by Mira Gibson
She nodded. “He was nice to me is all.”
“So he approached you?”
“Yeah, he was the first to say hi and ask me about myself. He was my friend.”
“And you spent alone time with him?”
Candice glared at her.
“Candice, you obviously weren’t with him when he harmed your mother. You’re so far removed from this thing it astounds me you’ve insisted you orchestrated it.”
“But I did.”
“How did you sneak away from your house?”
She snorted a laugh. “How did I slip out when my drug addled mother was incapacitated on the sofa and my father was strong arming Mary into committing ungodly acts with him in his bedroom? Yeah, it was a real challenge.” She took to shaking her head as though she could rid the memories from her mind. “The devil lived in our house. He lurked in the bottom of every can.”
“You’re referring to Dale’s drinking,” she stated for confirmation.
“Dale should be locked up, not Walter.”
“Good,” she said encouragingly as she made notes. “That’s good. We can paint a picture for the board. Life at home was oppressive. Dale was drinking, abusing Mary, it drove your mother to drugs when she discovered it. Walter had always meant to harm Kendra and when you opened up to him about life at home it was exactly the reason he needed to hurt them in the name of God.”
It had her blood boiling and she leaned in, speaking sternly, “I did this. Me.”
Startled, Judy looked up from her note pad. “Why then? Why did you do it?”
“Everything you just said. But it wasn’t Walter. It was me.”
“Walter isn’t innocent in this. He was the one and only one," she said for emphasis, Candice presumed, "to actually commit these crimes.”
“It was perfect, but you’re all too stupid to understand,” she said.
Judy straightened her back. “You didn’t anticipate anyone's stupidity. What does that make you?” she challenged.
“Not as smart as I thought I was, I guess,” she admitted with resignation. “The hand, the ears, the eyes we never got to take. It was flawless. Mary was supposed to tell the police how Kendra slapped her with her left hand for asking about what Kendra had done to deserve Walter locking her up during their marriage. She was supposed to explain how Kendra didn’t listen when Mary confessed her twisted dynamic with Dale. How she turned a blind eye. The police were supposed to hear all that then realize Mary cooked up the whole attack and got Dale to cut off those parts of Kendra.”
“You know what I’m hearing?” Judy’s expression had turned soft listening to her. “I’m hearing a younger sister who really cares for Mary. In a way, you avenged her suffering.”
“I don’t care for Mary.”
“Would you feel that way if Dale hadn’t victimized her?”
Candice fell silent unsure then stopped herself before she could go there. “Kendra should be dead. Dale and Mary should be in prison.”
“What went wrong?” Judy asked as though she could pretend to be on Candice’s side. “Why was Kendra dumped at the lake when she was still alive?”
“I don’t know,” she said angrily. “Her eyes were supposed to have been carved out and she should’ve been dead.”
“Candice, I need you to consider that Walter may have gone against you and still is. You need to detach from him. We need to make the case that he did this, all of this. He isn’t protecting you. You can’t protect him.”
“You think he left her alive on purpose? I doubt it.”
Judy sat back in her chair and mused, a smile spreading across her wide mouth.
“What?”
“Maybe it’s true what they say.”
“And what’s that?”
She shrugged. “It was a miracle.”
Candice stared at her for a long moment, realizing deep down a small part of her agreed. It was a miracle Kendra had lived, but she wasn't sure what to make of it.
Judy’s gaze locked on the far end of the room behind Candice as though her attention had been stolen and when Candice glanced over her shoulder she saw Hannah crossing through the room.
Hannah, she thought, pressing her mouth into a hard line, as Judy rose to hug her hello. If Mary had been right about one thing, it was that Hannah should’ve never left. How could she?
On Hannah’s graduation day, Candice had spied their argument from under the refreshment table where she’d tucked herself to play with the cottony cloth that hung down. Hannah had gotten in Dale’s face, pointing her finger in his eye, warning him to stay away from Mary. She’d sneered and spat when she told him she knew he’d plowed Mary with beer that night, the night of her prom, when the wee morning hours were still black as sin. Candice had only been four years old, but smart as she was she understood Hannah’s fury, her choice of words, and what they implied. Don’t you dare touch her, she’d warned.
But Dale had.
And if Hannah had never left...
Candice cringed to imagine how none of this would've had to take place.
When Candice orchestrated Kendra’s abduction she hadn’t been entirely sure what she’d do with the woman.
It hadn’t been until Hannah had the audacity to come home that Kendra’s fate became clear in Candice’s mind.
Cut her up and watch Hannah fall apart as the pieces of her mother came floating back.
Gazing down at her, Hannah offered her the faintest of smirks and it wavered badly.
“Excited for your hearing?” she asked.
Candice just stared at her.
“Can I sit?”
Epilogue
Soaking up the sensation of the warm winter sun on her face, Hannah basked in the bay window overlooking the lake, its shore frozen with a thin sheet of ice, a dusting of snow drifting over. Spangles of icicles adorned the naked trees in the distance and the sky was azure blue as if beckoning spring to come in and transform this dim world, bring it to life.
She straightened her back, broadening her shoulders, which forced her silk blouse to give. She’d made a point to dress fancy for her exam, a skirt and heels, a blazer. Who knew when she’d have another opportunity to be uncomfortably bound up? As long as she passed her test there’d be nothing but crisply starched slacks, black button downs, boots, badges, guns, and good guys fighting bad in her future.
Staring out at the lake, she could almost forget this wasn’t Sanbornton, Hermit Lake, Cody’s house or any of the others that had been staples of her past, both recent and distant.
After the ordeal, when all had been said and done, she couldn’t bear to stay.
Too many bad memories.
Hannah feared to imagine what would’ve become of her had Cody not shown up at Walter’s that day. Would Candice have killed her? She’d like to think not, but deep down she couldn’t be sure. Instead of grappling with the dark possibility, she chose to focus on the fact Cody had rescued her as she’d always believed no man could. He’d been her savior, taking a bullet that was meant for her.
The shot had jarred her from the deepest recess of her mind. She’d rushed to Candice, though her gaze had been locked on Cody, the blood, the terrible stillness of his body.
She’d seized Candice, wrestling the SIG from her grasp, as her sister fired and fired, bullets pinging every which way.
The horrible end to a horrible nightmare.
Hannah pushed it from her mind.
She turned when she heard footsteps behind her. Groggy with sleep and bundled up in woolen sweats, Cody neared, taking hold of her waist and giving her a kiss good morning. As always, she melted into his arms, savoring his warm lips, the care behind his every kiss. He eased off, drinking in the sight of her, his eyes green as ever. Then he turned her, wrapped his arms around again, cradling Hannah from behind so they could both gaze out at their corner of heaven.
Lake Winnipesaukee.
After recovering from a shot to his abdomen, Cody had sold his house and bought a new
one in Gilford so Hannah could resume her position. Her department had been eager to add Cody to the payroll thanks to his valiant work on the Kendra Cole case, which had made him a Tri-State celebrity and hometown hero, but not more so than it had Hannah.
Releasing her and patting her hip, he asked, “Coffee?”
“It’s on the counter,” she told him with a warm smile.
He cocked his head, meeting her gaze. “How early did you get up?”
“Early,” she admitted with a smile. "Wanted to study a bit."
Most nights Hannah was able to sleep in their bed, curling up beside him and drifting into deep peaceful darkness, like she had last night.
Others she slept on the floor. When she did, she often woke to find Mary watching over her and intensely looking out as though navigating a delicate vessel through uncharted waters. On those nights, Hannah would peer at her from beneath the blankets, her heart filling with such calm she'd doze off again, feeling safe.
Hannah joined Cody at the kitchen table where he was nursing a mug of black coffee and taking a gander at the paper.
“I’m thinking about ice fishing this weekend,” he said, sliding the Sports section aside so he could gauge her interest or maybe he just wanted to look at her. Mary had given her another stylish haircut, this time cropping her hair high in a bob, which she’d argued would make Hannah look authoritative. She’d shown her how to use a flat iron and keep her tresses sleek with polish, mothering Hannah as she went about the tutorial. “You think Kendra would be up for that?”
“I think it sounds nice, yeah.”
He rose for the kitchen where he freshened his mug and doctored another with half and half the way Hannah liked her coffee.
As he returned, she noticed Mary helping her mother down the stairs on the other side of the living room.
Cody set the mugs down on the table then crossed through to offer his arm to Kendra so Mary could tend to breakfast, her favorite meal to cook.
Their mother looked amazing and not just with respect to all she’d survived. Her eyes were bright and lively. Her complexion glowed and she seemed to perpetually smile as though she felt elated to be alive.
She’d undergone two surgeries during her recovery. One to replace her kneecap, which had shattered when she’d desperately tried to escape Walter Warfield's house. And the second had been to attach a prosthetic hand. She’d seen a plastic surgeon as well, who’d molded prosthetic ears to her head. By the looks of her you might never guess her dark history.
This was the family now. Not broken, but healing and so full of life that at times Hannah’s heart swelled, filling with so much love she thought it might burst.
After spending time with Judy St. Clair and undergoing a great deal of prodding, Mary had given her statement to the Sanbornton Police about Dale and all that had occurred in the shack between them. As a result, he was currently in jail awaiting sentencing. Twice a week Mary went to therapy. Monday’s after school she spoke with Judy one-on-one and Thursdays she sat down with Kendra there, gradually allowing Judy to help her work towards forgiveness and trust. Mary no longer blamed her mother. The Hermit Lake Tragedy had afforded her that much.
Dalton Gerrity, Blake Abbott, and Travis Danbury weren’t convicted for their roles in the abduction, much because Kendra had insisted on their innocence. The kids had been placed under house arrest where they lived with their parents, completed community service, and attended drug rehabilitation programs, which had been Cody’s recommendation.
Not a day went by Hannah didn’t think about Candice. Her heart carried the distinct hope that one day she’d truly know her youngest sister and have a relationship. Often she drove to the Sununu Youth Services Center where Candice now lived. She checked in on her on behalf of Mary and Kendra, reporting back. In this way, she was still a soldier.
Nights when Hannah slept on the floor, Candice filled her dreams. Children absorb everything around them, the pain, the torment, the despair of those they love. Candice had watched Dale’s depravity, how he’d lured, manipulated, and abused her sister, how his dark descent had driven Kendra to drugs. Hannah understood why Candice had done it, why she’d been compelled, though she didn't agree with it. It was still a challenge to fathom. Dale had nearly destroyed everyone around him, one beer at a time.
Daddy soda.
Hannah hadn't touched a drop of it or any alcohol since they got Kendra back, neither had Mary, and they wouldn't. They'd made a pact.
Mary rounded the kitchen and set a tray of scrambled eggs on the table, as Cody distributed plates and utensils. When they sat, Kendra took Hannah’s hand in hers, offering her prosthetic one to Mary, who closed the circle grasping hold with Cody.
Hannah smiled at Cody, squeezing his hand, then met eyes with her mother, who always managed to start each meal with a prayer.
“Dear God, thank you for this family. And for everything we had to survive in order to reach this very moment. We are blessed.”
THE NEW HAMPSHIRE MYSTERIES CONTINUED:
Read on for more dark, psychological thrillers by Mira Gibson where new characters emerge in the penultimate novel, Rock Spider and all characters converge in the epic conclusion of the series, Tar Heart.
Rock Spider (A New Hampshire Mystery, Book Two)
Tar Heart (A New Hampshire Mystery, Book Three)
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The Kensington Killers
COLD DARK FEAR (Prequel to The Kensington Killers Series)
LUNATIC (available now)
CRANK (coming winter 2016)
MANIAC (coming spring 2017)
www.mira-gibson.com
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
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Mira Gibson is a playwright, screenwriter, and novelist. After majoring in Playwriting at Bard College, Mira was accepted into Youngblood, the playwrights group at Ensemble Studio Theatre (NYC). There, Mira's plays received developmental readings and workshops. Most notably: Daddy Soda (2009), Old Flame (2012), and Diamond in the House of Thieves (2012). Her one-act play The Red White and Blue Process received a commission from The Sloan Foundation. And her one-act play Old Flame won the Samuel French Playwriting Competition and is available for licensing via Samuel French Play Publishers. In 2012 Mira's first screenplay, Warfield was produced by Summer Smoke Productions. It is available on Amazon Direct. She lives in Los Angeles, CA. Story is her life.
www.mira-gibson.com
AND NOW A TEASER FROM…
Rock Spider
(another New Hampshire mystery)
Prologue
Warped asphalt marred with shallow potholes and buckled with frost heaves - the scars of harsh winters and brief sweltering summers - unfolded under a shock of headlights like a story she could recite. It didn’t matter that a ghostly shroud of fog had crept in from the lake, clouding the road, or that the windshield was blurred with condensation. Gertrude knew every bump, its relationship to each bend, dip, and swell. Poor suspension on her old Audi had her anticipating the jolts and jerks. Her body was programmed to tense, to lean into the wheel, her chin to its clammy plastic, her hands in a white-knuckle grip.
A sharp bend hugging the south side of the lake prompted her to downshift - fast flick of the wrist, precise stomp on the clutch, forcing it to the sweet spot just shy of the carpet so the gears wouldn’t grind. Then her hand was back on the wheel.
She wondered where summer went in the dead of night, why it chose to cripple the day then vanish as soon as the sun set, leaving the long dark hours chilly and dank, not typical of New Hampshire. Strange weather patterns were playing a nightly practical joke.
In the passenger’s seat was Doris - cardigan wrapped tight but not buttoned, chipped polish over demurely rounded nails, eyes like a sun-startled raccoon. She used the hem of her sleeve to wipe away the condensation for Gertrude, but her effort onl
y smeared the glass badly, leaving streaks too distracting to properly see through.
“Maybe let's roll the windows down,” she suggested, monotone, still rattled from their long, strange evening.
Doris was testing the vent, holding her hand above it and working the dial as if it wasn’t already blasting. Giving that up, she cranked her window down then strained for the backseat, while Gertrude, figuring Doris speaking to her at all was progress, cracked her window by a good six inches.
As a result, damp air gusted through the car and kicked up a nest of junk at Doris’ feet. She stomped on it, making an honest effort to brace down candy wrappers and old magazines, fluttering receipts and case files too hopeless to update, a graveyard of Gertrude's career and her sister’s teenaged deposits - every time they got home: could you take your trash? A million excuses: next time? I’m tired. I have to get the grocery bag. I have to pee. It’s not all mine.
“Did it help?” She spoke up over the torrent, examining the windshield by sweeping her finger over the glass and creating another smear Gertrude would have to squint to see through.
Doris’ button-nose breath caused a feather of condensation to creep its way into her sightline.
“We’ll be home in five minutes,” she said, implying there was no need to improve things.
“Are we going to talk about it when we get home?”
She was perched at the edge of her seat, forearm draped across the dash, as she rocked and bounced with the grain of the road like she was riding a wild animal.
Quick glimpse at Doris’ chest and she spied the absence of a seatbelt. Rather it flapped against the car door, buckle rattling metal against plastic.
“Put on your seatbelt.”
“Why? We’re at the bridge.”
The glow of twin wrought-iron streetlamps at the far end of the bridge cast just enough light to make Doris correct. They’d reached the end of Messer Street, having navigated its jarring twists and hairpin turns which gave way to the smooth but rickety wooden bridge that would arch into Opechee Street, its fresh pavement, wind-kissed Maples, and the distinct scent of cut-grass mingling with the marshy breath of the lake where they lived.