I didn’t know then that she was essentially signing me up for a life sentence to her, that I would be imprisoned by our bond of secrecy until she died. I would never not be able to do her bidding. I would never be able to disagree or argue or assert myself. When she was sad, I was to be the one to comfort her; when she got sick, I was to be the one to care for her; when she was alone, I was to be the one to keep her company. She held my secret, which meant she held my freedom too.

“I’m going to take care of everything,” she continued. “No one will ever know what you did. I will make sure of it.” She got up off her knees. “Now, go lock June’s bedroom door so that she doesn’t come down until we’ve got everything cleaned up.”

I surrendered to the calm, competent direction of my mother. It kept me from thinking about what I’d done, about the reality of the situation. I tiptoed back upstairs. From a hook in the hallway I retrieved the skeleton key that locked and unlocked all the bedroom doors. I went to June’s door and, as quietly as I could, inserted the key and turned the lock.

Waiting on the verandah with my mother for West to arrive, I watched her, waiting for some signs of grief, but they never came. She paced, she chewed at her nails, but there were no tears. She was deep in thought, not deep in sorrow, over the loss of her husband. I realized not long afterward that I had in fact done her a favor. Saved her from the wrath of my father and the revenge he had planned for her after finding out about her affair with West. I had saved myself and June at the same time, but it was a price I should never have had to pay.

The first thing West asked when he got there was, “Where’s June?” I told him that she was sleeping, that I’d locked her door just to be safe. He said that was for the best, and without a word we all knew that June was never to be told what had happened that night.

The cottage was dark—my mother thought it would look suspicious to have lights on so late if someone drove by in a boat. My mother told me to scrub the blood from the floor and wait for them there. Then they both disappeared into the forest, my mother carrying a shovel, West carrying my father’s body. By the light of one candle I got down on my hands and knees and washed away the evidence of the murder I’d committed.

“May did that?” June asks, as soon as Willa finishes describing the fatal push I committed that night.