We Are All the Same in the Dark

by Julia Heaberlin

He’s put her flat-out at my mercy. Her little white dress is soaked with sweat. Arms are splat out in a V over her head. A few bruises mark her cheek and the shoulder where her dress is torn. And she’s skinny. Her knees and elbows wouldn’t put a dent in my muscle if she were to put up a fight.

Coming across real creepy, bud.

Wyatt’s fingers dig deeper in my skin, making up his mind—letting me know he’ll always win a game of mental gymnastics if it’s just the two of us.

Damn, Wyatt, why are you just always at an 11, man?

Frank Branson had a habit of flipping coins in front of a bottle of Jack, meting out decisions accordingly. I’ve watched Wyatt do the same thing.

Why does everybody in this town try to be a copy of their fathers??

The day I arrived as a rookie, Daddy’s old buddies welcomed me to this room with a Walmart sheet cake and shiny Batman balloons with pink ribbons tied to the legs of this desk—Daddy’s desk.

Ew. Girl live your own life!

My father wouldn’t like any of this.

SO?

I was staring into the murky water thinking Trumanell could be lying underneath, fishes nibbling at her pretty lips. I was wondering, just for a second, the prick of a pin, if my father helped put her there.

Not the late great Saint Daddy??!

My father was hiding…weed? Disappointment, and a little bit of confusion. I open and sniff. Brown and crumbly. Musty. A very old baggie of weed. The things I didn’t know about you, Daddy. I tuck it in my pocket with the phone number. Hell, maybe I’ll smoke it before I go to bed. Maybe we can commune together in the in-between.

Drinking his old hooch, smoking his pot. Have you had an original thought in your entire life?

My childhood home is known to everybody as the Blue House, not because it is blue—it is the palest of yellows—but because it has housed four generations of cops. It became mine when Daddy died. I couldn’t stand to sell it even though I had three offers without even putting it on the market.

i am Jack's complete lack of surprise.

He would want to make love without any metal——not my leg, not the key. He hated that tiny, cold reminder of my father banging against his chest.

No doubt! He definitely left because he didn't want to be with your "Daddy" any more. Gross, dude.

The Blue House sometimes felt happy. It never felt safe. There were knocks on the door in the dead of night. Daddy met every one of them in his plaid robe and slippers with a gun in his hand.

I swear to shit, if she still wears her dad's old robe and slippers...

My father’s support of Wyatt, or mine, wasn’t a secret and it was absolute. So you’d think that Rusty and I would be a bad match. Eventually, we’d part ways. It turned out, Rusty was the only one who volunteered to be my partner. No other cop on the force wanted to be paired with a one-legged rookie girl.

You should have just told them you're not a girl, you're Daddy!

I place the gun on the counter, heart still racing. I push open the shower door and drop the crutches. I’m wearing an old Cubs T-shirt of his that I dug out of the dirty laundry after he left. He reaches out to brace me because I’ve given him no choice. I wrap my arms around him, the spray blinding me, his shirt plastered to my body like a second skin. “You scared me,” I say. “There have to be rules,” he mutters into my hair, pulling me close. “I’m not here to stay.” I nod. “Are you in love with him?” Finn doesn’t wait for an answer. He leans down and catches my lips.

THIS POOR MAN

In the hall by the front door, I yank open the coat closet, still crammed with my father’s old uniforms and hunting jackets.

how many years have you and your husband lived in this house without disturbing any of Daddy's things?? Where do your things go?

It’s not Rusty that I hate. It’s this fucking town. It stole my leg. It stole Trumanell. It twisted me up from the beginning.

Then get OUT. You left once and then came back just to put on your dad's stupid boots.

To hell with my father and his secrets. This necklace, usually so cold, is now a ring of fire. I rip off the chain, roll down the window, and let it fly into the night.

Ok, I support the act but... why now? What? This book has weird pacing and lots of sudden decisions that don't make sense.

People will never learn that alone with the sun out is more dangerous than together at night. Stick with your partner is a kindergarten rule that should hold for life.

Foreshadowing? This is the cop who just left her partner behind and won't answer their calls.

Here is where Odette jammed her shovel in the ground. Here is where the police said pennies glistened in the headlights, and no one knew why. I reach in my pocket for my change from Dairy Queen and pick out a penny. I close my eyes and throw it as far as I can over the fence. “It’s a little late to be wishing,” Wyatt says. “A wish…is just hope,” I say, but I’m not sure he can hear me over the thunder.

Is this some country folk superstitious bullshit or will the pennies make sense at some point?

Wyatt’s in the truck, revving the engine. Before I can think about jumping out of the way, the truck is shooting in reverse. Gravel scatters up my leg, bites my cheek. Wyatt has braked ten inches from my body, my face perfectly even with the passenger window.

Goddamn, dude. Your intensity jumps from 3 to 11 for fuckin nothing.

“I saw a twister touch,” he says. “In the distance. Looked like an F2. Maybe an F3. Couldn’t really get a sense of which way it was deciding to go. Like a woman. Like a bitch. My father used to say you can’t fix a bitch.” Is Wyatt making up that tornado just to scare me? How could he decide it was an F2 on sight alone?

Because this mf'er is the most mysterious man in the world, apparently. And fairly offensive most of the time. Where's the infamous "charm" people have mentioned?

Wyatt stretches back against the wall. His eyes glow a little yellow in the candlelight. He reminds me of a beautiful feral tabby that used to hang out at my aunt’s trailer. Sometimes, I’d sneak him into bed with me, not caring if he might wake up in the middle of the night and tear me to pieces. “What’s the worst thing that happened to you, Angel?” he asks. “In the group home.”

He's so fucking intense and inappropriate ALL THE TIME. The only excuse I'll accept for his wild behavior is some kind of personality disorder.

“You have to talk,” I gasp. “I get panic attacks sometimes. In storms. Being in the dark.” I reach out a shaky hand as far as I can, arm straight, without moving any other part of my body. I touch nothing, not sweaty skin, not chilly wall. I can’t hear Wyatt’s breath, just mine. Is he holding it, teasing me? Did I go to sleep? Faint? Did he take off his boots and sneak up the stairs in his socks? Wouldn’t I have heard the sound of the world, seen a shaft of light?

Motherfucker is probably hanging from the ceiling like a bat, about to ask you how many fuckin bugs you've squished or some shit.

sleeping at the Blue House is a really dumb idea. I guess, we’ll see.

what, why? Why are you sleeping there?

I lay my head on the pillow, my knees drawn up just slightly so my feet don’t knock over the legs. Ten minutes. Twenty. I flip one way and then the other. And repeat and repeat. When I hear a noise, I wonder if it’s my father. Every sound at night since I was ten has been sent by him. Something else is bugging me. I slide open the closet and pad down the hall in my socks. Fumble for the switch to the outside porch light. Turn it off. Open the front door. Unwrap the flag. Turn the porch light back on.

For someone trying to stay in hiding, you're really fucking stupid.

“Angelica Odette Dunn.” My name wakes me up. There’s a man hulking over the bed, reading from my driver’s license.

Twice in a couple hours this girl has been startled awake by people finding her in her "super secret" hidey hole in a dead woman's house. Heavy sleepers on the run should sleep somewhere more anonymous and private.

Like the girl who Trumanell rescued in this park. Eleisa Manchester, now thirty-one and a mother of two. She met her husband in law school. She named her daughter Nell and her boy Truman.

So everyone in the town made worshiping Trumanell part of their personality? This book jumps to extremes all over the place and it's very distracting.

He slams the heel of his hand on the steering wheel. “Stop playing your fucking Ouija game.” It’s a brutal, fast shift, and I grip the door handle harder. Lift the latch.

Of course it's a fast shift, everybody around here guess 0 to 100 in a fuckin word

That’s when I remember what 70X7 means. — I lift my head. The room is swimming. My mouth tastes like I ate a pinecone. Finn is laid out in the chair across from me, fully clothed, snoring. A killer wouldn’t act like this, would he? My brain is telling me it’s urgent to get up. I have the distinct feeling I have remembered something important, but I don’t remember what that was. I don’t remember if it was about Finn. I try so hard to keep my eyes open. I’ll close them for a second. The next time I wake up, Finn is gone. So is the Betty Crocker cookbook.

I'm learning that I hate mysteries. Fucking give it up already and tell me wtf is going on.

You have to think Odette was killed by someone she knew. That the killer followed Odette out to the field and took both her and whatever she was digging up. I think it had something to do with Trumanell.”

At this point I don't even care who killed Tru, or why. I'm sure it'll be super dramatic.

Now I’m just irritated. “That’s why you don’t believe I’m talking to Odette in the afterlife? Because some crappy California fortune-teller was better at bullshitting than you are?

You're irritated that he knows you're bullshitting the thing that you are literally bullshitting? Cool.

“All right,” Rusty says smoothly. “Did Odette think her father killed Trumanell and Frank Branson?” My head snaps up. That was loaded and ready to go. Not the question I was expecting first. “I don’t have any idea. What’s your second question?” “Did Odette think Wyatt Branson had a role in killing his sister and father? Was she protecting him?” “Odette and I never got that far, either. I did get myself on the list to visit Wyatt as a pro bono therapist during one of his court-required bouts in a mental factory. Odette’s face that last day of her therapy haunted me. She was a vulnerable child. One leg. Sixteen years old. No mother. A father out of No Country for Old Men. I needed to reassure myself that Wyatt Branson wasn’t going to get out and kill her because he thought she knew something. It wasn’t ethical for me to see him, so I never went back. But I’ll tell you this: I left his room knowing he was fully capable of murder.” It’s like the real Dr. Greco stepped out of a cracked egg. This is the woman who flipped juries.

Yeah, cool. No actual information, just continued mystery and more fucking vagueries.

“Do you worry about your father wanting to…kill you?” “You’ve gotta know I’m the reason he was sent away.” It rushes out of me, angry. “You want to know why I don’t trust cops? The cops lied to me. They told me if I testified to a grand jury he would get twenty years to life. Then the prosecutor pled him down to three because they couldn’t find the gun or another witness. I try to keep track of him, using social media, calling his parole officer. He shows up on Facebook for a month and disappears for six. I only know where he is if he makes the mistake of standing by a historical landmark, and anonymous bar stools aren’t historical landmarks. He’s had nine parole officers. Most of them call me honey, as in you have nothing to worry about, honey. I just take it one day at a time. And I’m doing fine.” Because of my magic eye. And Odette’s words. Resilient being one of them. Resourceful being another.

Wait. Her dad went to prison for three years for murder and that's why he's hunting her? Over a three year sentence?? No. That's not even a long time, especially to risk going back for longer. This is stupid motive.

“If you know who Trumanell’s killer is, why haven’t you turned him in?” It’s almost a whisper. “Why did you wait? Is the killer already dead?” “Trumanell wants me to leave it alone.” “Please tell me who it is,” I beg. “Please, Wyatt. Please tell Rusty.” I hear him breathing. Now I don’t. “Don’t hang up, please, please don’t hang up!” I’m shouting into the phone. “I think Rusty and his partner are coming for you. I don’t know what they will do to get answers this time. Wyatt. Please. If you won’t talk, just get in your truck and go.” My desperation even surprises me. Nothing. “Wyatt, are you still there? I don’t care about Trumanell, Odette would want you to leave.” I pause. My phone is pressed so tightly to my ear that I can hear my heartbeat. “Please say something.” There’s a sound cut short on the other end, either the deepest of sobs or a harsh little laugh. In that brief second, I realize that knowing which could make all the difference. And then he’s gone, reminding me that I’m not that good at saving people.

Holy fucking tease and stupidity, dude. He knows the original killer and unless it's Odette, there's no reason not to say who except for mystery and intrigue and to give himself a trigger to flip out over for the rest of his stupid ass life. And why does she even care to save this dumb fuck?

Before I set off down the road, I feel around in my backpack for the butt of the gun. I don’t know why. It’s not loaded. I had to draw a line somewhere. The line was that I would never, ever kill someone like my father did.

A murderer is hunting you, but you object to killing him first. 🙄

I jerk awake, knocking over one of Odette’s legs, which knocks Betty off my lap, which scatters loose pages all over the floor.

Go figure, you fell asleep again and woke up to being discovered - AGAIN.

Odette wrote in English, in girly loops, like me. I press the page closer to my face. I think Odette was writing backward, too. In seconds, I am holding the page up to the bathroom mirror. Odette’s loopy writing. My bright green eyes. Both of us trapped in the bathroom mirror, trying to communicate. The clank on the front porch this time is not my imagination. Neither are the words in the mirror, now transformed like magic: I do not want to die.

Hindsight: Why tf did she write this and when? It's not like the uncle told her he was going to kill her.

I fly through the dark kitchen, clumsy and wild. In Odette’s bedroom, I snap on the overhead light because light is good, light is fair.

You turned the lights on first bc you didn't give a fuck. Then turned them off bc you were scared. Now they're on again bc reasons.

And what is lying on Odette’s pillow? I step closer. Another plastic bag. Small. Maybe from the cookbook. No. I haven’t seen it before. It’s clouded with brown-red stains. I should call Rusty, right? This bag could be evidence that needs to be preserved. It feels light as a seashell. It feels like a trick. I tell myself don’t as I dump what’s inside onto the soft, white cloud of Odette’s bed.

A new piece of evidence is left there, clearly by someone who snuck in to do it and could still be around - but instead of grabbing it and running, you stop to examine. Girl, no survival instincts and at this point I don't care who the murderer is or if they wipe out this entire town.

I roll under the impossibly low bed frame, shoulder screaming. Under the trailer with the spider and the rats, eye blazing. I am the roach who folds flat into the cracks. I pray that the man in the Blue House is confused. That he won’t drag his gun under the bed. That he will think I somehow slipped past him. When I hear the first rustle out in the hall, I scramble quietly. Until I slam the bathroom door.

WHAT? They were in a BEDROOM, not 30 yards apart in a stocked warehouse that suddenly went dark. Goddamn I hate this.

While Wyatt rocked beside his sister’s body, the police officer and the preacher had squeezed his sixteen-year-old mind until something broke. You’re the reason she’s dead. Your prints are on the gun, too. Who do you think people will believe? A Branson or a preacher? A Branson or the town’s top cop? A Branson or the Blue House brothers? We can protect you or we can take you down.

Oh no, not Saint Daddy 🙄

“The reverend said it was the Lord’s hand that led him to the Branson place. He said it was his hand that plucked the eye out of Frank Branson as a souvenir before he threw on the first shovelful of dirt. He said he would do it again if he had to, seventy times seven, no matter who died, and God would forgive him.” I hold my hand in the air, fingers spread wide, like Trumanell’s. “He said it was this hand, my hand—and the head slam into the bathroom floor—that wiped away his memory of exactly what happened to Odette that night. I’m not going to let him get away with that.”

Evil reverend is evil. Got it.

My friends and me, we hold with a different theory. We think Frank Branson is lying under the Blue House. We think he ain’t alone. We think there’s a whole cemetery under there of real bad guys that our cops took care of through the years. And you know what? That’s all right with us.

Oh cool, so it's a "Good Ole' Boys" club