He shot her a quick look she couldn’t read.
‘What about me?’ He asked it as if the question made no sense to him. ‘Well, I’m a hired hand on one of the farms you drove past on the way here, and I do other odd jobs. I’m not married.’ He gestured at the kitchen around them. ‘I reckon that’s obvious. I had a girlfriend for a while but …’ His voice trailed off. ‘Didn’t work out.’
The last three words were almost unintelligible, and suddenly all Harper wanted to do was give this man a hug. She wanted to do it so much she had to clutch her coffee cup to stop herself from running around the table to tell him everything would be all right. Not just because it would be insane, but also because it was entirely possible that it wasn’t true.
Everything wouldn’t be all right.
The world didn’t like men like him anymore. Men with strong hands and no education. Sometimes it felt like life was trying to push them out altogether.
‘I understand,’ she said quietly. She pushed her coffee cup aside. ‘Now. Tell me about Camille. Is she talking to you at all?’
This was safer ground, and Jim sat up straighter.
‘She’s so quiet,’ he said. ‘I try and talk to her, and she’ll answer, but only a bit, you know? Not yes or no, but almost. She has nightmares every single night – wakes up screaming for her mother.’ He looked away. ‘That’s the worst part of it.’
Harper’s heart twisted. How well she remembered those nightmares.
Every so often she still had them.
‘And school? I take it she’s not back at school yet?’
‘Oh no.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s not ready for that. I’ve got her books and papers here, and I’m doing my best to get her to read, but her concentration ain’t so good these days.’
‘I understand.’ Harper picked up her teaspoon and turned it in her hands. ‘Is there anything else you want me to know before I talk to her?’
‘I just … I want her to be able to sleep without crying,’ he said softly. ‘I want her to know it’s going to get better. That someday, she’ll forget what she saw.’
No, she won’t¸ Harper thought.
There was a pause.
‘Well.’ Jim stood up. ‘I guess that’s it. I’ll go get her. You can stay right here.’
He left the room, boots clomping on the floor.
Harper listened, following his progress easily in the old house, down the hallway, up the stairs. She envisioned a wide, breezy upstairs landing, lined with sturdy doors. She heard him knock on one of them, and then the faint rumble of his voice.
A minute later he walked back into the kitchen, holding the hand of the girl Harper remembered from the murder scene.
She looked paler now, and thinner. A cloud of long, dark hair seemed to envelop her slim body. She was small for her age. And the huge, brown eyes she remembered from that day studied her warily.
It was all so horribly familiar, for a second, Harper couldn’t breathe.
She was seeing herself at twelve, huddled behind the living room door, long skinny legs, unbrushed hair loose around her face, pressing her ear to the wall, trying to hear the adult conversation inside. Trying so hard to understand what had happened to her whole world.
In an instant, she felt again the raw, salted-wound pain of that time.
Shoving her chair back, Harper stood.
She’d waited so long, and risked so much for this moment. She had to keep her head together. She needed to play this right. Not for herself. But for everyone in this room.
‘Hello, Camille,’ she said calmly. ‘My name is Julie. I’m so happy to meet you.’
Chapter Thirty-six
Camille kept her eyes fixed on the worn wood floor.
‘I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind?’ Harper said in her new, soothing voice.
Camille hunched her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug.
When it was clear she didn’t intend to reply, her father directed her to a seat across the table from Harper. The child didn’t seem to care where she sat. She let him arrange her in the seat like a doll.
‘Would you like some juice, honey?’ he asked.
Camille stared mutely down at her hands, resting on top of the scarred table.
In a flash Harper saw her grandmother standing in the kitchen, long silver hair wound into a heavy bun on the back of her head. She had a delicate, dancer’s neck, and narrow shoulders and she was holding a pitcher filled with fresh lemonade.
‘Would you like a glass, Harper?’
Condensation ran down the sides of the pitcher and Harper was so thirsty. But she wouldn’t admit it. She wouldn’t say anything. She hadn’t spoken in days, and she didn’t intend to start now. In a world without her mother, what was the point of talking?
Without waiting for a reply that clearly wasn’t coming, Jim walked over to the fridge and took out a bottle of apple juice.
After pouring her a glass, and refilling Harper’s mug, he backed away from the table.
‘I reckon I’ll leave you two to talk in private.’
His eyes sought reassurance from Harper. She gave him an encouraging nod.
He closed the kitchen door. She waited until the sound of his footsteps told her he’d headed to the living room.
Camille stared at the amber liquid in her glass. Her shoulders were hunched, her hands gripped the table edge until her knuckles turned white.
‘Camille,’ Harper said softly, ‘do you know why I’m here?’
The girl didn’t react.
‘I’m here to talk. That’s all.’
Still nothing.
‘Have a lot of people been talking to you?’ Harper guessed.
Still looking at her glass, Camille nodded, and a curtain of hair fell into her eyes. She pushed it back impatiently, like it bothered her.
Her hair was such a tangle.
Harper knew that traumatized children often regressed to a younger age. They wouldn’t brush their teeth or comb their hair. Sometimes, for a while, they couldn’t remember how to dress.
She could imagine Jim not knowing how to help Camille brush that mass of hair into a neat braid, or pull it back into a smooth ponytail. He’d want to, but his big hands would struggle not to pull or to hurt.
Harper had decided Julie would carry a handbag, so she had one with her – black, with a snap-top – she’d borrowed from Bonnie. It contained a brush she was supposed to use to smooth her wig.
‘Is your hair bothering you?’
For the first time, Camille looked up. She regarded Harper with new interest. Fine, dark brows drew together.
After a long moment, she inclined her head in a nod so slight it was almost imperceptible.
Reaching down, Harper pulled out the brush, digging around until she found an elastic hair band – her own hair often bothered her, so she always had extras around.
She held both up so the girl could see them.
‘Want me to braid it?’
Camille hesitated. Her eyes studied Harper with a look that was surprisingly savvy.
A flash of her mother’s intellect – quick and telling.
‘I know you can brush your own hair,’ Harper said. ‘But braids are a pain to do, aren’t they?’
This time, Camille’s nod was stronger.
Harper smiled. ‘Come stand here.’
She gestured at the space in front of her chair.
There was a long pause, when she thought the girl had changed her mind. Then, cautiously, Camille got up and walked over until she stood in front of her.
‘Now, turn around.’ Gently, Harper placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders – bones delicate as birds’ wings – and guided her until her back was to her.
Starting at the ends, she brushed the tangles out of her thick dark hair. She knew how to do it so it didn’t hurt. After all, she’d once been a girl with long, tangled hair herself. Still, she checked.
‘Am I pulling?’
Camille shook her head,
hair swinging.
Harper kept waiting for her to walk away – to decide this was too weird – but Camille seemed content to stand as she worked the brush through her tangles with light but determined strokes.
Harper waited until she was sure she was relaxed before asking the first question.
‘Your dad tells me you have nightmares.’
Camille said nothing.
‘Are they bad?’
The girl’s head bobbed once.
Harper lifted the brush until she stopped moving. Then resumed the slow, meditative process.
‘About your mom?’
Another slight nod.
‘And that day.’
Camille’s stillness was her answer.
‘You know what?’ Harper untangled the last of the knots in her hair. ‘I used to have nightmares exactly like those.’
Camille said nothing, but the slight tilt of her head and the hitch in her breathing told Harper she was listening.
‘I had a trick that made them stop.’ Carefully, she separated the girl’s hair into three sections. ‘When I went to bed every night, I would think of things I wanted to do. Places I wanted to go. I would think of sailing on the sea, or playing in a beautiful park. I would imagine I had a big dog with me, one that was fierce to everyone else, but loyal to me. And I would have these adventures at night with my dog to protect me.’
Her voice was light and lilting, a gentle calming sound, as her fingers began weaving Camille’s hair into a dark, glossy rope, the way it had been the first time she’d seen her.
‘After a while, whenever I started to have one of those nightmares, my dream guard dog would come get me and take me away somewhere safe. He protected me every single night. I was never alone.’
She was nearly to the end now, the braid was almost finished. Camille was still listening.
‘Would you try that? Make your own dream guard dog to protect you?’
Camille nodded so fiercely, Harper had to let the braid go for a second to avoid hurting her.
‘Good.’
She wrapped the band around the end of the braid three times, then patted Camille on the shoulder.
‘All finished!’ she said brightly.
Without warning, the girl spun around and threw her arms around Harper’s shoulders so hard, she thought her wig would fall off.
‘Thank you,’ Camille whispered.
It was the first thing she’d said.
Harper, who had never in all her life told anyone about the dream dog that had helped her survive the aftermath of her mother’s murder, hugged her body gently.
Her heart ached for all that was about to happen to her. All she would go through over the coming years. It would get worse. Things always get worse.
‘I promise,’ she told her with quiet fierceness. ‘You will get through this. Your mother would want you to get through this.’
Hearing the words Harper had told herself many times, Camille nodded hard. Wiping tears from her eyes, she then returned to her chair, and picked up her juice, as if everything that had happened were perfectly normal.
Harper surreptitiously checked her wig – but Bonnie’s pins had held. Everything was in place.
When she resumed her seat, Camille had stopped staring into her drink; she seemed more interested in Harper. Her dark eyes roved across her face with open curiosity.
‘Where are you from?’ Her voice was steady – it sounded older than she looked.
‘Augusta,’ Harper said, without missing a beat. Her own social workers had sometimes come from there, so she’d chosen it for Julie.
‘I’ve never been there.’
‘It’s nice.’ Harper had never been to Augusta either.
They sat for a moment in companionable silence, Camille took a sip of her juice.
Harper stirred her coffee thoughtfully, judging whether the time was right. But Camille seemed calm now.
‘Can we talk about your mother?’
Camille set her drink down hard, spilling a drop of the liquid.
‘Don’t worry.’ Grabbing her napkin, Harper reached over and wiped the spill. ‘I’ve got it.’
When her hand withdrew, Camille was still staring at the empty spot where the spill had been.
‘We can talk about her,’ she said.
Harper paused.
She needed to play this right. If she pushed her too hard, she’d lose her. If she didn’t push hard enough, she’d get nothing. She decided to start easy.
‘What was she like?’
There was a long silence – so long, Harper thought perhaps the girl wouldn’t talk after all. But then, Camille raised her eyes from the table.
‘She was beautiful,’ Camille said. ‘All of my friends thought so.’
How interesting, Harper thought, that the first thing she’d thought of was her mother’s appearance. If someone had asked the same thing about her mother, she would have said, ‘She was an artist. I loved her.’
‘I’ve seen pictures of her,’ Harper said. ‘She was very pretty. Did she have a lot of friends?’
Brightening, the girl nodded so hard her braid swung.
‘She was very popular. She went on lots of dates.’
This was precisely the opening Harper had hoped for.
‘Did she?’ She smiled. ‘I’m not surprised. Did she have a boyfriend?’
Camille gave her a secretive look. ‘She had lots of boyfriends.’
Now that sounded like the Marie Whitney Harper was getting to know.
‘Have you seen any of your mom’s boyfriends since you came to live here?’
Her smile fading, Camille shook her head.
She’d gone suddenly quiet.
She hadn’t seen the boyfriend. But surely she’d seen Blazer. The notes in the Whitney file indicated he’d interviewed her. On the other hand, maybe he sent someone else to do that, and signed off on their notes. She needed to be sure.
She took a slow sip of coffee, buying time. When she spoke again, her tone was casual.
‘Have the police been checking on you?’
Camille nodded. ‘They’re here all the time. And social workers.’ She made a vague gesture. ‘Everyone.’
‘Have you met Detective Blazer?’
Harper watched her closely.
Camille thought for a second, and then nodded.
‘He’s trying to find the killer.’ She said it with sudden fierceness.
‘Exactly,’ Harper agreed. ‘Has he talked with you? Made sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes,’ Camille said. ‘He’s nice. He brought me some books to read.’
They’d clearly met more than once, and there was nothing in Camille’s face to indicate she saw him as anything other than a kind cop.
Harper was no closer to knowing who killed her mother and Camille’s mother than she’d been weeks ago.
The realization was crushing. All that work – everything she’d risked. For nothing.
Camille was watching her curiously.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ Camille asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Will the police catch the person who hurt my mom?’
Instantly, Harper had a flash memory of Smith, standing in her grandmother’s living room, clutching a glass of iced tea.
‘We’re going to find him, Harper, I swear it.’
And she remembered the faint warmth of hope thawing the ice under her skin, just for a minute.
For a child, false hope trumped no hope every time.
She leaned forward, stretching out her hand to press Camille’s fingers. The girl didn’t pull her hand away.
‘I know the police are working very hard,’ she said. ‘I’m sure they’ll find whoever did this. They are looking for him day and night.’
Camille’s huge eyes held hers.
‘I would like to catch him.’ Her voice was low and razor sharp. Suddenly she sounded much older than twelve. ‘I want to catch him and make him pay.’
&n
bsp; Her eyes blazed with rage.
This was why she wasn’t talking to the grown-ups around her – this anger. She was so furious she couldn’t find words to express her wrath.
Everyone around her was telling her everything would be fine, and only she, still young enough to see the truth right in front of her, knew there was no such thing as fine any more. There was only vengeance.
For an instant, Harper could have sworn she saw her younger self on the other side of the table, not Camille. A curtain of auburn hair, hazel eyes filled with pain. Looking, with desperate hunger, for answers. Answers no one could give her.
Panic rose in her throat like bile.
Dear God, what was she doing here? This was madness.
It was as if she could really see herself for the first time – an imposter in the middle of someone else’s tragedy. In her eBay wig and baggy blazer, pretending she could help.
She couldn’t help anyone. She couldn’t even help herself.
She’d roped Bonnie into this deception, pushed Luke away, probably lost Smith forever.
And all for what?
She was sitting in a broken-hearted child’s kitchen, trying to trick information out of her so she could staunch her own bleeding. Heal her own pain.
Miles and Luke were right. She had to let this go. At least for now. Not to save her job.
To save her soul.
Chapter Thirty-seven
On the long drive home, Harper kept seeing Camille’s expressive face.
They’d talked for only a while longer. The emotions of the conversation were taxing for the girl, and Harper was desperate to leave before she did more damage.
But as she prepared to leave, guilt had gnawed at her, sharp and painful.
She couldn’t walk away from her. Leave her to climb out of this hell alone.
In violation of everything that made sense, she’d written her cell phone number down on a scrap of paper and pressed it into Camille’s small hands.
‘If those nightmares don’t stop,’ she said. ‘You call me, OK?’
‘OK.’
Camille had carefully folded the paper and put it in her pocket.
When they walked out of the dining room together, Jim Whitney hurried out into the hallway to meet them. His eyes settled on Camille’s smooth hair.
The Echo Killing Page 31