"I got this." I move to the frame and use the tip of the blade to remove the screws holding it onto the wall. Together, we lift off the dust-covered picture of Willie.
Ripley flips it over, and at first, I see nothing but the back of a yellowed sheet that looks like it came in the frame. But when Ripley peels it away, another piece of paper falls free.
"What is that?" I squint at it as she focuses the flashlight on the faded handwriting.
"I don't know." She scans the paper and locks onto the signature at the bottom. "Holy shit. It's a letter from my mama."
She begins to read it out loud.
* * *
If you're finding this, I'm guessing I'm not around anymore. There have been plenty of days I've thought about what it would be like to do the deed myself, but I couldn't leave my little girl alone in this world.
* * *
Ripley blinks, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Oh my God."
* * *
She deserves better than this life, and I'm trying to give it to her. I know everyone's thinking the worst, but sometimes you have to let them smear you if there's a bigger purpose down the road. I've never cheated on my husband. Not with anyone, including Gil. Despite what everyone's saying, I'm not pining away, hoping he'll leave his wife. I don't feel that way about him. He's just a nice customer who saw me with bruises one too many times and finally forced me to tell him what was going on.
It takes a lot out of a woman's pride to admit she hasn't walked out on the man who hits her. Gil wanted to help me make a future outside this bar, and I've been hoping that's what my songs will do. I figured if anything happened to me, at least the money would end up going to my baby girl.
Whoever's reading this letter, can you make sure she knows I did it for her? Who knows, maybe one of them will end up a number-one hit, and she'll never have to worry about money for the rest of her life. All she has to do is talk to Gil, and he'll make sure she gets what's coming to her. He set up a fancy trust so Frank can never get his hands on a dime of it.
He's gotten enough from me.
Blood.
Sweat.
Tears.
I'm done with it.
My bag is packed, and tomorrow I'm finally doing it. I'm leaving my husband, and I'm taking my baby girl with me. I don't know what's going to happen, but the feeling in my gut tells me that having a backup plan might be smart.
I just hope I don't lose my nerve.
Either way, I'd be really grateful if you'd make sure this letter gets to Ripley Fischer. She always deserved better than everyone calling her mama a whore, but at least this way she'll know it wasn't true. I'm not the type to be unfaithful. I'm better than that.
All I want is for my baby to have a life where she can hold her head high and be proud of where she came from.
If something happens to me, all you need to do is look close to home. Frank is on a hair trigger, and I've always wondered if he'd just push me down the stairs one day and be done with it. But I'm too useful to put out of commission permanently, I suspect. Then there's Laurelyn waiting in the wings to step into my place. She always wanted what I have, so my leaving should make her really happy. She's welcome to Frank, since she always said he should've been hers to begin with anyway.
I'm done.
-Rhonda Fischer
P.S. Tell my girl I love her. She's the best thing that ever happened to me.
* * *
Tears are running down Ripley's face when she meets my gaze in the darkness of the bar.
"She . . . she wasn't . . ." Her words are interrupted by a hiccup. "How could I not have known? All this time? I thought-"
The lights to the bar flip on, momentarily blinding us both.
"You thought exactly what we all thought."
42
Ripley
Aunt Laurelyn comes toward Boone and me, a gun in her hand.
"And what everyone else is going to keep on thinkin'. So just drop that right on the floor and back up. Then you're gonna tell me where that diamond ring is Brandy said you stashed here."
My brain is working overtime, trying to put the pieces together.
Mama thought Laurelyn wanted Pop. Pop was out in the bar when she was killed . . . and as far as I know, the cops never questioned my aunt about the murder.
"Why?" I breathe the word.
Laurelyn waves the gun. "I didn't open it up to question-and-answer time. Now, give me whatever it is you've got there, and tell me where the damned ring is."
All the saliva in my mouth dries up as I focus on the barrel of the old pistol, and memories come crashing together in my brain. It's the gun Pop always kept behind the bar. He used to let me watch him clean it sometimes.