Black-Eyed Susans by Julia Heaberlin Read Free Book Online

we
have
more innocent people on Death Row?
    “And Angie,” Charlie adds.
     “She was nice. She was, like, totally convinced. And she said that none of it was
     your fault.”
    “I’ll be in the news
     again.” Meaning, Charlie won’t be immune.
    “I’ve been through it before. My
     friends will take care of me. I got this, Mom.”
    The naivete of it almost makes me want to
     cry. At the same time, it is hard to believe that Charlie is three years younger than I
     was when I testified. She seems so much more
prepared.
    I pull into our driveway and switch off the
     ignition. Charlie is rustling to get her stuff, but I don’t turn around.
     “Never,
ever
get ina car with someone you don’t
     know. Never walk alone. Don’t talk to reporters.” My voice sounds sharper
     than I’d like in the tiny, closed-up space. “If I’m not home, turn the
     security system on as soon as you close the door.”
    It’s ridiculous to deliver these
     worn-out instructions for the thousandth time, but I’d become too complacent. I
     have vowed ever since Angie’s wake to know where Charlie is every single second. A
     few days ago, I turned down a freelance design project in Los Angeles to build a
     staircase out of old cars and recycled glass. It would have carried our finances for the
     next two years.
    “Mom.”
She packs as
     much teen-age patronization in those three letters as will fit. “I
got
this.”
    Before I can respond, she’s tumbling
     out of the car, loaded up like a soldier entering battle, jogging to the front door with
     her house key in hand. She’s in the house in seconds. Prepared, like I taught her.
Innocent, and not.
    The question that neither of us ever asks
     out loud:
But if not him, then who?
    I follow her slowly, fiddling with my phone.
     I almost trip over the duffle she dumped in the foyer, think about calling out to her,
     stop myself. I head to the small desk in the living room where my laptop sits, call up
     the email I just sent to my own address, download, hit print. Listening to it
     regurgitate a couple of feet away, I think Charlie’s right—our house needs a
     more efficient grasp on technology.
    The printer spits out three grainy pictures
     of wilting flowers. Charlie’s door is already closed when I pass by.
    A few seconds later, I am on my tiptoes,
     pulling from the top shelf of my bedroom closet the shoebox boldly marked,
Tax
     Documents.
    The killer has planted black-eyed Susans for
     me six times. It didn’t matter where I was living. He likes to keep me guessing.
     I’m sure about this now.
    He waited so long between plantings
     sometimes that, beforeAngie, I was able to convince myself on most
     days that the right killer sat in jail. That the first black-eyed Susans were the work
     of a random stalker, and the other times the whims of the wind.
    This box, made for ASICS running shoes, size
     7, marked
Tax Documents,
contains the photographs I snapped every time anyway.
     Just in case.
    I set the box on the bed and lift the lid.
     Right on top, the one taken with my granddaddy’s old Polaroid Instant camera.
    That first time, right after the trial, I
     had thought either I was crazy or that black-eyed Susans had suddenly sprung up in
     October under the live oak in our back yard because of a bizarre weather pattern. Except
     the ground looked disturbed. I dug up the wildflowers by myself a little frantically
     with an old kitchen spoon.
    I didn’t want to tell anybody because
     life in my house was returning to some semblance of normal. I was done with therapy.
     Terrell Darcy Goodwin sat in jail. My dad was dating for the first time.
    The spoon struck another surprise in the
     dirt that day—something hard, orange, and plastic. An old prescription bottle. The
     label ripped off. Childproof cap.
    Charlie has turned up her music. It strains
     through the wall, but can’t drown out the words on a scrap of paper curled up in a
     little orange bottle.
Oh Susan, Susan, lovely