Through the open window, I feel a draft of damp air, the kind that signals the approach of a storm, though the sky is still patched with sunshine and clouds. For some reason, it reminds me of the first storm I ever saw in the swamp. And of course, it makes me think of my parents.
The sky grows dark, getting bigger and bigger-an avalanche of clouds.
"You don't have to be scared of it, you know," Mom says, wrapping me in an afghan blanket on the front porch.
Grandpa's cabin is different when it rains. I've only ever seen the Atlanta kind of rain. Drops that plop loudly on asphalt.
"We'll be visiting for the next five days, and if we're lucky, you'll see more," Dad says, joining Mom.
I watch their faces, serene. Dad likes the storms here, I can tell.
"Reminds me of my childhood," he says.
"I'm not scared," I say, even though I'm only seven and I might be a little scared.
It doesn't take but a couple of minutes in the downpour for the waters to rise. Mud gurgles and plops, an alive thing.
Charlotte bounds outside just then, a smirk on her face.
"Look at that lightning," she says.
It rips open the sky. Illuminates the monstrous clouds.
"Perfect weather for family," Mom says.
I learn that night what she means as we play board games by candlelight, the power having gone out with a blown transformer. Mom tells stories of how the power used to go out all the time when storms passed over her island as a child. Grandpa claims he can get the generator, but we don't mind the candles.
The rain calms me.
I don't mean to think of my family, but the rain brings them close to me.
"What happened to you, man?" Grant asks. "You zoning out?"
"Smells like rain," I reply.
"Shit, I gotta go, then." Grant looks warily at his Jeep.
It's open all around. I keep telling him to bring the cover. Swamp storms are beasts no one wants to get caught in without shelter. But as usual, Grant doesn't listen.
"I told him," Pax says, shaking his head.
Since Pax rode with Grant, he doesn't have a choice but to leave, unless I drive him home later.
"You need a ride?" I ask, secretly hoping that he'll decline so I can spend time with Willow when she gets back and her friend goes home.
My look out the window betrays me. Pax sees.
"Nah, I'm good. Go see your girl. I'll catch up with you tomorrow."
It's strange to hear my friends talk about Willow as mine when they wouldn't normally refer to any girl that way.
Grant reaches into his pocket for his keys. He doesn't even make it off the couch before there's a knock at the door.
"Looks like the perfect time for me to go," he says, eyeing the visitors, who are visible through the open window.
"I'll catch you later," I say.
They leave in a rush. Pax offers a final wave, and Grant guns it out of the swamp, trying to outrun the storm.
I face the arriving visitors.
The police are here. What do they want with me now?
Charlotte strides out of her room just in time to see Grant and Pax leave and the police step onto our welcome mat.
"Can we help you?" Her voice is sweet, but her eyes are bitter. Every instance that's brought police has also brought more suspicion on me.
One officer nods in greeting. The other stands stoically, his expression unreadable.
"Do you have a moment to chat?" the officer asks.
"Not if it involves you carting my brother off to that station of yours again. We've been several times. We've answered your questions. He didn't do it, so leave him be. And in case you haven't heard, we recently lost our grandfather. We'd like to have a little peace."
If the situation weren't serious, I'd smile at the fierceness in Charlotte's tone. Her gaze is perfectly icy. Her protectiveness freezes the warm air around us.
"You have my condolences. And I'm not here for your brother." The officer motions toward our living room. "May we sit?"
Charlotte answers immediately. "No."
"Okay, then." The officer shifts, and my eyes are drawn to the gun at his waist. "We wanted to inform you that there's been a break in the case. The toxicology came back on the second victim. She was drugged, which explains how the culprit overpowered her without a fight." His stare swivels from Charlotte to me, while the other officer remains quiet, allowing his partner to do the talking. "I'm sorry you got mixed up in this, Beau. We finally know for certain, thanks to a DNA swab from the last crime scene, that you are not involved, though we were quite sure you weren't when we discovered your fingerprints didn't match. This is the final evidence."
I perk up at the mention of a DNA test. My feet carry me closer to the officers. I stop just inches shy of the one speaking. I wait for him to say more, my heart in my throat.
The officer places a hand on my shoulder. Pats it gently. "Thank you for cooperating. I know it didn't always look good for you."
"What did you find?" Charlotte's voice is edged with tension. "What did the DNA tell you?"
The officer doesn't show Charlotte the same warmth he shows me. I wonder why that is.
"It told us enough to absolve Beau of any wrongdoing," he replies.
The officer next to him watches Charlotte with an inquiring gaze, tracking her every move-the way she leans against the wall and flips her hair to one side.
"How is that possible? Do you know the identity of the killer? Who is it?" I ask.
They've just admitted they have solid evidence, and I want to know who's responsible.
"We don't know. At least, not yet."
"Then how do you know it's not Beau?" Charlotte asks. "I mean, obviously it isn't my brother's fault, and I'm glad he's been cleared, but what led you to this decision?"
For the first time, I notice another van beside the police car.
"If you don't mind, I'd like you to please come with us." The officer is no longer talking to me. His words are directed at my sister.
"What for?" I ask, stepping in her path. I know the look the officer wears. It's the very one he not so long ago reserved for me.
Suspicion.
"Nothing that concerns you," he says to me. And then to my sister, "If you'll please go over to the van there. We have someone waiting with release forms for you to sign. They need to swab your cheek."
"Why?" Charlotte glances quickly at me, worry etched into the line between her brows. "What do you want with my DNA?"
"That's the breakthrough. The sample left at the crime scene told us something we hadn't suspected before. The killer is female."
The only females around the swamp are Willow and Charlotte.
Charlotte walks to them on trembling legs, straight out the door, and all the way to the van. She says nothing, leaving silence in her wake. I am too stunned to follow her. Too shocked to completely understand the officer's words. I replay them, a skipping record in my mind.
The killer is female.
Charlotte is gone for no more than a couple of minutes while they swab her cheek. She returns visibly shaken.
"Charlotte." I watch her approach. "Are you okay?"
She nods but says nothing.
"Here's my card." The officer still waiting at the door hands me his contact information. "Just in case. We'll be in touch."
He walks back to his cruiser. The van and police car pull away from our house, dirt kicking up behind their tires.
Charlotte shuts the door and walks straight to the kitchen. She pulls pork, onion, and tomato from the fridge and gets to work heating up beans. On the stove, she cooks the meat in oil, garlic, tomatoes, spinach, watercress, and salt. She's making another family recipe, Munggo Guisado.
"What happened back there?" I ask, taking a seat on a stool at the island.
I watch her work, knowing this is what she does when she's upset-cooks. Sometimes for hours on end.
"They swabbed my cheek," she replies.
I wait for more, knowing she'll talk when she's ready. In the meantime, I watch her methodical movements.
"Do you want coffee or tea?" she asks.
"Tea," I say.
I don't offer to help, knowing she needs a moment to herself. Charlotte boils water and before I know it, there's a steaming cup of tea in front of me, sweet enough to leave a syrupy taste in my mouth.
She scoops out the meat and ingredients and piles them on top of the beans. I pat the stool next to me, and Charlotte drops into it with an exhausted sigh. I eat a forkful and almost groan at the deliciousness. Charlotte eats, too, taking bites until about halfway through her portion, when she finally lets her fork clatter to the plate. She places her head in her hands and massages her temples.
"They made me promise not to leave town." She finally speaks, but her voice is void of all emotion. "They think I did it. I saw the way they looked at me. I have to stay close until the results from the swab are in." She rubs her forehead gently. "God, I'm a suspect. Go figure. Wonder if they've questioned Willow, too. Where is she, anyhow?"
Just then, realization hits me.