Alex reached down again and took up another book. There were perhaps fifty of them on the floor, and the boxes in the cramped room were endless. Who are these people?
As she was flipping through the next book, she heard something. A slight sound, just the tiniest scuff of movement. Her blood froze. She looked up.
Charlie Rutherford was standing in the doorway.
At first she could say nothing. Her throat seemed to be destroyed; she was mute, like him. The man looked at her unblinking, his hands perfectly aligned at his sides. In the other room there was a cartoon honk, the jittery beat of children’s music.
“Charlie,” she whispered. “What are these books? Are these your dad’s?”
The man said nothing. He simply stood there in the threshold, watching her.
“Are these people your dad knew, Charlie? Are they women he met when he was—”
“Mom!”
The voice was a child’s: loud, rebellious. And as he said it his eyes flashed with mischief: I know what you’re doing. I know why you’re here.
It didn’t take Lydia Rutherford long. She turned into the room, a hand clapped over her mouth. Alex tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go. She was trapped.
The woman began to say something but stopped. Then, her voice soft as a whisper, she said, “You aren’t supposed to be in here.”
“I’m sorry,” Alex managed. “I’ll leave. I’ll just go back to Vermont and—”
“No.” Lydia took a step into the room. There was something of a smile on her face now, wide and animalistic. She approached Alex and reached out, and Alex flinched. The woman took a strand of Alex’s hair and tucked it behind her ear.
“Please,” Alex gasped. “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything.”
The woman’s eyes dropped. She said, “I know you’ve been asking questions about Charlie. He’s a good boy. It’s just that something happened to him. Something happened at his beginning.” She stopped, gazed at her son with pity.
Alex’s knees wobbled. She looked again at the door, at Charlie standing there so resolute. So still. Blocking her escape.
“He got his father’s sickness, and what am I supposed to do about that? He’s my son. My blood. I must love him. That’s what they don’t understand about us. That’s why they call us strange. They don’t see, they don’t know how a mother loves her son. They don’t know.”
Lydia turned then and smiled at him. It was a motherly smile, and when she looked back at Alex it was gone. Replaced by a wrath that burned hotly in her eyes.
“Charlie,” the woman said. “Go and get Daddy’s axe.”