Page 120 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
40
Molly
It had taken a few throat-scraping screams to bring Trent and the police barreling into the crawl space. To Molly’s relief, and somewhat to her surprise, Maynard had done little to resist. Instead, he’d just sat there. His eyes and expression empty. She couldn’t even say, in retrospect, that there was any remorse in him. He was just ... cold.
They had retrieved Tamera Nichols’s body from the barrel. Dan turned over the information from Brianna Nichols’s blog, and the authorities were going to contact her family, forty years later, with word that their sister and daughter had finally been found.
Along with the closure of that case came the inevitable closure of January Rabine’s. Maynard’s DNA matched the unknown DNA they had taken from January’s body. With Molly’s recounting of her conversation with Maynard, the police had pressed charges against him for not only Tamera’s and January’s murders, but the attempt on Molly’s life, breaking and entering, and arson.
Clapton Bros. Farms had given Trent three months’ paidleave. Molly had a feeling they were on tenterhooks, considering their own ties to the sordid family saga.
Now, Molly sat in the chicken yard, throwing grain at the chickens. Sid handed her a thermos of coffee. September had dawned, and with it the heat and humidity had stayed. Molly jostled the thermos, only to hear the clinking of ice.
“Oh good. Iced coffee.”
Sid smiled. “It’s too hot for anything else.”
Silence settled between them, and then they heard a truck door slam. Sid stood. “Trent is here. You know you’re both welcome to stay with Dan and me until you can rebuild.”
Molly shot a glance at the newly leveled area where the Withers farmhouse had once stood. “Thanks, Sid.” Their eyes met. She meant it. There was something special about friendship. The kind that didn’t come with conditions. The kind that was willing to take you as you were. Messed up. Mixed up. Medicated up. Whatever the combination.
And she was doing better now. She’d had no more major episodes since her doctor had adjusted her medications. She was also seeking counseling, and Trent was coming with her. She was rising out of her fog of melancholy and seeing that there was the promise of joy on the horizon. There was faith. There was family.
Trent waved as he passed Sid. They exchanged some words, Sid laughed, then called out, “See you both at supper!”
As he neared her, Molly turned her attention back to her chickens. To Sue, Izzy, and Sylvia, who had somehow fallen onto her side, flipped her head over, and sprang up in a squawking flurry of feathers. The chicks were old enough to be let out, and Myrtle scampered about with the others while the rooster kept watch with intent to kill if a predator challenged them.
Trent stood beside Molly’s camp chair. “So, I have the plans for the new house—if you want to see them.”
Molly gave him a smile. “I’d love to. Just no gravestones or crawl spaces, please.”
Trent laughed, reaching for her hand. She took his, and he pulled her to her feet.
“Do you think...?” Molly let her question drop. “I know the medications were causing most of my issues, but how did I know about ‘Cock Robin’? It was in my mindbeforewe found the book of nursery rhymes. And the little girl in the attic? I wouldn’t have known about Jacqueline Withers, but was it her?”
Trent looked over her shoulder toward the Clapton Bros. cornfield that abutted their property. When he spoke, his words were chosen carefully. “I don’t have the answers, Molls. Maybe God gave you insight with the poem, with feeling like you were seeing things ... to help bring closure to January’s death. To Tamera’s. Even to the Withers sisters.”
“Maybe.” Molly wouldn’t discount it, but she found comfort in crediting God with the knowledge and the inspiration. “You know, I was doing some research into our families.”
“Yeah?” Trent allowed her to change the subject. She would always wonder. Always be aware of that fine, filmy veil between this world and the spiritual world beyond. But she was content to leave it a mystery for God and God alone to reveal to them in His time.
“Your great-grandmother was Perliett Van Hilton.”
Trent frowned. “The third victim of the Cornfield Ripper?”
“Mm-hmm. She escaped with her life—somehow—and then ended up marrying George Wasziak. So even though at one point he was suspected as her attacker, he ended up being her hero.” Molly smiled up at Trent, praying he’d read her meaning in her eyes.
He did. His smile warmed. “You mean to say, unemotional and gruff Wasziak men aren’t necessarily the beasts you females think we are?”
Molly smiled, biting her bottom lip.
Trent’s eyes dropped to her mouth. He leaned forward, and for a blessed, glorious moment, Molly felt his kiss. Felt the emotion behind his placid face. Felt his soul and his love and his devotion in spite of it all. In spite of loss, and in spite of trials.
He pulled away, but Molly followed until she buried herself in his chest, breathing in the scent of hay and manure and fresh air and everything farm.
They didn’t say anything.
But this time—for the first time in a long time—the not-saying-anything said absolutely everything.
