She’s gone.
Katherine’s hand trembled as she gripped the barn door handle. Her whole body trembled. Her stomach churned so violently that she thought she’d be sick.
She’s gone.
And it’s all my fault.
So many things she could have done. Should have done.
Will do. But she didn’t know where to start.
However, she did know where she needed to be.
Alone. In the barn. In the place where they’d first huddled together as frightened twelve-year-old runaways to get out of the cold night. In the place where—much later—they’d come to talk about . . . everything.
Well, Wren would talk. Katherine would listen.
Katherine was a good listener. She’d had to be. She’d learned to hear the nuances in a person’s speech. To know if they’d help. Or hurt.
To know if they were lying or telling the truth.
She didn’t want to listen now. She wanted to be alone where she could scream her fury, where she could unleash her rage. Where she couldn’t hurt anyone else.
Because Wren was gone.
Her eyes burned and she swallowed the sob that rose in her throat as she slid the barn door open just enough to slip inside. She was so skinny, she didn’t need it to open much and she knew just how far she could slide the door before it creaked.
She didn’t let it creak. It would be all right if she did, but she still found something satisfying about sneaking in where she wasn’t supposed to be. At least not right now. She was allowed to be in the barn anytime she wished, but she was supposed to be sleeping right now.
Except she hadn’t slept in nearly two weeks. Tonight would be no different, so she’d given up trying.
Someone had turned the night-light on, its soft glow spreading through the barn, leaving shadows lurking in the corners. She wasn’t afraid of the shadows. She knew every one. This was her place. This was where she came to think.
Now it was where she came to grieve.
She breathed deeply, drawing in the scents of horses and fresh hay—and even fresher motor oil. The latter was unexpected. Usually the motor oil smelled old.
Tools were strewn on the floor around the old tractor that sat parked along the far wall. It had been broken for months. No one had had the time to fix it.
Looked like someone had been working on it tonight.
Someone who was still here.
She tensed, hearing the labored breathing coming from one of the empty stalls.
No, not breathing. Someone was crying.
She started to turn and run, but the cries became sobs. Deep, racking sobs that ripped at her heart.
At least someone else is missing Wren. Which wasn’t fair, she knew. Everyone in the big house missed Wren. How could they not?
She crept farther into the barn, listening intently, ready to flee at a moment’s notice, but now needing to know who’d come to her private place to grieve, even though she thought she knew.
The tuned-up tractor had been her first clue.
A big, burly man sat on the floor of an empty stall, back against the wall, shoulders heaving as he cried. In one of his massive hands was a piece of wood. In the other, his carving knife.
Harlan McKittrick. Her foster father.
She’d never seen him cry, not in the three years that she’d lived here, not even at the funeral today. He’d been stoic, his expression immovable, like a statue’s. He’d held his arm around Mrs. McK as she’d cried her eyes out. He’d spoken a few words over Wren’s coffin in his deep, gravelly voice, about peace and eternity and God.
Katherine had wanted to scream then. She’d wanted to hit someone.
She’d wanted to hit Mr. McK for being so . . . together. For being unfeeling.
But she could see now that she’d made a big mistake. The man was not unfeeling. He’d just saved his grief for when he was alone.
Just like I did.
She took a step back, intending to leave him in peace, to find somewhere else to scream her rage, but his head shot up and he met her eyes in the dim light.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. His tears continued to fall and she was poised to run. Finally, he wiped his face with his shirtsleeve.
“Kit,” he said gruffly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll go.”
He shook his head. “No, you don’t have to. This was your place, hers too. I should have known you’d come here tonight.”
Her cheeks heated. She’d been caught out of bed at three a.m. There were rules, even here. “I’ll go.”
“No, honey. I’ll go. Mrs. McK is probably wondering where I’ve got myself off to. You can stay.” He rose, wincing as he stretched his back. “I’m too damn old to be sitting on barn floors. I came out here to do some whittling, but . . .” He trailed off with a sigh. “It kind of hit me. You know how it goes, huh, Kitty-Cat?”
He always called her Kit or Kitty-Cat. Not ever Katherine, and she’d often wondered why. But she didn’t hate it. She might have even liked it. A little.
Talk to him. Say something to make him feel better. Because Mr. McK was a nice guy. And McKittrick House was so much nicer than any other place she’d ever lived. And she’d lived in a lot of places.
Mr. and Mrs. McK were good people. They never yelled, never hit. Never . . . took advantage of the girls or the boys, like so many of the other fosters had.
They’d let her stay even though she was not . . . good. They’d let her stay and they’d told her to call them Mom and Pop McK if she wanted to, just like all the other kids did who’d come through their big, warm house that always smelled like apple pie and clean laundry and lemon furniture spray.
She never had, though. She’d stuck with “Mr.” and “Mrs.,” anything to keep them at arm’s length. They’d never made her feel bad for doing so.
Now she wanted to make him feel better, because he was crying and it shook her hard. He was big and rough and gruff, but he was crying.
For Wren.
She pointed to the carved wood in his hands. “What are you making?”
He seemed surprised that she’d asked. Which was fair. Katherine didn’t talk much. She never asked anyone anything remotely personal. Never answered any question with more than “Fine” or “Okay.” And when they’d offered to adopt her, to make her an official McKittrick, she’d said only “No, thank you.”
Because nobody was that nice. Nobody really cared. It would end. They’d grow tired of her and make her leave, and then she’d be even worse off.
Mr. McK stared down at the carving in his hands. “A wren. You know, like the bird.”
A sob flew from Katherine’s throat before she could shove it back in. “A wren?” she asked, her voice breaking.
He nodded, his eyes on the little bird. “I put one in her coffin, y’see. In her hands, so she’d have something to hold.” His smile was wobbly. “To maybe remember us by. So she wouldn’t be alone.”
Katherine pressed her hand to her mouth. Keep it in. Keep it all in. “You did?” she asked, the words muffled.
“I did. And, um, this one is done.” He held it out to her. “It’s for you. To remember her.”
For a moment she didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Just stared at Mr. McK’s outstretched hand holding the small bird.
She could see it clearly now, delicate and beautiful. Like Wren had been.
Mr. McK was still holding the carving on the flat of his palm, so that she could take it without touching him. They knew that she didn’t like to touch anyone.
Wren had been the exception. Her sister, even though they’d shared no blood.
Katherine’s hand crept forward, one finger extended. She stroked the little bird, expecting a rough surface but feeling only smooth wood. Mr. McK simply stood there, the bird on his palm.
She gingerly picked it up and held it tightly against her chest. “To remember her,” she whispered. Like she’d ever forget. Wren was all the good, sweet things.
Everything that Kit was not.
Mr. McK smiled down at her, so sadly. “We’ll always remember her, Kit. She was so special and deserved to have the best life.”
“But now she’s dead,” Kit choked out, clutching the little bird so tightly that even the smooth edges cut into her hand. “Someone killed her and no one cares.”
“We care,” Mr. McK whispered back fiercely.
“Nobody else does,” she snapped, her voice echoing off the barn walls. “None of those cops who came and asked questions. None of them cared.”
“I don’t know. I can’t see their hearts. I only know my own and Mrs. McK’s.”
Now the rage was back. Now the rage was building. She wanted to throw something, but the only thing she could throw was the little bird and she clutched it even tighter. She’d never throw the bird away.
She’d never throw Wren away.
“They said she was a runaway. That she’d come back!” Katherine was shouting now and couldn’t stop herself. The horses shifted in their stalls, one whinnying in dismay, but Katherine couldn’t stop herself. “They said she wanted to go. They said she was probably on the streets, taking drugs. They didn’t care!”
Katherine took a step back, then another.
Mr. McK continued to stand there, watching her with eyes so brokenhearted that she wanted to scream at that, too.
“Then they found her body in a dumpster and didn’t even tell us for five days!” she screamed. “Like she was trash and it was okay that she’s dead!”
“They said,” he said calmly, “that it took them five days to ID her.”
“That was five days too long! Five days that she lay there in the cold morgue all alone.” Her shouts became choked and finally, finally the tears came. Like a dam had burst and she couldn’t stop the flow. “They said they were busy. That they were backed up. That they were sorry for our goddamn loss.”
Mr. McK wiped his eyes again. “I know, Kit.”
“They’re not even looking for who did this. No clues. Case has gone cold. It’s been a week since they found her, and they’re not even pretending to look.” She dropped her gaze to the little wooden bird in her hand. “Well, I’m going to look. I’m going to find out who did this. Who took her from us.” From me.
Mr. McK opened his mouth, then closed it, saying nothing.
She stared up at him defiantly. “What? Not gonna tell me it’s too dangerous? Not gonna tell me that I’m too young? That I’m only fifteen? Not gonna tell me it could be me next?”
He exhaled quietly. “Why should I tell you any of those things? You already know them.”
She looked away, knowing that he was right and hating it. “I should have watched her better. It should have been me.”
He sucked in a harsh breath. “No, Kit. No. It shouldn’t have been either of you. It should never be anyone’s child. Please. It should never have been you.”
She shook her head, all of her words gone now. All used up.
“You’re ours,” he said, his voice ringing so true that she almost didn’t doubt him. She didn’t want to doubt him. “You might not think so or you might not want it official on paper, but you are ours, Kit Matthews. You are ours to protect. Ours to love. Whether you want that love or not. That we didn’t protect Wren will haunt me until the day I die. Please don’t make me mourn you, too. I can’t do this again.”
She looked up at him then, hating the tears that she couldn’t stop. But he was crying, too, and that shook some more words loose. “What are we gonna do, Mr. McK?” she whispered. “She’s gone. And she’s never coming back.”
He took a step forward, giving her a chance to step away.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Her feet were frozen.
Her heart was frozen.
Finally, he brushed his fingers over her hair. “We go on, Kit. We’ll remember her always, but we go on. It’s what we have to do.” He hesitated for a long moment, then cupped her cheek in his big hand. “We’ll cry for her, but we’ll also live for her. You’ll live for her. You’ll make yourself a good life, Kit Matthews. We’ll make sure of it, me and Mrs. McK. You will live.”
Katherine closed her eyes then and leaned into Mr. McK’s warm palm. Just for a second. He was . . . safety. Security. Strength. And affection she didn’t need to repay. She’d take just a little. Just for a second. “I want to make whoever hurt her pay. I want them to die.”
“Me too, Kit. Me too. But we’ll do it right. We won’t be stupid. We won’t take any chances. We won’t be reckless and get killed and leave Mrs. McK all alone.”
She chanced a look up at him. He was serious. “You’ll help me?”
“I’ll help you. I’d search for her killer even if you didn’t want to.” One of his wide shoulders lifted in a half shrug. “I’d already planned on it. But I’m a farmer, not a cop. It’s not going to be easy.”
She met his eyes directly. “And if I want to be a cop?”
“You’ll be a damn good one. You’ll never make any family feel like their loved one didn’t matter.”
She scoffed. “You sound pretty sure of yourself, Mr. McK.”
He withdrew his hand, stooping down to pick up the carving knife that he’d dropped at some point. He slid it into its sheath and dropped it into his pocket. “I’m pretty sure of you, Kit.”
She took a step back, her chest too full of feelings.
She hated feelings.
“Thank you, Mr. McK. For the bird. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She turned and ran for the house, tiptoeing up the stairs and slipping into her room. With the twin bed with messed-up sheets because she’d tossed and turned. And with the other twin bed, neatly made with the quilt with bright yellow sunbursts. The empty bed.
Because Wren was gone.
Carefully she put the little wooden bird on her nightstand where she’d see it at first light. Then she climbed into bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling.
I’m pretty sure of you, Kit.
She sighed.
Well, that makes one of us.
