Mrs. West’s story doesn’t add up.
“Psst,” Foster says, catching her attention. He covers the receiver of his phone with one hand and tells her in a low voice, “You’ve got to hear this.”
Branson sets down the receiver in her hand. Mrs. West will have to wait.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Sam,” Foster says into the phone. “I owe you one. Just fax that over if you don’t mind. I’ll be waiting on it.”
Foster hangs up and hauls his bulk out of his chair. He rises to stand next to the fax machine, then turns to face Branson, a spark shining in his eyes.
“They have something?” she asks. She knows they do, though, by the way her partner is leaning backward against the counter, one foot crossed over another with his hands shoved into his pockets.
She wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly started whistling.
“You could say that,” he says with a slow nod.
She stares, but he apparently doesn’t intend to say anything more.
“Spit it out then,” Branson says. She’s hungry. She’s irritated, and she’s tired of this case already.
The fax machine starts to make that god-awful noise she hates. Luckily, she doesn’t have to hear it often. Nearly everyone communicates via email these days.
Sheets of paper begin to slowly roll out, and Foster picks them up, scanning them one by one without speaking. She glances at Graham so they can roll their eyes at Foster together, but he’s on another phone call.
Branson’s little brother, Randy, is thirteen. He thinks he wants to be a cop when he grows up, just like her. She doesn’t have the heart to tell him how much of the job is paperwork and telephone calls.
She takes appreciation where she can get it, though, even if it’s from a preteen with questionable hygiene.
“Well?” she says, her patience at a breaking point.
“This is just preliminary,” Foster says.
“Yeah, yeah.” Branson twirls her hand in the air. “Get on with it.”
“First of all, they’ve identified certain areas of blood at the scene that testing indicates is most likely to be from the loss of a pregnancy.” He glances up and meets her eyes. “That backs up Laura West’s story,” he says, almost apologetically.
“Doesn’t mean she’s not lying about something else.” She’s not ready to let Mrs. West off the hook just yet.
“There’s more. They’ve lifted prints from the scene. They’re still working on it, but they’ve run them through the system.”
“They had a hit,” Branson says, her face lighting up. She’d love to put this case to rest and go back to DUIs and petty vandalisms.
Foster nods. “But this is where it gets weird. They matched on a partial lifted from an unsolved in Ithaca, New York.”
Branson stands up, frowning.
“Let me see that.” She takes the report from his hand and scans the information.
“Wait a second,” Graham says. “I’ve got a call here. Ithaca.” He turns back to his desk and starts rifling through the mess, eventually coming up with another scrap of paper and holding it up in the air.
“Yeah, Ithaca,” he says. “A woman named Eileen Ellis. Says she knows Templeton.”
Branson waits, but Graham doesn’t say any more.
“Is that it?” she asks. “She say anything else?”
Graham shrugs. “Just that we must have made a mistake. Says the girl she knows wouldn’t do anything like this. Apparently, she reads to the elderly twice a week at the old folks’ home.” Graham glances at the scrap of paper he’d jotted notes on. “Crestview House.”
Branson’s eyes shoot up. “You said Crestview House?”
“Yeah.”
She holds the report up to Foster and taps an index finger on the middle of the page. “We’ve got her.”
Foster nods slowly. His excitement has faded as her own has grown.
“America’s sweetheart,” he says with a shake of his head.
“Oh, and I tracked down Alexis Thacker like you asked,” Graham says. “She’s in Missouri, according to her parole officer. Hasn’t missed a check-in since her release.”
Foster stares down at the report in his hand, as if he’s willing it to say something different.
“Doesn’t look like the sister had anything to do with this, boss,” the sergeant adds.
Foster shakes his head again. “No, Graham. I don’t think she did. According to this, I’d say there’s no question who killed David West. Between the science and the 911 recording, this case is a slam dunk.”
“Thank God,” Branson says.
“Yeah,” Foster agrees.
He sets the report on the corner of Branson’s desk and sighs.
She doesn’t miss the way his shoulders sag as he shuffles out of the room.
46
MARGARET
Margaret studies Graye, searching for a sign, the barest hint, that the girl understands the precariousness of her situation.
But Graye looks . . . serene.
It boggles her mind. In spite of the orange jumpsuit provided by the State of Texas, which washes out her already colorless features, in spite of her unkempt hair and ragged nails, Graye appears calm. At peace.
It brings to mind the bearing of the young girls who choose the path of the church. There are fewer these days than there used to be, but to a person, there is a contentment immediately following their vows. Whatever internal strife and indecision might have plagued them up to that moment is released. They live, for a time at least, secure in the knowledge that there is a power greater than themselves they’ve embraced, and who has embraced them in return.
It doesn’t last. The deprivations of monastic life are difficult to adjust to, and in most cases, there will be a time, usually within the first few months, when the permanence of their choices will bring about a quiet storm of regret.
Some weather the storm. Some do not.
But Graye isn’t there yet, and Margaret can’t quiet the fear that awakens inside of her at the girl’s placid, accepting features.
“Graye,” she says slowly. “I’ve spoken with an attorney who’s willing to take on your case pro bono.”
The girl tilts her head and pulls her gaze back to Margaret from where it had been wandering around the room.
“That’s good, then,” she says.
“She’s going to come by to meet you tomorrow, and together you can decide how best to move forward.”
“Okay.”
Margaret frowns.
“Graye, do you understand what’s happening?”
“Yes, Sister,” Graye says. “Of course.” She bestows a small smile on Margaret.
“You’ve been charged with the murder of David West, Graye. The New York district attorney is also going to charge you with the murder of Inez Jeffries.”
Graye nods. “Okay.”
Margaret shakes her head and grips the edge of the table. If she could, she’d grab the girl by the shoulders, shake her.
“Graye, who is Inez Jeffries?”
At last, this solicits a reaction. Graye’s face darkens slightly.
“Nursing isn’t for everyone, Sister Margaret,” Graye says. “Some people just don’t have the temperament for it.”
Silently, Margaret sucks in a breath, and the fear roars in her ears.
“Graye,” Margaret says quietly, fighting to keep her voice calm. She shouldn’t ask the question. She knows she shouldn’t. The answers have the potential to destroy her.
“Graye, did you kill David West?”
Again, the child tilts her head and considers the answer. Again, Margaret’s breath stalls, and the only thing that moves is her heart, pumping blood fiercely through her veins.
“Maybe,” Graye says. “I’m not really sure.”
Margaret swallows back the dry, hot lump in her throat, and seizes on that seed of doubt. If there’s any chance, any chance at all, that this isn’t true, Margaret is duty bound, both to Graye and to God
, to forge ahead.
“There was a phone call. The morning of the . . . the murder.” She still had difficulty wrapping her tongue around that word. “It came from your phone, Graye.”
Graye considers this.
“I don’t know, Sister. I don’t think so,” she says with a shake of her head.
“Graye, you confessed to killing him.”
“Did I? I don’t remember that. I couldn’t find my phone. I looked for it, though. I did.”
Tears are just below the surface, but Margaret has no time to spare for them and ruthlessly pushes them back.
“It was found at the West home. Graye, it had your fingerprints on it.”
Graye mulls this over, then maddeningly, she shrugs.
“Maybe. If that’s what they say.”
“No, Graye!” Margaret says, shocking herself and Graye with the volume of her words. The girl flinches and focuses her gaze on Margaret’s face.
For the first time, she appears just the slightest bit frightened.
“The knife,” Margaret says, forcing her volume lower. “They’re saying the knife came from the guesthouse. That it also had your fingerprints on it.”
Graye stares into her eyes.
“Yes,” she says quietly. “Yes, the knife. But . . . I didn’t . . .” She trails off and stares upward at a spot behind Margaret’s head again. “At least, I don’t think I . . .”
“You need to tell me what happened, Graye. If you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t help you.”
At last, the girl’s gaze comes back to Margaret.
“It wasn’t part of the plan, Sister. I swear.”
Margaret had believed her heart couldn’t possibly fear more, but those words open a chasm at her feet.
“What plan, Graye?” she whispers.
Graye shakes her head. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
“Graye, you need to tell me. Tell me what you’ve done.”
Later, when Margaret leaves the building, a lifetime will have passed. She’s white-faced as she stumbles to the driver’s side of the car she’s rented. She lays her head against the steering wheel and gives in to the devastation.
Before she left, Graye made a request.
“I have some money in my bank account, Sister,” she’d said, her eyes brightening. “Could you arrange for it to be put into a commissary account for me?”
“Okay,” Margaret replied, her voice deadened with grief.
“Thank you.” Graye smiled, unaware of Margaret’s pain. “There are notebooks and pencils here we can buy.”
Margaret has spent fifteen years trying to protect Grace. Trying, and failing.
No one can protect Grace from herself.
47
LAURA
Laura’s nerves sing in chorus with the doorbell.
She’s not sure she’s made the right decision and was up late into the night debating all the ways she could call this off. But it’s too late to back out now.
On soft feet, she pads to the door and opens it slowly to find a woman she’s never spoken to directly waiting for her.
“Sister Margaret,” she says.
The woman is thin and appears to have aged in the last year, since that day she and Laura sat in a police station lobby and waited, united by nothing except uncertainty.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Mrs. West,” her visitor says quietly. “I’d have understood if you’d refused.”
“It’s just Laura,” she says as she steps back and opens the door wide for her guest to enter.
“And please, call me Margaret,” the woman says. “I’m no longer a member of the order.”
Laura’s brows rise. “That’s quite a big decision.”
Margaret nods. “Yes. The last year has brought many challenges, both inside myself and out. Redefining my relationship with the Lord has been a part of it.”
Laura’s not sure what to say to that. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Margaret stands awkwardly in the center of Laura’s living room, redecorated in the last year, to a style more reminiscent of the original design.
“Coffee, tea?”
“Water is fine, if it’s not an imposition.”
“Of course. Why don’t you have a seat?”
Laura steps into the kitchen and takes the opportunity to pull in a deep, shaky breath. Her hands tremble only slightly as she places ice in two glasses and pours water over the top.
By the time she rejoins Margaret, sitting upright along the edge of the sofa, Laura has schooled her features into a mask of false serenity.
As for Margaret, she’s obviously ill at ease. Laura wonders if she’s aware that this is the room David died in. Most likely, she is.
It was difficult for Laura as well, at first.
She didn’t even want to enter the house after it happened, preferring to stay in Dr. Lawson’s spare room. The Carons had graciously offered to let her stay with them as long as she liked, but Dr. Lawson was practically family.
Her parents had come to Port Mary as well. Her mother, in fact, had overseen the renovation of the carriage house. After they received the go-ahead from the police, of course.
“Mama, I don’t know if I can go back,” she said, hoping she’d understand.
“In that case, it will still need to be done for when you decide to put it on the market.”
The fact that her mother hadn’t balked at the potential sale of her family home had gone a long way to assuaging Laura’s concerns.
When she’d hesitantly walked through the door the first time, months after David’s death, she expected chills. She expected fear. But her mother had a warm and welcoming touch. The room was the way Laura remembered it from the time her grandmother was alive.
There was even a quilt thrown over the back of the sofa that Laura recognized from her parents’ home in New York. It had been a gift from her grandmother to her mother, hand stitched with care, given at a time when Lisette was beginning a new chapter in her life, far from home.
“No matter where you go, child,” she could remember her grandmother’s voice saying, “you carry home with you.”
Instead of fear, she’d felt her grandmother’s arms surround her. She’d felt love.
She’d never again discussed selling the house.
Her family was there to support her, no matter what, and she couldn’t be more grateful for that.
But this woman isn’t Laura’s family. She’s Graye’s.
“I admit, I was surprised to get your message,” she says. “I’m not exactly sure what I can do to help you, Margaret.”
The ex-nun takes a long sip from her glass and positions a coaster perfectly squared with the corner of the coffee table before setting her glass down.
She clears her throat and Laura waits.
“Have you ever carried the weight of something so big it affected everything that came after?” Margaret stares intently at Laura, gauging her reaction. “Like a car with one low tire, you drift. Without even realizing it. And if you’re not careful, you’re heading straight for the side of a cliff, so you jerk the wheel, overcompensating. And sometimes you get lucky and manage to get the wheels back between the lines. Keep moving forward.”
Margaret glances down at the hands clasped in her lap, then up toward the windows with a view of the beach. Everywhere but Laura’s eyes.
“But it can’t last,” she continues softly. “One too many overcorrections and you flip the car, tumbling end over end.”
She trails off and stares at some place in the distance, some place Laura can’t see. Nor does she want to.
“Sister Margaret, I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
Margaret sighs and turns her gaze back to Laura, her eyes clearing to a sharp focus.
“I know, and I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’ve intruded upon you and now I’m talking in riddles. There are things you have a right to know, Mrs. West. Some of them will come out at the trial, and
there’s nothing I can do about that, but I can at least give you the time and space to absorb them privately.”
Laura sits up straighter. “What are you talking about?”
“I need to tell you a story. A story about a girl.”
Without warning, Laura hears an echo of her mother’s voice in her mind. “Everybody’s got a story, Laura. Listen with an open heart, and you’ll be a better person for it.”
Unconsciously, she picks up her glass of water and scoots farther back into the sofa. She tucks her legs beneath her, entranced by the simple words.
“The girl was a sad girl, and lonely. She was the youngest of two sisters and lived in a home that held little love or kindness.
“One day, when the girl was still young, but not so young as she had been, she fell in love with a boy. A boy with dreams too big for the small town they’d grown up in.”
Margaret locks eyes with her and Laura can’t look away.
“When the summer was through, he left to go back to college, and the girl was heartbroken. She never told him she was pregnant.”
Laura’s heart breaks a little. It’s an age-old tale, told by many and in many ways, but the unfairness of it never lessens.
“Graye had a child?” she asks quietly.
Margaret never looks away. “No, dear. The girl was me.”
Laura’s mouth falls open, but Margaret’s not through.
“The baby was given to my older sister to raise. She already had a child of her own. I didn’t want to do it, but I had little choice. The only thing my daughter had of me was the name I’d given her before my mother took her from my arms. Grace.”
Laura shakes her head. The dots are beginning to connect, but there are so many questions left unanswered.
“As soon as the opportunity arose, I left, determined to put my faith in a gentler place. I joined a convent, gave my life to Christ, and for a time, I found peace.”
An old pain flared in Margaret’s eyes. “In some form of divine irony, I was placed at St. Sebastian’s Home for Girls, where I spent my days caring for other people’s daughters.”
“That must have been . . . difficult,” Laura says, though she knows the word can’t possibly describe how it must have felt.
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