Witness

by Denise Gwen

  Mom’s eyes shone with tears.

  “Aw, Mom,” Kathryn said.

  “Don’t mind me,” Mom said, turning away. “You just go on to work, honey, and you kick some butt.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Kathryn said, and mock-saluted.

  But the minute she turned on her heel and walked out to her battered Chevy Impala, the smart-ass grin faded from her face and a little of her inner strength left her as she slid behind the wheel. She thrust the key in the ignition and stopped.

  Hold on, give yourself a moment to just breathe. Remember what the therapist said.

  She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then let the air out slowly and opened her eyes.

  Did she leave the sanatorium too early, she wondered? The doctor said she was fine to return to her life. A movement out of the corner of her eye, and she glanced up. Mom stood at the dining room window, pretending to adjust the curtains, while keeping an eye on her. Mom was so cute, she really was.

  Better not let on how nervous I really am.

  She waved up at her mom and smiled as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered to life, and she backed out of the driveway.

  If only she could bottle up her mother’s pride and enthusiasm for her as if it were a perfume, and douse herself with it during the day, she’d be just fine. Pretended not to like the way her mom carried on at her, but it did help. Mom filled her up. Mom’s belief in her gave her the added strength she needed to face whatever came her way, but it hurt, too. Whenever she let herself down, whenever she slipped, she brought shame down upon her mother, as well.

  Didn’t know what she’d do if her mom died. She came close awhile back, but the doctors said they caught it in time . . . a lumpectomy, followed by radiation. Everything seemed fine . . . for now.

  A lump formed in Kathryn’s throat and she blinked back the tears.

  Her mom was the only person on earth who had her back.

  And at the Rowan County Sheriff’s Office, it helped to have someone who had your back.

  A few minutes later.

  “Good morning, how can I help you?” A woman seated behind the bullet-proof glass window looked up at her and smiled as Kathryn walked into the foyer.

  Kathryn did not recognize this woman. How strange. In the several months she’d been gone, a new employee had arrived at the Sheriff’s Office, someone who didn’t know her. She almost lost her nerve, but stood, resolute.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Kathryn McGlone, and I’ve been . . . gone for a few . . . well, now I’m back.”

  “Oh,” the woman said, surprised. “Are we expecting you?”

  Kathryn bristled with resentment, and, just like that, a wave of rage washed over her. “Um, yeah.”

  The woman recoiled as if Kathryn had bitten her.

  Calm down, don’t take offense at the first thing she says.

  Why did it not occur to this woman to realize Kathryn was a Deputy Sheriff? How else did she acquire the uniform? It tempted her to strike back with sarcasm, but she forced herself to stop. Better not get off on the wrong footing on the first day back. Who knew, this woman might prove to be a good friend, later.

  But for right now, Kathryn thought her a fool.

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Kathryn McGlone. I’m a junior deputy sheriff. I took a four-week-long leave of absence, and, well, I’m back, as you can see.”

  I’m way over-explaining this.

  The woman looked behind her. “Hold on a sec,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  The woman got up from her chair and hurried off down the hallway where the main offices were located. No doubt, she was conferring with someone, the Sheriff, perhaps, or Robert Billings, the sheriff’s second-in-command.

  At that moment, a familiar and welcome face appeared in the lobby area behind the bullet-proof glass window. Margie Winters, the 911 daytime dispatcher, walked into the room, holding a cup of coffee. She saw Kathryn, started, and hurried to the heavy door and pushed it open.

  “Welcome back,” she said, still clutching her coffee cup, “and come give me a hug.”

  “Oh, Margie,” Kathryn said, stepping forward and catching the door. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you too,” Margie said, cleverly keeping the door open while maneuvering Kathryn inside and without spilling a drop of the coffee. As the heavy door clunked shut, she set the coffee cup down and held out her arms. “Give me a hug, kid.”

  Kathryn fought back the sudden onslaught of tears as she was swept into one of Margie’s legendary bear hugs. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the woman walking back into the foyer, with Rob Billings beside her.

  “Who let you in?” the woman demanded.

  “Me,” Margie said. She released Kathryn, but kept an arm wrapped around Kathryn’s waist, as they turned and faced the woman and Rob. “My girl’s come back.”

  “Hi,” Kathryn said inadequately.

  “I see you found your way inside,” Rob said, and turned on his heel and walked back to his office, leaving the woman standing there, gaping.

  “Christina,” Margie said, “this is Kathryn McGlone. She’s one of our finest deputies in the Rowan County Sheriff’s Office, and she just got back from a leave of—”

  “I already know about that,” Christina said stiffly. “Rob filled me in.”

  “Oh,” Kathryn said.

  I wonder what the hell else Rob filled you in with. Did he tell you all about me, Christina?

  Margie released Kathryn and patted her on the shoulder. “Well, kiddo, I’ll let Christina take charge of you. She’s our new HR person and she’ll get you all fixed up in a jiffy with a new security key and a car.”

  “Sounds good,” Kathryn said with a shaky laugh. She stood before Christina, feeling raw and exposed. With Margie’s arm around her, she’d felt safe and protected, but now she had to deal with a lady who didn’t seem too thrilled by her presence.

  Don’t worry over what other people think of you. You can’t control what people think of you, can you? So, don’t worry.

  Christina pulled her lips back into an unpleasant smile. “Well, let’s get you processed, I’ll need you to fill out some forms, but you know the drill, right?”

  “Sure.”

  But as Christina walked away and Kathryn followed, a sick dread rose in her heart and she wondered if she wasn’t making a terrible mistake by returning to the Sheriff’s office.

  Nobody wanted her here.

  And how the hell was she gonna shatter the glass ceiling, when she couldn’t even get past the glass window?

  48

  Saturday, March 9, 9:45 a.m.

  “Take another photo of this bruise, sweetheart,” Mom said, lifting her right arm and presenting the underside of the bicep, where her husband’s fingers had dug into the flesh.

  With trembling hands, Brittany brought the digital camera up to her face, waited until the mechanism, focused on the center of the bruise, came into clear focus, and where her mother’s porcelain-pale, soft skin, appeared the blackest and most purple, resembling an eggplant, almost, and clicked. A second later, the image floated up into the bottom left corner of the screen, and she bent her head to study it.

  When will my mother ever leave this jerk?

  “How does it look?”

  “Awful.”

  “Take another.”

  “Why don’t I move the camera further out, Mom? Not quite so close up?”

  “Sounds good, honey.”

  Brittany rotated the lens to zoom out of close-up mode, and as it expanded outward, capturing more of her mother’s slender body, Brittany winced as the bruise, now shown in comparison to the rest of her arm, looked so much worse; a clear demarcation between the pink, healthy skin, and the purple, bruised unhappy skin.

  “Oh, no,” Mom said.

  “What?” Brittany asked, dropping the camera to her chest and glancing involuntarily at her closed bedroom door, half-expectin
g to see the monster barreling through.

  “I forgot the newspaper, Brit. We forgot to use the newspaper, I can’t believe I forgot it.”

  “We can use the date on the camera.”

  “But everyone knows those dates can be changed. I really think we ought to use the newspaper, don’t you think?”

  Mom scrunched up her eyebrows and as Brittany studied her mother’s once-beautiful face, a wince of sorrow flared in her heart. When did her mother become so unsure of herself, so unsettled, so uneasy?

  She put the camera back up to her face. “Sure, Mom.”

  “I can’t believe I forgot it,” Mom said, shaking her head as she plucked the newspaper off the bed and clutched it to her chest. “Maybe we ought to re-do the earlier photos?

  “It’ll be okay, Mom.”

  “Are you sure, honey?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  Oh, her mother used to be such a strong, powerful woman; she loved life, she never shied away from challenges, and she stood up for herself. But now, after less than a year of marriage to this—well, there was no other way to describe it, this asshole—he’d transformed her mother into a quaking mound of jelly.

  And she hated him for it.

  As Mom held the newspaper beside her outstretched right arm, Brittany focused the lens.

  “Does the day’s date appear in clear focus?”

  Brittany examined the tiny image on her screen. The day and date shone out in crystal-clear letters, praise be to The Shelbyville Times for its printing press. Saturday, March the tenth. “Yes, yes it does, Mom.”

  “Well, good. Let’s get a couple more, just to make sure. Is that okay, honey?”

  “Yeah, Mom, it is. And this time, Mom, I want to focus on the bruises around your neck.”

  “That’s fine, sweetheart.”

  Brittany brought the camera back up and adjusted the lens until the hideous black bruise, in the shape of her step-father’s fingers, came into sharp relief. Brittany gazed through the lens, looked up into her mother’s eyes, brimming with tears—

  Mom’s shoulders sagged and she dropped her head.

  She lowered the camera. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sweetie, I hate putting you through all this.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’m your kid. This is what kids do for their moms.”

  “I know, sweetheart. It’s just that . . . well, this is hard, that’s all.”

  “I hope you’re leaving him, Mom, this time, for good.” Brittany fought back the trembling in her voice. “You’ve got to leave him.”

  “I am. I am, honey. This time, I am. I really am.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m leaving him, this time.”

  “Let’s get the bruises around your neck, Mom.”

  “Okay, honey.”

  Mom lifted the newspaper up to her clavicle. Brittany snapped the shutter.

  “How does it look? Are we good, do you think?”

  “Just a couple more shots, and then we’ll be done.”

  “Keep this camera of yours in a safe place.”

  “I will, Mom.”

  “Thanks, honey. I’ll take your camera with me on Monday morning, when I go to the prosecutor’s office and show them the photos.”

  “Good,” Brittany said, emphatic.

  “Keep your camera safe, honey.”

  “You don’t have any worries about that.” Brittany barked out a harsh laugh. “He’s never finding my camera.”

  “Take just one more?”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  And she snapped the image.

  This bastard was going to pay, that was for good and sure.