Women Who Stay, 19

Chapter 1 ... Chapter 18

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I'm not ashamed to admit my first reaction to the headline was relief. Our contract had indeed included certain fail-safes -- Janie could have retracted her permission at any time, leaving me gagged forever. Even if Sheila was right, and I was just the last lucky reporter she'd been toying with, I found myself in an enviable position. Upon her death, I had every permission to proceed with her story in whatever way I saw fit. I was 100% certain that nothing she'd told me could be tripped up by a publishing house's rigorous fact-checking. At most, I'd have to quote her directly.

But I was only 90% sure she'd told me the whole truth, despite her assurances. Notwithstanding over 30 hours of recorded conversation, I still felt sure she'd held back. Just like Antonio took his darkest secrets to the grave, Janie had left me with about a hundred unanswered questions... and just enough evidence to connect the dots all the same.

It wasn't until much later, Hachette's contract in hand and deadline marked on the calendar in red ink, that those doubts felt important. Then, all the other words she'd ever spoken to me only rang half as loudly in my head as her last: Don't you dare.

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I kept my recorder running through the funeral service, but nothing of interest happened. No one but the Reverend spoke.

"I'm told she was a formidable woman, who held herself with extraordinary poise and elegance," was the most familiar thing he said of her. I suspected he'd been instructed to make no mention of Antonio, either by their children or Janie herself in a list of arrangements I was sure she'd left. He was fully erased from her life.

There were a surprising number of people in the church -- including Sheila, who gave me a terse shake of her head when I waved at her -- but I focused on my targets: The children, and Mark Booly, current owner of Hollow Hill Farm.

When the service concluded, I slipped out first and sat on the church steps, waiting for them to depart. Mark came first, a rotund man with graying hair and a jolly demeanor.

"Mr. Booly?" I asked. He turned, surprised to be recognized. "Hi, I'm Miranda Ken, Janie's official biographer." I handed him a card. "I have permission from her estate to produce a piece about her life. I'd love to talk with you sometime about the Farm. Maybe even schedule a tour?"

"Oh yeah!" he nodded enthusiastically. "She told me she was thinking of doing something like that, a while back."

"You kept in contact?"

"Sure, she stopped by once a month or so to give me unsolicited advice on upkeep." He gave a nervous chuckle and peered over his shoulder at the church. "Not to speak ill of the dead, of course."

I saw the children moving in a herd through the open door.

"Why don't you send me an email? Let's chat next week if you're amenable."

I reached the kids and gave them a slightly more lugubrious pitch.

Annabelle sneered in a remarkable mimicry of her mother's cold disdain. "What gives you the fucking right to be here?"

"Your mother and I were close, in the end. I'd love to chat with you three too, about your memories of her." It was the wrong thing to say.

"Go away, vulture," she spat, then swept away towards the parking lot with a thunderous Jacob.

Gordon, looking dazed, hesitated. I offered him the card Annabelle had refused, but he backed away without taking it.

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Read on to Chapter 20