Page 38 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
She was Trent’s alibi. “That makes it simple then,” Molly affirmed. “I’d know if you weren’t next to me.”
“Sure. Tell that to the cops. The wife of someone they suspect isn’t always the strongest alibi, Molls.”
“What on earth would have been your motive to kill her?” Molly heard her voice rise in frustrated disbelief that herhusband was even being questioned beyond being the unfortunate soul who’d discovered the murdered corpse of his own cousin!
“Nothing.” Trent slapped the table. His expression was stormy, his face haggard. It seemed the last few hours had deepened the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and hardened the set of his jawline. “I don’t have a motive, and they know that. They’re just asking questions. I’m not under arrest.”
“But you’re under suspicion,” Molly argued.
“Half of Kilbourn is under suspicion right now.” Trent glared at her. It was rare he lost his patience with her. But now his irritation was written plainly on his face. “If you’d leave the house now and then, you’d know there’s a town just down the road with people in it.” His sarcasm slammed into Molly. “We have a population of about a thousand people, and a young woman was just murdered. You’re exploring achicken coop, for all the blamed good it’ll do the world.”
Trent’s reaction was uncalled for. Unfair. Rude actually. Molly reared back. “What’s wrong with cleaning out the coop?”
“Nothing. In theory. But how about trylivingin the real world?” Trent clenched his teeth and stared at her.“Doing somethingotherthan hiding?”
“You’re the one who bought this place.” Molly’s words hit their mark. She could tell as Trent stiffened. It didn’t stop her. “If you wanted me to socialize more, then you should’ve bought a house in town. You should havebeen therefor me.”
Trent gritted his teeth, his eyes squinting. In stubbornness? Maybe. Wasziak men were known for that, known for not mincing their words, for being factual and unemotional and—
“That’s unfair.” Trent’s words grated through his throat.
Molly blinked back at him. “Is it?”
He closed his eyes. His forefinger tapped against his coffeemug. When he opened his eyes again, there was resignation in them. Anger. Hurt. “You’re really gonna bring that up now? Today?”
“There’s never a good time for you.” Molly remained stalwart in her grief. She’d borne it all but alone. “You have your work at Clapton Brothers Farms. What do I have?”
“You could get a job.” Trent’s suggestion made Molly bristle. That wasn’t the point, and he knew it. She wasn’t clamoring for a career. She was grateful she didn’t have to drag herself out of bed every morning to go to work. But their dream had also been that the privilege of her staying home would come with the honor of raising their children. That dream was dead.
“Listen.” Trent drew in a steadying breath. He didn’t look at her but instead fixated on his coffee mug. “You know I had chores when it happened.”
“Four times.” Molly’s mumble interrupted any justification Trent was going to offer. “Four times I miscarried. Four times by myself.”
“I can’t help it if I was at the farm!” Trent swung at his coffee mug, and it slammed against the wall, splattering black liquid against the yellowed paint.
Molly froze. Stared at him. He wasn’t demonstrative—ever. Trent let his head fall back as he stared up at the ceiling. He raked his hand through his hair, his hat falling off and clapping onto the floor.
“I can’t do this now.” His words sliced through her. She understood today had been hellish for him, finding out about January Rabine and the family connection. Sitting at the police station being interrogated. But he had to understand that the last severalyearshad been hellish for her, and in ways she could never describe. The voices. The sights. The outright terror sometimes. He didn’t know about that. He only knew that she was burdened with grief. Postpartum depression was as real after miscarriages as it was after achild’s live birth, yet many didn’t take that into consideration. Miscarriage was the ghost pregnancy. The type that didn’t get calculated into grief like the loss of a stillborn or a baby through other means. Miscarriage was that haunting, hovering happenstance that was shared by the couple. Orshouldbe shared by the couple at least.
“Fine.” Molly bit her tongue. “Don’t deal with it now. What’s another year? Or two? There’s not going to be any more babies anyway. We have the rest of our lives to talk about it.”
“Molly.” Trent’s voice was dangerously low.
“No.” She swiped at rebel tears that ran down her face. Sniffing, Molly ran her arm across her eyes. “Never mind. Your cousin is dead, and that is what’s important now.”
She didn’t intend to sound so “woe is me,” but it came out that way.
“Yeah. That’s what’s important now,” Trent repeated.
Molly felt her entire being sag under the weight of his words. “Then what do we do?” she asked. It was the only thing she could think of to say.
Trent’s shoulders lowered, and he began to gather up the shards of broken coffee mug. “There’s nothingtodo,” he stated baldly.
Which was unfortunate. But it was also the repeated answer to the many issues they had stuffed in between them over the last few years.
13
No matter how hurtful and difficult it was to admit, Trentwasright about one thing. She didn’t leave home very often. This was evidenced by Molly having turned down the wrong street so that now she was backtracking her way to the farm supply store. She was buying chickens today even if it killed her. Not to mention the farmhouse felt stifling to her. All she could see in her mind were images of January Rabine lying dead in the ditch, and the little girl in the chicken coop attic, and that creepy sensation that someone had been in her bedroom. Watching her.
