A/N: Evidence of Blood is one of my favorite Mary McDonnell movies. I love its heavy subtext, especially the parts that have to do with Dora. This is why I chose to continue the story from her POV.
I would like to thank blossom-of-snow for the beautiful editing of this story.
Sequoyah was unforgiving. It was unforgiving if you drank too much. It was unforgiving if you strayed from your marriage. It was unforgiving if your father was a convicted murderer. Dora Overton learned that lesson from a very young age.
Lloyd Overton's murder conviction and execution was a scar that Dora had to carry since she was merely a few months old. Even before she understood what murder was, she was singled out by adults and children alike. Her classmates always whispered when she walked by them at school, and the braver ones teased her. Dora did not remain silent. She learned to fight for her name. The numerous scars she accumulated on her knees and elbows served as trophies for battles won.
Involved in schoolyard fights well into her teenage years, Dora lived up to her name. Not a good one, of course. After all, she was the daughter of a murderer, and people said that the apple didn't fall far from the tree. Maybe that was true, but at least she was not weak, and no one thought of her as such. That notion alone was enough for her.
Until now.
"Lloyd Overton was not who you think he was," Kinley said to her as they sat on the stairs of her front porch. He promised he would tell her the truth, a truth she'd been seeking for so many years.
Even though Dora had trained herself to pretend that she didn't care about being a pariah, her mother's claim that her father wasn't a murderer made her life seem inequitable. Her father's execution and her own status in the community were unjust. And the only thing Dora ever wanted was for the truth to come out, no matter what it will be.
"He did it?" she asked, feeling her heart sinking in her chest. Her father was innocent. He must have been!
"No," Kinley said in his almost irritating quietness. "Lloyd Overton didn't murder Ellie."
Dora studied his face, his soft features, his dark eyes, his lips that she knew to be warm and hungry. The hesitance in his gaze scared her. "Who murdered her?"
"She was not murdered," Kinley said. "But she is dead."
Dora rubbed her hand on his thigh. Using touch to get Ray to do as she asked had long become second nature to her. Now she was doing it to Kinley.
Kinley covered her hand with his and stilled her motion as if he could sense her intention. His voice was small and weak when he revealed to her his mother's actions, the chain of events that led to his mother's and her father's deaths and tarnished her family's name beyond repair. He was ashamed.
Dora felt her heart constricting in her chest. The unfairness of it all engulfed her and dazed her. What struck her even more was the odd way Kinley kept repeating her father's name. As if his tongue was on fire and he couldn't bear not to say it. It irked her because she could not put her finger on why the name sounded so foreign coming from Kinley's mouth.
He apologized and took her hands in his. "I promised that I would tell you everything."
"Is there more?" she asked.
"There's something you need to know about Lloyd Overton."
Dora examined his wounded expression.
"Lloyd came back from the war a broken man," Kinley said. His gaze interlocked with hers as if he was checking how the information registered with her.
Dora hummed. She knew that from her father's letters.
"He was broken in more than one way," Kinley said, attempting to spoon-feed her with whatever information he had about her father.
He was hinting at something, but Dora didn't quite understand. She opened her mouth to express her confusion, but Kinley shook his head, signaling her to let him continue.
"During the war, Lloyd sustained an injury to his groin that left him unable to have any children," Kinley said.
Dora felt her jaw dropping heavily. "He had me."
"Dora," Kinley dragged the last syllable of her name on his tongue. "Your mother was involved with another man."
"She loved my father."
"One can love more than one person," Kinley said. "Ray loved you, but he also loved me. He was torn between us."
"Not torn enough," Dora retorted. Ray had drifted away from her during the last few weeks of his life. He had turned his back on his promise to tell her about what he found in his investigation of Ellie's murder because he wanted to protect Kinley. She was his second choice, after all.
For a split second, she thought she saw a flash of jealousy in Kinley's eyes.
"Lloyd Overton couldn't have been your father," he said.
With one short sentence, Kinley uprooted any sense of identity that Dora had, down to her name. Through the buzz of thoughts in her head, Dora tried to listen attentively to Kinley's truth. He might not be willing to repeat any of it.
Horace Talbot. The man who defended her father in court. The man who sat in her bar once a week and stared at her with longing eyes. That man was her father.
"Why don't we go inside?" Kinley offered when he saw the blood draining from her face as the realization sank in. He helped her up and led her into the house.
"Can I make you some tea?" he asked.
"I'll need something stronger than that," she replied.
He poured her a glass of Whiskey, and she drained it in one gulp.
Not a man of many words, Kinley put his hand on her knee and rubbed it with gentleness Dora hadn't expected. His gesture's tenderness caused Dora to do something that she hadn't done since she was a young child; it made her burst into tears.
The wail that escaped from the depth of her throat sounded unfamiliar. Her voice was that of a wounded animal taking its last breaths. As soon as Dora recognized her own weakness, she drew a deep breath and retracted from Kinley.
Dora walked over to the kitchen and poured herself another glass of liquor. She downed half of it on her way back to the living room, where Kinley waited for her. She leaned against the doorframe and watched him from a safe distance.
He looked at her, unfazed and placid, as if he hadn't expected any different behavior from her.
That Kinley recognized her inner workings and allowed her process the newly acquired knowledge in her way with minimal interference was commendable. They hadn't known each other for very long, but Kinley's ability to read her and tolerate the complexity of her emotions was endearing. His presence in her life provided a sense of relief she rarely felt with Ray or her previous lovers. For the first time in her life, she felt that she could bring down her walls and reveal her depths to another person.
Dora reclaimed the armchair again and listened to Kinley as he played a mellow tune on the piano. The notes engulfed and comforted her. Kinley wasn't a gifted pianist, but he knew how to make the melody fit the mood. The music calmed her and lulled her to a much-needed slumber.
To fulfill what he said was Mr. Talbot's wish and help Dora come to terms with her parentage, Kinley had arranged a brunch at Mr. Talbot's house. Dora wasn't sure how she felt about it. Being known as the daughter of a convicted murderer had shaped her path in life, had led her to where she was today. It wasn't a particularly bad place to be. On the contrary, she found her life comfortable for the most part, knew how people truly felt about her, and was used to it. Now she wondered how it was going to affect her life. She wasn't a child anymore, but she felt vulnerable in this situation. She was not ready yet.
The morning of the meeting, she spent an hour staring at her face in the mirror, trying to find similarities to Mr. Talbot's face. She couldn't. He did not leave his mark on her. Not really.
"What are you doing in here?" Kinley asked. He leaned against the bathroom doorframe, traces of sleep in his eyes.
Dora turned to him. "I don't see him."
Kinley stepped into the bathroom and stood behind her. In his reflection in the mirror, Dora could see that he shoved his arms into his pockets to avoid touching her in fear of upsetting her dwindling balance.
"I don't look like him," she said.
Kinley shrugged. His silence was not reassuring. She watched him as he brushed his teeth, passed a comb through his hair like everything was normal. Like their intertwined family histories didn't change anything in their lives. Maybe it was easier when you didn't know where you belonged, like Kinley. But Dora always knew where she did and didn't belong. And now the line between the two was blurred.
She left the bathroom and busied herself with making the bed and folding Kinley's sleepwear. She had slept in the nude. After she was finished, she opened her closet and inspected its contents. What was she supposed to wear to such a loaded meeting? She's always felt comfortable in oversized sweaters and thick flannel shirts. Her clothes were simple and functional, and she never attended church or social functions, so there was never a need for anything fancy. Of course, there was the black dress she wore to Ray's funeral. Even that was quite a simple dress. And she didn't feel like herself in it.
Eventually, she pulled out a dark grey turtleneck knit and a pair of jeans, the best that she could do given her unwillingness to accept her life's new narrative.
She let Kinley drive. Her stomach was in knots, and she doubted that she could pay attention to the road if she drove. Despite the fact that Mr. Talbot – much like her – lived on the outskirts of town in the opposite direction, it was a relatively quick drive, or maybe time moved differently when your mind was plagued by uncertainty.
Everything was white: the lattice fence, the paved path leading to the front door, the house itself. The early winter sunlight reflected from the house and created an artificial glow, a mirage. Dora noticed the way the soles of her shoes creaked against the path from the driveway to the entrance and the way the wind stood still, and the chilly air engulfed them. This house was exposed to the elements, much like Dora's, but in a different, unfamiliar manner.
Mr. Talbot opened the door for them as if he had been watching the path from his window, anticipating their arrival. He welcomed them in, and Dora was somewhat relieved to discover that the house was slightly darker inside.
She took in her surroundings, not daring to think of all the ways this house could have been a part of her childhood. What use would these thoughts have now? She was nearing 40, far from the child she was never allowed to be. The child would not play in these halls, would not run up and down the stairs, and would not chase squirrels in the yard.
Mr. Talbot led them to the dining room. The table was already set, and the richness of the offered brunch was overwhelming. As an independent business owner in a small town, Dora hardly struggled financially. Her earnings from keeping the bar paid the bills and helped her provide for herself. She had more than she needed saved up and her pension plan was one that would allow her to live comfortably upon her retirement in 20-something years. And yet, she rarely indulged in the kind of foods that Mr. Talbot served for brunch.
As they sat down, Mr. Talbot engaged in small talk, one that Dora could conduct with him. He was a skilled conversationalist. She'd give him that.
"You must have some questions," he said after they finished eating and moved to the living room for a drink.
Dora sighed. She didn't have any questions. Kinley relayed the information to her in a very clear manner. She knew what had happened, the circumstances of her conception and birth, and the reasons why she lot her father at the age of 6 months. There was nothing she needed to ask, but there was so much she wanted to say. Despite that, she didn't know how.
She shrugged her shoulders. "You abandoned me. In more ways than one."
The guilty expression on Mr. Talbot's face was hardly satisfying.
"Because of you, I grew up without a father. The entire town made me an outcast."
"I never had a problem recognizing you as my own. Your mother wouldn't let me." Mr. Talbot looked desperate.
"And that would make it better?" Dora asked. "Instead of being a murderer's daughter, I would be a bastard. I'd get the same treatment."
"Dora." She felt Kinley's hand resting on her arm. She turned to look at him, and his gaze spoke volumes. Her anger was misdirected, and she knew it. Many people shared the blame. Her mother could have allowed a relationship with Mr. Talbot. Her father could have fought for his innocence. Mr. Talbot could have recognized her publicly without her mother's consent. Dora knew that no matter what any of the people involved did, someone would have gotten hurt. But ultimately, she was the one who paid everyone else's price, and for that, she had every right to be angry.
"I know it's too late. I can't be your father the way I would like to," Mr. Talbot said. "And all your accusations are correct."
"Then what do you want from me?" Dora asked, anger blazing in her eyes.
"I just wanted you to know the truth. You deserve it." His reason made sense to her. She deserved a better life than the one her parents and Mr. Talbot had doomed her to live. And in the absence of that, the truth was the next best thing.
His words softened her fury, and before they parted, she gave Mr. Talbot the one thing she knew he wanted but didn't dare ask. She let him hold her in his arms.
Sequoyah was unforgiving to those who strayed from the right path. But Dora Overton was raised to be different. Maybe she was a murderer's daughter and a bastard altogether, but she knew how to do what her fellow Sequoyahans could not. She was able to find forgiveness in her heart for her mother, her father, Mr. Talbot, and even for Edna May Kinley.
-TBC-