Now here sat Erika’s ring in Mayor B’s desk drawer.
Somethin in my belly started to tremble. I set down the folder and picked up that ring. Looked inside the gold band. There they was—Erika’s great grandmother’s initials: A.K.L.
I dropped the ring back in the folder like it was on fire.
Cherrie Mae, you know you crazy for what you thinkin. You know theys an explanation.
I looked from those awful pictures to the ring.
Trophies? I seen crime shows on TV. I know crazed killers keep such things. And we sure did have ourselves a crazy killer in Amaryllis.
But it ain’t Austin Bradmeyer, Cherrie Mae, come on, girl.
Maybe Mayor B kept those pictures to remind hisself how much he wanted to catch the Closet Killer. Least that’s what he says all the time.
Fine then. What about the ring? The police might a given him a set a those pictures, but they didn’t even know he had that ring.
I heard the Bradmeyer’s front doh open. My body jerked. I threw the picture file back in the hangin folder and slid the drawer shut. Snatched up my dust rag, heart rattlin in my chest.
“I’m back, Cherrie Mae!” Mrs. B called.
“Yes, Ma’am. I’m in the office.” Somehow my voice came out normal. I heard Mrs. B’s footsteps comin and started dustin like my life depended on it.
Fact was, it did.
By the time I got outta that house, my mouth run dry and my knees wobbled. I loaded my car with all my supplies and the stool, and slid inside to rest my head against the steerin wheel. Surely I was as good as dead. Me, a woman livin alone in Amaryllis, and knowin what I did. What was I gon do? I couldn’t keep quiet bout somethin this big. And I couldn’t tell nobody neither.
Because who in town’s gonna believe the likes a five-foot-high Cherrie Mae Devine when she says the mayor’s the one who killed them six women?
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