Page 5 of The Killing Plains

Colly frowned and rotated the mirror until her own gray eyes stared back at her, wary and defiant beneath straight, heavy brows. The outline of her head was blurred by a nimbus of unruly hair—dark brown but threaded with a few undeniable strands of white. Her face looked leaner, tougher than the last time she’d been in Crescent Bluff, the fair skin more deeply furrowed, the once-generous mouth now pressed into a tight, cautious line. It was a guarded face, stripped for action—one that took in everything and revealed nothing.

Colly looked away. “You don’t have to tell anybody anything you don’t want to, Satch. Come on, let’s find Aunt Brenda.”

Inside the school’s main hallway, Satchel clung to Colly’s hand as they threaded through a crowd of raucous children. It was a relief to enter the comparative quiet of the central office suite.

“I’m looking for Brenda Newland,” Colly told the middle-aged woman behind the main desk.

The woman smiled pleasantly and regarded them over her half-moon glasses. “She’s expecting you?”

“Yes. I’m her sister-in-law.”

“Oh.” The woman’s expression soured. “Mrs. Newland stepped out for a minute. You can wait in her office.” She nodded curtly towards a door labelled “School Counselor.”

The office was small and meticulously neat. Colly and Satchel sat on a bench in front of the desk. On the opposite wall hung a framed poster of Texas wildflowers, and in its glass, Colly caught another disconcerting reflection of herself. She pulled out her hairband to smooth and retie the thick ponytail.

“How come the lady at the desk was mad at us?” Satchel asked.

“She’s mad at me, buddy. Not you.”

“Why?”

“Some people here think I did a bad thing.”

“Did you?”

“Not now, Satchel. Take off your gear and put it in your pack.”

Satchel removed his hat and stripped off the protective sleeves. “Did Grandpa Randy really go to this school when he was little?”

“Yes. Uncle Russ and Uncle Lowell, too.”

“Not Uncle Willis?”

“He went to a special school.”

“Why?”

“His brain didn’t work right. He needed extra help.”

Satchel looked at her. “How did Uncle Willis die? You said you’d tell me.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“You always say that, but we never do.” Satchel scowled and swung his feet.

After a few minutes, the door opened and a slender woman entered carrying a stack of folders. She was in her late thirties with short chestnut hair and the compact, muscular limbs of a runner. Her eyes, dark and intense, were set in a narrow face.

“There you are. I’m so glad.” Brenda Newland laid the folders on the desk and hugged Colly and Satchel. “How long has it been?”

“A couple years. Not since the funeral.”

Brenda winced. “Sorry to bring that up.”

“I love the haircut. You look great, Bren,” Colly said, though secretly she thought her sister-in-law seemed tired, her face more deeply lined than Colly remembered.

“You’re sweet, but I own a mirror.” Brenda ran her fingers absently around the margins of her lips, where the skin had begun to pucker slightly. “Shocking how much divorce ages a person.”

“How’s that going?”

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