But evidently, someone else had wanted to do just that.
Not simply someone. Elizabeth. Although Delaney had no proof the envelope of photographs had come from her stepdaughter, there was no one else who would have had a motive to torment her like this. Leo had agreed. In fact, he’d been so incensed when she’d phoned to tell him what had happened, he’d been barely coherent. If anyone else had heard his rant against Elizabeth, they certainly wouldn’t be mistaking him for a mild-mannered college professor.
“I can’t keep avoiding things just because they’re unpleasant,” she said. “But I appreciate your concern. You’re really a good friend.”
“It’s what I endeavor to be,” he replied, as he had the last time he’d come to Willowbank. “Of course, I will be adding this trip to your bill.”
She was too tense to give him the laugh he expected. She eased the car forward as the light changed. “I’m not as emotionally fragile as people think, you know.”
“I’ve never considered you fragile, Delaney.”
“Elizabeth does. She must have expected me to fall apart.”
“I’m not sure what she hoped to accomplish by sending those pictures. She must have known we would guess who did it. That doesn’t seem to be the action of a rational mind.”
Rather than reply, Delaney concentrated on her driving. She was the last person who should speculate about someone else’s mental state. She waited for a break in the oncoming stream of cars, then turned onto a side street that would take them around the bottleneck. A few minutes later, she pulled into a vacant parking spot half a block from the police station.
The Willowbank police station was housed in a century-old redbrick building with a deep cornice running along the edge of the roof and tall, arched windows. Wrought iron railings flanked the staircase that rose to a set of imposing oak doors. Worn wooden floors inside the entrance gave off the smell of age. She and Leo were shown to a second-story room of old-fashioned frosted glass set into pale green half walls. It was the detectives’ office, but there weren’t many desks—the town wasn’t large enough to merit more than a handful of detectives on the police force.
A middle-aged man stood when they entered. He had a tired face that was dominated by a nose that appeared to have been broken and flattened sometime in the past. Like the other men in the room, he wore a white shirt and a tie. A brown suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair. “I’m Detective Toffelmire,” he said, gesturing them forward. “I understand you have a complaint?”
Leo stopped beside Toffelmire’s desk and placed his briefcase on the edge to open it. He withdrew the paper bag where Delaney had put the photos and the envelope that had contained them. “My client received this in yesterday’s mail.”
Toffelmire pulled the edges of the bag apart and peered inside.
“Those are police photos of my late husband,” Delaney said. She heard a tremor in her voice and cleared her throat. “They were taken at the scene of the accident that killed him.”
The detective rolled one of the vacant chairs closer and indicated that she should sit, then resumed his own seat as Leo brought over a third chair. He tipped the bag to let the photos slide onto the desktop and studied them one by one, using the eraser end of a pencil to slide them apart. “Don’t think me insensitive, Mrs. Graye, but there doesn’t appear to be much to identify here.”
“They’re of my husband,” she stated. “I’m positive of that.”
“Whether they are or not is immaterial,” Leo said. “They’re disturbing photographs, and they were obviously sent to harass Mrs. Graye.”
Toffelmire pushed them back into a pile and turned his attention to the envelope. “Was there anything else inside? A note?”
“Nothing,” Delaney replied. “Only the pictures.”
“Have you received other harassing mail? Any specific threats?”
“No.”
“Threatening phone calls?”
“No.”
“Perhaps these pictures were sent to you by mistake.”
“Do you get many cases where people receive photos like these in error, Detective?” Leo demanded. “My client was clearly targeted.”
“Do you suspect anyone in particular?”
“Elizabeth Graye, the daughter of Mrs. Graye’s late husband.”
“She’s my stepdaughter,” Delaney offered. “We have a . . . difficult relationship.”
“Why would she want to send you such grisly photos of her own father?”
“She’s currently suing me for the wrongful death of my husband. It’s clear that she wants to hurt me.”
Toffelmire pulled a spiral notepad from a drawer in the desk and turned to a fresh page. “I’m going to need more details.”
Leo gave him a summary of the circumstances of the accident and the results of the recent inquiry. The detective jotted notes as he listened, then turned to question Delaney further on her relationship with her stepdaughter. She kept her replies as objective as possible. The interview wasn’t as painful as she’d expected, since it was Elizabeth’s behavior that was the issue, not the accident itself. Still, it was hard to admit how badly their relationship had deteriorated. She’d always wished things could have been different.
Leo took a folded sheet of paper from his briefcase. “I’ve listed Elizabeth Graye’s home address and phone number here, as well as the address and phone number of Grayecorp. Her title there is vice president, although she has assumed the management of the company since her father’s death.”
“I’ll make some inquiries,” Toffelmire said. “For starters, I’d like to know who has access to these pictures.”
“Miss Graye would, since her lawyer has copies of them,” Leo said. “They would be evidence in her lawsuit.”
“Do you have copies as well, Mr. Throop?”
Leo’s chair creaked as he drew himself up. “I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything; I’m simply trying to get all the facts. It’s standard procedure.”
“During the course of the accident inquiry I obtained copies of all the pertinent evidence, including those photos. That would be part of my standard procedure.”
Toffelmire made a note and directed his next question to Delaney. “Is there anyone else who might have done this?”
“Not that I know of,” she said.
“I trust you’ll be processing those pictures for fingerprints?” Leo asked.
“If our lab has time, but I doubt whether there are useful prints. Anyone who watches TV these days knows enough to wear gloves.”
“But you will speak with Miss Graye, yes?” Leo persisted.
“I’ll follow every avenue of investigation. In the meantime, call me if there are any further developments.” He handed each of them his business card, then stood, signaling that the interview was at an end.
They returned to the car. Delaney waited as Leo fidgeted with his seat belt, then started the engine and pulled onto the street. The traffic had thinned while they’d been in the police station. Nevertheless, she kept her attention on the road and a firm grip on the wheel. “Toffelmire didn’t sound hopeful,” she said.
“I didn’t expect him to. Our primary aim today was to get an official record of this incident.”
“And also to get those photos out of the house. I hadn’t known you had copies, Leo.”
“I saw no reason to upset you with that particular detail. I’ll add the police report to the affidavits I’ve already gathered from the staff at Grayecorp.”
“You can add my phone records that cover the night of the accident, too. It proves Elizabeth called me. You obtained them, didn’t you?”
“It wouldn’t support our harassment case, since there’s no record of what you discussed. The affidavits should provide sufficient basis to get a restraining order against Elizabeth.”
“Do we need to go that far?”
“I realize you weren’t keen on taking the offe
nsive the first time I raised the subject, but in light of what she’s just done, it’s the prudent course to pursue.”
“All right. Do whatever you need to do.” Two weeks ago, she had refused to consider bringing legal action against her stepdaughter. She’d tried to be patient, but Leo was right. It was the only reasonable course. Her loyalty to her husband didn’t extend to allowing herself to be victimized . . .
The thought niggled at something in her mind. A memory stirred briefly, then subsided into the darkness.
In its place rose the image of Stanford’s charred skull. She shivered.
“Delaney?” Leo touched her elbow.
The pressure on her sleeve set off an echo of panic. She yanked her arm free. The car swerved toward an oncoming delivery van.
Brakes screeched. The van’s horn blared. Delaney wrenched the wheel to the right, barely avoiding sideswiping the vehicle.
Leo grunted as he was thrown into his seat belt. “What happened?”
She pulled into a vacant spot at the curb. It was in front of a fire hydrant, but she didn’t care. She needed time to catch her breath. She flexed her fingers. “My hand must have slipped. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He blotted his forehead against his sleeve. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you drive.”
“I don’t need your permission,” she snapped.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You have no right to decide what I can or can’t do. You—” She halted. Leo wasn’t the one she wanted to say that to, just as it wasn’t Leo’s touch that she’d been trying to free herself from.
God. What had happened?
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I thought I might have been remembering something, but it’s gone now.”
“About the accident? Delaney, you’re not still attempting to push past your block, are you?”
“I’m making progress, Leo.”
“At what cost?” he asked, waving one hand toward the traffic. “I’ve told you what I think about that idea. There’s no need to torment yourself further. Wasn’t seeing those photos of Stanford traumatic enough?”
Blackened eyeholes. Shreds of burned flesh. In her mind, she heard the screech of twisting metal and breaking glass and the liquid gurgle of her husband’s agonized screams . . .
She tried to blank the nightmare image. “What if Elizabeth doesn’t want me to remember, either?”
“Why would you say that?”
“It could be the real reason she sent me those pictures.”
MAX PRESSED THE HEEL OF HIS HAND TO HIS FOREHEAD. The image of a corpse had flashed across his vision. Red and black, with patches of bone gleaming through the gore, like something out of one of Deedee’s nightmares.
He closed his eyes, opening his mind as he listened for her, but she wasn’t calling to him. His thoughts touched the edges of hers. He didn’t sense the skin-peeling agony that accompanied her nightmares. She wasn’t asleep; her mind was too alert. She stiffened, as if she recognized his presence.
He stroked her fingers and eased away without completing the link.
“Hey, Johnny, you holding out on me?”
The sound of Oz’s voice brought him the rest of the way back with a snap. Max blinked and lowered his arm.
Lamont Osborne leaned against the support column at the edge of Max’s kitchen, his arms crossed over his massive chest. Tattoos crowded his coffee-colored skin. He had the swelled-tight, no-neck build of a weightlifter, a product of years of free access to the exercise facilities at various penal institutions.
He’d been finishing up a stint for grand theft auto when he’d shared a cell with Max. Out of necessity, they’d fallen into the habit of watching each other’s backs. Aside from that and a mutual determination never to get locked up again, they had little in common. This was only the second time he’d looked Max up since he’d gotten out. “You’re high,” Oz said. “What are you on?”
“I’m not on anything.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Hell, are you still doing that spooky thing?”
“Depends what you mean.”
“Zoning out. That used to scare the crap out of me.”
Max laughed. One aspect of living in a cage was the complete lack of privacy. The first time Oz had seen Max “zone out,” he’d thought he was having some kind of fit and had yelled for the guard. After that, he got accustomed to the occasional naps with open eyes that his cell mate took. Max opened the refrigerator, took out two cans of Coke, and tossed one to Oz. “Here.”
His lips curled as he regarded the can. “Don’t you have any beer?”
Max didn’t have beer. He kept no liquor of any kind in his house because he never drank it. The smell made him nauseous. “If you want a drink, there’s a roadhouse on the highway south of town,” he said, popping open the Coke. “According to their sign, the band doesn’t start until eight. If you leave here now, you won’t need to pay the cover charge.”
Oz shrugged and opened his can. “This’ll do.” He took a long swig, burped, and pushed away from the column. He wandered into the living area, his boots thudding on the floor. It was hardwood, like the rest of the house. A fireplace of fieldstone took up one wall. The furniture was large and upholstered in oxblood leather. Oz dwarfed it as he sat. “So, it looks like you’re doing okay for yourself.”
“I get by. What about you?”
“Can’t complain.” He used his chin to point to the painting that hung over the mantel. It was one of Max’s earliest works, a depiction of a summer thunderhead. “Do people really buy this shit?”
“Nobody bought that one.”
“I remember when you started messing with those paints. I thought you were just trying to suck up to the social workers.”
“I was.”
“It sure paid off. What kind of money would you charge for one this big?”
“I leave the pricing to the galleries. They’ve got a better idea of what their clients are willing to pay.”
“Ten grand? Twenty?”
“Why? You looking to invest in art?”
Oz laughed. A diamond stud flashed from his earlobe. “No way. If I can’t wear it or drive it, it won’t impress the ladies. What good is that?”
Max thought about the Mustang he’d seen Oz park behind his Jeep. It was cherry red and probably hot. “What happened to your girlfriend? Luanne, wasn’t it?”
“Her? She’s long gone. Hooked up with a dude who runs a diner.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah. She packed on at least a hundred pounds.”
“I thought you liked a woman with meat on her bones.”
“Not if she’s liable to crush me if she rolled over.” He drained his Coke, pancaked the can between his hands, and held it up to illustrate his point. “Nope, the cook can have her.”
“Where are you living these days?”
“I move around.”
“How’s the car business?”
“Why? You looking to buy one?”
They went around like that for almost an hour, talking about nothing as they felt each other out. Max took the empty cans and dropped them into the recycle bin. Oz made a crack about what a good citizen he had turned into. It wasn’t until they’d moved out to the back deck so Oz could have a smoke that he worked his way to the reason he’d come. He propped one hip against the railing as he drew on his cigarette. “You keep in touch with anyone else from inside, Johnny?”
Max shook his head. “Haven’t heard from anyone besides you.”
“That’s right.” He blew a smoke ring toward the yard. “You kept to yourself. I wasn’t the only one who thought you were weird.”
“Works for me, Oz.”
“Then you didn’t hear he’s dying.”
“Who?”
“That guy you tried to kill. Budge.”
The breeze that had been wafting across the deck suddenly dropped. The birds in the woods went silent. Or so it seemed as time crawled
to a halt. Max braced his hands on the railing. He couldn’t feel the wood. An insulating distance was settling around him. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Liver cancer. A friend of mine was doing time at the Ohio state pen, got out last month. He told me about Budge, said they’re shooting him up with a bunch of drugs at the medical center, but it’s a waste of time. They say he’s only got six months, maybe a year.”
“Couldn’t happen soon enough.”
“Yeah, figured you’d say that.”
“The bastard doesn’t have the right to draw even one more breath.”
“Some preacher’s been going to bat for him. Said he got religion and is a changed man.”
“He snowed him like he snowed the judge. He would never change.”
“That’s why I thought you’d want to know he’s on the way out.” Oz flicked his cigarette butt toward a patch of dirt. “Just in case you’ve got a mind to party.”
Max remained where he was long after Oz had left. Clouds rolled in to cause an early dusk. The nightly chorus of bullfrogs started up. The wood beneath Max’s fingers was beginning to splinter from the force of his grip on the railing, but he couldn’t risk letting go. Not until the rage was back under control.
He should have killed Virgil himself. He should have looped that belt around his throat and finished him instead of enjoying the sound of his screams and the slick heat of his blood.
It was right here, on this very spot, that he’d last seen him. The deck had been built over the place where there had once been a cement foundation block that had served as the trailer’s front step. Virgil had crawled through the doorway and slid over the step to the dirt when he’d heard the sirens, the only time in his life he’d been eager to see the police. They’d taken a while getting out of their cars so Max had still had the opportunity to end it. He could have slammed the bastard’s head against the cement block and split his skull open before the cops could reach them. Or he could have driven the steel-reinforced sole of his construction boot into his throat and crushed his windpipe, but that would have been too easy. He’d wanted him to suffer and bleed and whimper the way Mommy always did . . .
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