travers, volunteered to climb inside the dark well and put a rope around the boy's small body. It took four of them to pull the boy up of the black hole, and soon Benjamin Black was carefully placed in the high grass next to the well.

  Carol stared at the pale body while the sheriff took off his hat and held it between his hands, tears springing to his eyes.

  "Oh, dear Lord," he mumbled.

  Deputy Travers climbed up from inside the well and walked to the small body, sobbing loudly, unable to keep it back anymore. Carol knew he was best friends with the boy's father, Steven Black. They had grown up together, and the Blacks had made Deputy Travers the godfather of Benjamin when he was born. He was known to have played ball with Benjamin whenever he got the chance and had taken the boy fishing at least once a month.

  Deputy Travers knelt next to the boy, covering his mouth with his hand, crying, but trying to hold it back.

  "What have they done to him?" he said and finally broke down completely. His entire body was trembling as he cried, hovering over the boy. It was tough for Carol to watch and not cry herself. The sheriff walked closer and placed a hand on Travers' shoulder for comfort, and no one spoke for a long time. Carol felt like she had to throw up.

  Dear God, Anna Mae. Did you do this? Did you?

  Carol still found it hard to believe. After all, Anna Mae was nothing but a child. Strange, yes, but still. How could a child be capable of committing such an atrocity? It didn't seem possible.

  "What's that?" another deputy asked, then pointed at the young boy's right arm. "What's that on his arm?"

  The sheriff bent over him and took a closer look. Carol approached too. She almost didn't dare to, but still, she looked down. What she saw made her body shake in despair.

  "It looks like someone carved something into his arm, doesn’t it?" the deputy asked.

  "What is it?" another deputy asked.

  The sheriff paused, then ran a finger across it, removing dirt. "It looks like a letter. It looks like the letter A."

  As he said the last part, he lifted his gaze and looked at Carol. Carol felt so sick that she tasted bile in the back of her mouth. She groaned so she wouldn’t throw up and turned her head away. The sheriff looked at her, then rose to his feet, putting his hat back on. He gave Carol a stern look.

  "I’m afraid we need to have a very serious talk with Anna Mae."

  She nodded, fear rushing through her body. How had she not seen this? How had she not known? Had she been too blind? Could she have prevented this from happening had she reacted earlier? Was she at fault for what happened to the Blacks’ boy? They had tried to tell her about Anna Mae, hadn't they? They had all known, but she had refused to see it. Blinded by her love for the child and the unbearable fear of losing her, the closest she had ever come to having a child.

  "As soon as she shows up, I'll make sure she is brought to you," she said, her eyes avoiding his, guilt gnawing in the pit of
her stomach. "As soon as I find her."

  The sheriff placed a hand on her shoulder. "I’m sorry, Carol, that it had to come to this. I know you care for the girl."

  She nodded, staring at her shoes in the high grass. "Me too. I am more sorry than anyone, Sheriff."

  50

  I didn't like having to leave, not without getting my story or even finding the truth. It wasn't very much like me, and as said my goodbyes to Adeline and her daughter, Regina, who were both behind the counter the next day when I came down, I felt a little like I was giving up. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. It was like the bad guy had won.

  I paid for the room and told Adeline and Regina to take good care of one another, then left the motel, car keys jingling in my hand. As I reached the parking lot, I couldn't help but think about my run-in with Mr. Cunningham not too long ago in that same spot. A shiver ran down my spine when remembering the look in his eyes. He had told me to leave, and now I was giving him exactly what he wanted.

  I walked to my car, pulling the suitcase behind me. I opened the trunk of the car with one click of the remote. I lifted the suitcase to put it in when I saw something that immediately made me drop the bag onto the pavement and start to scream.

  I gasped for air, then pulled backward, still screaming. Adeline and Regina came running out to the parking lot where they found me.

  "What happened? What's going on?" Regina asked when she saw my face. I pointed, gasping between breaths, and stepped backward.

  When they spotted the body in the trunk, they recoiled as well, mouths clasped, shrieks emerging from between their lips.

  Regina walked to the car, then closed the trunk, slamming it shut. I stood like I was frozen, staring at the back of the car, still seeing the body even though the trunk was closed.