Dead Willow by Joe Sharp Read Free Book Online Page B

fiercely in Eunice’s office, now seemed dark and inert.
    The box trembled in her hands as the pain and exhaustion washed over her. What had she done? Had the midnight deadline been a literal dead line? Why wouldn’t they tell her that? She would’ve gotten here on time if she had known that!
    She gripped the box like grim death as the deepening cold started to settle in. The bitter wind stung her watering eyes and she squeezed them tightly shut as they threatened to spill over. A tear escaped and dropped down into the cherry box, wetting the tiny branch like heavenly rain.
    It was only one drop, but it would do.
    As the scrap of tree started to shimmer in the black soil, Annabel felt the warmth returning to the cherry box. When she saw the glow emanating from the miracle in her hands, she felt the urge, just for a moment, to take hold of it and let it work its magic on her broken hands.
    Then, she remembered Juni.
    Gripping the box firmly, she tipped its contents, twig and soil, into the open hole. Tossing the box aside, she worked feverishly to scoop the dry soil back in, tamping it down, until she had concealed every trace of her intrusion.
    She stood and stared down at the modest grave she had made with her own hands, which now didn’t feel quite so damaged. She stumbled back into something on the ground behind her, then reached down and picked up the empty cherry box. It felt … insignificant.
    Tucking the box under her arms, she turned and headed for the entrance where the car would be waiting.
    Something was going to sprout in this place, and she didn’t want to be here when it did.
     
    He said it was a No-Tell Motel. Annabel didn’t know what that meant, but she loved the way he said it. She loved the way he said everything.
    It was 1:30 in the morning and she had just met Gus Evans. Gus was the night manager at the Starlight Motor Inn , and Annabel thought he was far too gorgeous to hide behind a desk at a fleabag. If he had been with her in Willow Tree, she would have marched him up and down Main Street on her arm at the height of the festival, while all the other women fanned themselves and swooned.
    At least, that’s how her fantasies always ended, with her in the spotlight of the festival, a handsome white man on her arm. There were those who would call that an unhealthy obsession. Most obsessions usually were.
    Annabel couldn’t say why her fantasies tended toward the interracial. She liked to think she was above the need to taste the forbidden fruit, especially since she had tasted it on more than a few occasions. Maybe you always wanted what you couldn’t have, even after you’d had it.
    Trickles of blood and muddy water circled lazily around the bathroom drain beneath Annabel’s hands. All of the soap and scrubbing in the world couldn’t seem to get it all out. Ragged scraps from her cracked nails poked through the torn cuticles. They would have to be nibbled away, as she had neglected to bring scissors or clippers in her bag.
    The face in the mirror wanted to know why she wasn’t already asleep in that fluffy queen bed over there. Her parts farther south wanted to know why she wasn’t in that fluffy queen bed with Mr. Starlight Motor Inn . She didn’t have a ready answer for either of them.
    The hands in the sink were screaming to know why they had to dig the hole in the cemetery. The only answer she could give them was - it was part of the memories, and you didn’t argue with the memories.
    Perhaps a sacrifice was needed, and seeing as she didn’t have a chicken or a goat, she was it. Or, perhaps she had reverted to some kind of animalistic behavior and buried the twig like a dog with a bone. The memories were never about the reasons; they were only about the actions.
    There was a thread of memory of Annabel showing her ruined hands to a room full of spectators. Maybe that was it. Maybe her hands were the evidence that the deed had been done. Maybe her hands would grant her access back