Chapter One

 

Scandal in a small town moved like a tidal wave—expertly conducted by housewives and church ladies — demolishing the lives of those unfortunate enough to have their stories retold by unreliable narrators. There was no escape from the sideways glances as Josephine Fox entered Greenrose Grocery.

 

Depending on who you asked, Jo was the villain or the victim. Regardless, unfortunate circumstances placed Josephine Fox right in the middle of the biggest scandal in Greenrose.

 

Shopping at the grocery store was never a pleasant experience for Jo. Familiar faces plastered with fake smiles, mouths that moved with her name, and eyes that accidentally met her gaze before she swiftly looked away. The dreaded pull into conversation with an unknowing high school friend from out of town. The ones who hadn't heard the news.

 

Jo clenched her fists and forced a neutral, unassuming face as she pushed a cart through the produce section and bagged up a few oranges, the last thing on Mother's list. The buzz of fluorescents and the unsteady light flow mimicked the hum of a raging storm and flashes of lightning.

 

She kept her eyes on those around her with a conscious effort to stay in the moment. She focused on the sounds, the smells, and the things she could touch---a reminder that she was in the present and not the past. Her gaze settled on the check-out line before her.

 

A young boy with tears in his eyes stood near the candy cart. His tiny hands grasped a blue paper-wrapped Pixy Styx. His mother wore an elegant peach-colored A-line dress and white gloves, her face red as she scolded him.

 

A lean man waited at the end of the line, pushing thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. He tapped his foot impatiently with a bottle of honey-colored liquor in hand.

 

Jo took a deep breath and silently listed what she could be sure was real.

 

A scent of diluted bleach sitting in a yellow mop bucket, the denial of candy through the teeth of the boys' mother, the cool metal of the clutch in her hand.

 

Steadied with a deep breath, Jo dropped the orange into her nearly empty cart. Moving into the check-out line, the toe-tapping man glanced in her direction, locking his stare.

 

Blood rushed through her veins, pumping unwanted heat to her cheeks; sweat beaded beneath her brow.

 

Jo shifted her attention to the dull ache in her hands. Gazing down, she found the source of the pain stemmed from her stiff grasp on her coin purse. Her long fingers, turning white, showcased the candy red nail polish that reflected the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

 

"Next!" The young woman at the counter didn't look up.

"Is this everything?" The cashier asked robotically, without a smile or a hint of acknowledgment.

"Yes, thank you."

 

The interaction was quick and painless. No eye contact, nor a look of disgust or sympathy — a welcome change from the reception of most patrons she interacted with. Jo breathed a relieved sigh, knowing if she could avoid prying gossips while walking through the parking lot, she would be in the clear.

 

"Miss Fox!" The squeaking voice calling between the parked cars was too familiar.

 

Jo rushed to her car, tossing the lone paper bag to the passenger seat. She slammed the door, averting her eyes, and sped to the exit of the parking lot before the uncomfortable interaction could occur—a narrow escape that saved her from an intrusive conversation with one of Mother's nosey book club friends.

 

Jo didn't bother to turn on the radio. The drive was short, and the radio songs often gifted memories that corrupted her calm. The paper bag crumpled as it rolled around in her passenger seat. Jo sped around the corner, passed the Saturday night line at the

Greenrose Cinema, and turned right at the corner which housed the Five and Dime.

 

The house on Copper Street was merely three blocks from Greenrose's main drag — a two-story colonial meticulously maintained by Father and the only home Jo had ever known. The tale of her sudden entrance into the world, only two hours after the movers unpacked their belongings, was routinely told on her birthday.

 

Blooming red rose bushes pressed against the white picket fence that edged the front lawn. Lush green grass crowded the sun-bleached brick path leads to the steps of the wrap-around porch. A pitcher of tea on the railing soaked in the sun's warmth. A halo from the setting sun illuminated the powder blue paint Father applied to the house only weeks prior. The giant weeping willow tree moved in the slight breeze, calling her home.

 

As Jo slammed the car door shut, she heard the creak of a loose board on the porch. Mother stood watchful, hands on her hips with a slight smile. Her eyes reflected the same cloud of worry that had settled within Jo only weeks ago.

 

When something tragic happens in a small town, it can be big news. When it happens to the family of the police chief, it makes the front page.

 

"Thank you, Josephine. I hate running up to the grocery store this late in the day. You just never know who you are going to run into." Mother collected the brown bag and turned into the house. Jo rolled her eyes. Mother had a way of saying something, without saying much at all.

 

A powerful scent of bleach welcomed Jo at the door. The house was predictably spotless. Mother was an exceptional housekeeper, but she had taken the daily chores to an obsessive level these last few weeks. The beige window curtains showcased fresh creases from the hot iron. The lunch dishes soaking in the sink before Jo left for the grocery store were now washed, dried, and put away. A deep red wine stain, a permanent scar soaked into their living room carpet ten years ago, now scrubbed to a faint pink shadow.

 

Each member of the family found their own way to deal with the sudden spotlight. Jo immersed herself in a book while avoiding people altogether if she could. Father barely said a word, spending his nights locked away in his den. Mother cleaned, meddled, and hovered over Jo's every move.

 

Jo removed her heels while her eyes followed Mother as she floated around the kitchen. Mother was a contrasting version of herself. Bright blue eyes, blonde hair that, with age, was gracefully turning white. She was slender and short and could never understand Jo's hesitation to  indulged in sweets or a high heel — an internal envy Jo couldn't escape.

 

"So, I bought one of those new citrus juicers the gals in the book club raved about. It's automatic! I couldn't believe how incredibly loud it was... anyway, we will have to try it out with these oranges in the morning. The apples are for a pie I'm baking tonight. We have a guest coming for dinner." Mother said.

 

Jo shot a fierce glance at Mother's unsteady movements, but she didn't pry. That was what Mother wanted her to do. Ask questions, get curious, and get excited. Jo refused to play into it.

 

Instead, she turned to the kitchen and boiled water for coffee as she wondered who this mystery guest may be. Deep down she hoped for an old friend to show up at the doorstep. The same thought caused her stomach to turn.The longer Jo went without interacting with her friends, the more she longed to see them. But she knew that their presence could be dangerous.

 

Mother huffed when Jo pulled the kettle out but said nothing. Coffee was a point of contention in the house. Her father enjoyed the coffee, her mother admitted the smell was inviting, but Jo was the only one who had the patience to make it. When the water bubbled, Jo emptied it into the waiting jug filled with the coffee grounds. The clear boiling water stole the black from the coffee beans within minutes. Straining the coffee into her mug, Jo inhaled the bitter aroma, melting into the comfort.

 

Jo's sleep was irregular and littered with broken memories for three weeks now. Coffee was the only way she would be presentable for the guest. That paired with makeup and hairspray helped Jo might look like a proper young woman.

Rumors soiled her reputation; the least Jo could do was appear innocent and submissive, as expected of a woman in her early twenties. A part she would play without hesitation in order to keep the peace.

 

Jo ascended the stairs, coffee in hand, and retreated to her bedroom to avoid Mother's watching eyes. Her room was a temporary oasis from the overwhelming odor of bleach and the incessant drone of the new Hoover vacuum Mother was influenced to purchase after a lengthy conversation with one of her church friends.

 

Jo placed the mug on the side table and collapsed onto her bed, heaving a sigh of relief. She was safe. Another day of pointless errands completed. Now she could hide away until dinner.

 

For her sixteenth birthday, her parents redecorated her room. The thick navy-blue carpet faded to a cobalt blue in the seven years since circling the bed and vanity. The white butterflies against the matching blue wallpaper seemed childish now that she was an adult. A stack of unread books next to her twin-sized bed called for her. The ball fringe curtains concealed the intrusive sun, suppressing the extreme heat of summer from suffocating her.

 

The vanity stood as a constant reminder of the night in which everything changed. A bouquet of white roses sat in stale water, decaying and attracting flying insects. Mother had insisted Jo throw them out, but Jo refused. One of the few battles Jo won.

The dead flowers proved that time continued to march on after the night that everything changed, regardless of how paralyzed in time she felt.

 

Jo locked on her pink baby blanket draped over the full body mirror, hiding her reflection. The bright pink had faded to a murky gray; the purple flowers that once bordered the blanket were only a faint shadow. The blanket's original condition fading from Jo's memory.

This dull blanket moved through life with Jo, experiencing every heartbreak and soaking up every tear. It now served as a protector from the memory she refused to face.

 

Jo rubbed her eyes and reached for her newest book, Fahrenheit 451. Though she'd only possessed the book for less than two months, it was well-loved; the pages pulled from the spine; the cover scratched and dented. Jo's notes scribbled thoughtfully in every white space available. The story reminded her that though her life was falling apart, things could be worse. Thumbing through the pages, she settled on a chaotic and troublesome scene to ease her distracted mind.

 

Jo found pleasure in the suffering of fictional characters. Suffering, just as she was. If she could immerse herself in their story, their solutions could be her own.

 

An interruption of tires on gravel pulled her away from her book. Father was home. The sliver of light shining through the curtains indicated he was home early once again. They limited his time at the precinct since that night, even though the police station was always busy.

 

Greenrose was a quiet town, but as Father would say, 'kids these days have nothing better to do than cause some trouble'; Drag racing, high school mischief, domestic issues, and petty crime ate up most of their time.

 

Most of their time, until now, that is.

 

The creaking of the staircase echoed through the hall to her room. A light tap on her bedroom door forced Jo to begrudgingly place her book down. Her stomach sank.

 

"Josephine Anne Fox, your father is home, and he would like to speak to you." Mother's voice was muffled through the door.

 

"I'll be right there." A tremble rolled through her limbs as a pressing heat washed over her skin.

 

Growing up, Jo always viewed their bond as superior to most father-daughter relationships. But now, when their eyes met, she only sensed shame and disgust.

 

Jo suspected there must be an update on the events leading to her stay at St. Maria, otherwise Father would have Mother relay the message. That night had changed everyone under the Fox's roof. Father's transformation was the most alarming to her. His smile was gone. His boisterous laugh disappeared that night, along with the family's 'pillar of the community' reputation.

 

A familiar tremble washed over her skin as pressure in her gut turned her stomach.

 

She wrapped her arms around her chest, squeezing herself into a tight embrace. She counted the heavy beats of her heart. It was in vain, as her grip on reality loosened; memories crashed together unmerciful—the threat of a confrontation burning in her eyes.

 

Non-linear visions of the night in question refused to be silenced.

 

The nightmare crept into Jo's fragile mind; the sound of rain thudding into the soft earth echoed in her ears. She fought to pull herself from the grasp of the nightmare, but her scattered memory clouded reality, pushing Jo unapologetically into the night that changed everything.

 

A rainbow hue outlined the sharp edges of the trees, which swayed in the wind. The rain hit her exposed arms like sharp knives. Black mascara blurred her vision as it ran down her pale face. The memory of vomit lingered in her mouth. Her perfect black curls fell from their pins as wet hair matted against her neck.

Thick, cold mud encased her bare feet. The dress she wore, saturated with rain, and stained in blood and earth, the weight forcing Jo to her knees on the banks of the river. The only warmth came from the blood gushing from the wound on her knee. Fresh purple bruises appeared on her pale limbs.

A rush of rainwater swept through the calm river, silencing the calls from the ravens perched on the limbs of an aspen tree, sheltering from the storm overhead. Her only sign of help was a dim dancing light reflecting off the wet tree branches. An odor of copper and dirt filled her nostrils.

 

Jo steadied her shaking knees with a firm hand. She did not easily ignore this disruption of reality. It was a constant power struggle to stay present. She often wondered which was stronger, her will or her sanity.

 

She rose from the comfort of her bed; her heart raced as she reached the top of the staircase. Jo inhaled through her nose and exhaled out through her mouth; her left hand gripped the guardrail tightly.

 

Father stood at the bottom of the narrow staircase, waiting for her. The wrinkles across his forehead etched deep into his rough skin. New specks of silver hair reflected against the black curls. The tips of his ears were red with the sun. He stood motionless, dressed in his uniform, his police hat pressed against his chest.

 

Father raised his head to meet Jo's gaze for the first time in weeks.

 

"They found him," he stated solemnly

 

Her stomach dropped. Jo tightened her grip on the banister to control the unrelenting fear that shook her body and mind.

 

"And her?" Mother asked.

 

"Just George."