COYOTE

When a couple’s young daughter vanishes, a carefully controlled way of life slowly and inexorably collapses. 

The opening sentence of Winnette’s short novel reveals the general shape of what’s to come: “We were on the porch most of the night before she vanished.” The novel’s narrator never reveals her name, and she refers to her daughter’s father as “her Dad” throughout. From this, two things can be gleaned: The narrator is fond of precision and she isn’t in the habit of divulging any information that doesn’t absolutely need to be divulged. Soon enough, the disappearance has taken its toll: “Her dad and I don’t sleep anymore, but we still get into bed.” As the distraught couple alternates between trying to get their lives back in order and making media appeals for their daughter’s return, clues slowly accumulate that suggest their idyllic life isn’t all it seems. In the novel’s opening scene, the narrator remembers her husband brutally killing a coyote; later, there will be impromptu haircuts, the destruction of inanimate objects, and scenes of introspection that turn ominous and violent. Slowly, the raw elements of a happy family are curdled into something far bleaker. Winnette’s eye for the media also plays a part here: The distraught couple seeks help from a series of talk shows and news programs. As time passes, the narrator’s efforts to get back on TV to press her case again, as well as her fixation on a police officer investigating the case, threaten the fragile strands of a seemingly peaceful existence. 

While there’s a contemporary urgency to Winnette’s novel, it’s the small details (and how they are revealed) that give this story its considerable sting.