by Lori Ryan
“Got a number?” Please not 207. Please God. Even to know she was close to violence like that would be too much. But if it were her… No, that he couldn’t handle.
His Captain read from the notepad by his phone. “Two—”
God, please, no. Please. His hands gripped, squeezing the crap out of the back of the chair in an effort to—well, he didn’t know what. To ward off the blow? How could he possibly do that? There was no way to ward off what was coming.
“Oh-seven.”
2
Evie jumped as her mother slammed the door behind her.
“Don’t you put that there, Evie. I told you, you keep your things in your room. Bill doesn’t want to look at your pictures.”
Evie nodded at her mom and took the picture she’d drawn in school that day off the refrigerator. She looked at the colors she’d chosen again before folding it up and tucking it into her backpack. The cabin she and her mom had stayed in wasn’t purple, but she’d drawn it that way anyway. Purple was better than brown. And she’d put bright pink flowers around the outside of the cabin, even though those didn’t really exist either. Her version had a roof, too. One without holes.
“Sit down at the table and eat your sandwich, then get on up to your room. I don’t need you messing this up for me again.”
Evie sat in her chair at the kitchen table and swung her legs back and forth. She picked at the corner of the sandwich. Peanut butter.
Her mom kept talking as she fussed at some papers on the kitchen table, shoving them into a folder like the ones Evie’s teacher used at school. Maybe her mother was going to be a teacher. She’d never seen her with a folder like that before. That would be exciting. Her mother had worked jobs here and there, but never something as fun as being a teacher.
“You stay up in that room tonight, girl. I’m cooking special for Bill tonight. Real special. You keep out of sight.”
Evie nodded. The smell of something good cooking made her stomach rumble, but she didn’t think her mother was going to give her any of it. She cooked for Bill, but that’s because her mom wanted that ring on her finger. Evie didn’t really know what that meant. If she wanted a ring so bad, maybe she should just go out and get a ring. But her mother seemed to want Bill’s ring. That ring must be special.
At the sound of a car in the driveway, Evie grabbed her sandwich and her backpack and left the room before her mother could chase her out. She went to her bedroom and shut the door, but the thin wood wasn’t enough to keep the voices out. Bill was loud when he talked.
“What the fuck is this shit? Am I made of fucking money?”
“No, baby. It wasn’t expensive, I promise. There was a sale on the steaks and I used coupons. You sit, baby, and I’ll get your plate ready.” Her mother was using that weird, wispy voice she used when she talked to a man.
Evie put her sandwich on her nightstand and dug out the apple she’d gotten at school today. Her teacher brought Evie two pieces of fruit every day. One to eat at lunch and one for dinner.
A plate clattered on the table downstairs, as though dropped instead of placed. Evie cover her ears against the sound of Bill’s taunting words as plates clattered and her mother’s wispy words floated out of the kitchen. The scrape of a chair.
“Get under the table, and make it up to me.” Bill laughed and Evie wondered what was under the table that could help her mother make anything up to Bill. And why was that funny to him?
She tried not to listen, although she didn’t really know why. There was always something in Bill’s voice that scared Evie. She never minded that her mother didn’t want her near him. She wished they could go back to it just being the two of them. Her mother wasn’t any nicer when they were living in the old car they’d once had, or staying out at the cabin, but at least it was just the two of them. She didn’t have to wonder if Bill would come home and throw things and yell.
Her mother’s voice was muffled now but she still crooned in that weird voice. Then there was a bump as though something was hitting the underside of the table and Bill’s laughter came up the stairs. Evie took her apple and her sandwich and crawled into the closet, shutting the door. It was dark in there and that wasn’t fun, but it blocked the sound better. She almost couldn’t hear his laughter in here. It wasn’t happy laughter, somehow. It was mean. Evie didn’t understand it. Why laugh if you’re not happy?
*
“Thank you, Haddie! Try to behave yourself over there,” Ashley called across the main room of the Evers Public Library. As the librarian, one would think she would encourage quiet whispers rather than friendly hollers across the room, but that hadn’t ever been her style. Her library was a place for people to gather and chat, visit, and even—gasp—hum as they perused the shelves for a new read. If they wanted quiet, they could use the reading room in the back.
She’d even instituted a monthly teen dance party in the library, despite the objections of the more traditional town leaders. On the third Friday of every month, the lights were dimmed over the stacks, the music came on, and the town’s teens could dance and party in a safe environment. When she was able to show that library usage had increased as a result, everyone in town had not only been on board, some even tried to claim credit for the idea. Ashley didn’t much care who took credit. She just wanted people to feel welcome. To see the library as the sanctuary she always felt it was.
Growing up, no matter what foster home she was in, Ashley had always been able to find solace in the town library. She’d learned early on that she just needed proof of residency and she could get a card. And getting that card meant losing herself in a world of fantasy and make-believe. A world where anything was possible. A world where none of the realities of her life could touch her.
Hadeline Gertrude Gillman, otherwise known as Haddie, waved a hand in reply and gave a little “whoop-whoop” as she went out the front door with Sheriff John Davies on her arm. The action drew a laugh and headshake from Ashley. She wasn’t entirely sure of Haddie’s age, but the white hair with a pink tinge to it and the frail frame hinted at eighty-something. After volunteering in the library each morning, she would head on over to the senior center for a few hours. Today it was John’s turn to escort the older woman. Tomorrow, Lily Winn, the town’s new veterinarian, would walk Haddie over.
Ashley glanced around the main room. A few patrons had their heads in newspapers or books, but no one looked like they’d need her anytime soon. The Evers Bees—a group of women who sewed handmade quilts out of upcycled fabrics they then donated to families in need—were in the side room working away on their latest project. And another volunteer was shelving books on the far wall.
Ashley stepped into her office behind the circulation desk and shut the door. She’d be able to see anyone approach through the glass pane in the top half of the door, but for now, her priority was reaching Alice. She’d felt guilty as soon as she’d listened to Alice’s voicemail two days before. She should have listened to her messages before coming home from her weekend at the lake house. But she hadn’t. She’d put Alice off and now felt awful.
The woman’s last message had sounded…well…off. All she’d said was that she needed Ashley to return her call, please, but there was something underlying her tone. Something in her voice that told Ashley there was more to this call than just hello or how are you.
She hit Alice’s contact on her cell phone and listened to the phone ring once again. For two days she’d tried to reach her, but Alice wasn’t answering her calls and she hadn’t returned them either. Could she be sick? Ashley suddenly had an image of Alice hurt and needing help. She wasn’t a frail woman, by any means, but she did live on her own and she wasn’t exactly young. She wasn’t old either, though. If she had fallen or hurt herself in some way, would she have been able to get to the phone to call for help?
Ashley shook her head, trying to shake off the feeling of unease that swept over her. No. Alice was in good health the last time Ashley had seen her. That had been—oh,
wow—that had been close to a year ago, she realized. She frowned and looked at the clock. In three hours, her part-time employee would be in and there would be two additional volunteers on site. That was the soonest she could slip away.
She put her phone in her back pocket—something she normally didn’t do while at work—and stepped back out to the circulation desk. She would make the drive to Branson Falls this afternoon, just to be on the safe side. If nothing else, she could take Alice out to dinner. They were long overdue for a visit anyway. And at least she could put her mind at ease and be sure her old caseworker was all right. Make sure it was just her insane workload that was keeping her from returning Ashley’s calls.
3
Garret ground out his question through a jaw much too tight with the tension of this case. With the grief that was burying his heart.
“You can’t remember anything else about the car?” Because it was small didn’t really help a whole hell of a lot, and Garret had nothing to go on so far.
His partner looked on as the loser in front of them shrugged. Again. The man made Garret think of a squirrel, for some reason. Maybe it was the slightly bucked teeth or the somewhat fuzzy brown hair that seemed like a tail as it poofed out behind the man in a loose braid. What man braids his hair?
His partner returned the look. Doug had known right away who Alice was and why Garret had no business whatsoever being part of her murder investigation, much less heading it up. Luckily for Garret, they’d been partners a long time. Doug knew there was no way in hell anyone would be able to drag Garret off this case. So he had kept his mouth shut with the captain, and here they were, trying to find out who would stab a woman like Alice Johnson to death. A woman who’d never done anything but give of herself to those around her. A woman who hadn’t deserved the brutal end she’d met three days before.
And they had squat to go on. Alice appeared to have let her assailant in her home. There was no evidence anyone had tampered with the locks or forced their way in. In fact, the person seemed to have caught Alice off guard with the attack, because there was little evidence of a struggle. The teapot sat by the stove, filled with water. Two mugs stood ready with bags, waiting for her to pour the brew. She had been stabbed fourteen times with one of her own knives from the large wooden knife block that Garret had looked at over the years during meals in Alice’s home.
The cuts had begun tentatively, but by the third slice, they showed evidence of a killer who had let loose and wasn’t showing restraint any longer. Defensive wounds had been limited to a gash on her right arm and a few cuts on her left hand, as though Alice had been slow to defend herself. As if shock or disbelief had delayed her reaction.
Contrary to popular belief, thanks to crime shows on television, an assailant didn’t always leave fingerprints on any surface they touched. If the environmental conditions weren’t right, prints wouldn’t appear. If the assailant didn’t touch something just right, a print wasn’t going to show up clearly enough to run a match. And this person had had the wherewithal to wash the knife—handle, blade, and all—in Alice’s sink before leaving.
Garret was hopeful the crime scene guys might turn up a bit of blood or skin cells in crevices of the handle that hadn’t been washed away, but that would take weeks. Months, maybe. Another common misconception perpetuated by cop shows was the twenty-four- to forty-eight-hour turnaround from the lab. That was a joke.
“Can you remember anything else that seemed out of place that day?” Doug asked the squirrel. They had asked this guy the question in various forms several times already. In fact, this was their second time canvasing the neighbors, so they’d interviewed him before. But the key to solving cases often lay in interviews. Mind-numbingly boring interviews. You asked the same questions over and over. Open-ended questions, targeted questions, follow-up questions. You asked if there’s anyone else you should talk to. And you chased the leads. Followed them wherever they go. Because fingerprints and DNA analysis, as sexy as they were, took a long, long time. And most of the time, they weren’t going to be there.
The guy never got a chance to answer the question, because the interview was interrupted by banging. Loud banging on his apartment door.
“Hello! Please, is anyone home?”
The distress in the woman’s voice was clear. Garret’s hand went to his sidearm as Doug moved the squirrel away from the door and asked if he was expecting anyone.
“Please!” More banging.
Garret moved next to the door and opened it. A striking woman—all long, black hair and glass-blue eyes—all but tumbled into the apartment. He scanned the hallway behind her as his arm shot out to catch hold of her. Nothing there. Nothing but the crime scene tape and evidence seal on the door of Alice’s apartment across the hall.
He looked down at the fragile woman in his arms. No, that wasn’t right. She looked fragile at first glance, but she wasn’t. She shoved back and held herself stiffly in front of him, eying him and Doug with the suspicion worn only by someone who’d dealt with the system. And then her face seemed to crumple as though she’d made some connection she hadn’t wanted to. She shook her head at him, as if by denying what she was seeing, she could make it go away.
“Where is Alice?” Her voice trembled with the question.
He shouldn’t give out any information. But her wariness told him she’d been one of Alice’s kids. And her current appearance—put together, well dressed, successful—told him Alice had gotten this one out. Out of what, he didn’t know, but it was clear at some point, this woman had gotten things together.
He was drawn to her, felt horrible for what he knew she would need to learn. Because something told him the information about Alice’s death would hit her as hard as it had hit him. He was inclined to be gentler with her than he might have been with someone else, and it ate at him. Why would he want to be gentle with this woman he didn’t even know? A woman who might very well have information that could help him solve this case?
“What’s your name, ma’am?” he asked, but she stepped away from him, one arm wrapping around her stomach, and he could see tears welling, ready to spill over. She backed toward the door and stood next to it as if she might flee. He allowed her the position. For now.
“What happened to Alice?” she asked again, as she wilted in front of his eyes.
He looked over at Doug, knowing they shouldn’t give out that information just yet. But both wanting to know who she was and whether she might be able to help them with their case.
“She got stabbed,” called out the not-very-helpful, likely stoned squirrel-man next to Doug. Garret would have rolled his eyes if he’d had time. But he didn’t. He needed to grab hold of the Snow White look-alike in front of him as her knees seemed to buckle. She clung to his arm, her eyes wildly swiveling from his face to Doug’s. Now the tears did fall, as she looked for them to deny what the squirrel had said. Shit.
Neither one of them was in a position to confirm or deny anything just yet. She was a completely unknown person walking into the middle of an ongoing and open investigation. He brought her over to the squirrel’s couch and lowered her onto the cushions. Kneeling before her, he placed a hand on her leg, mostly to draw her attention to him. To ground her as she continued to look like a trapped animal ready to strike out for her own safety.
“Stabbed in her own kitchen, dude,” called the squirrel, as if trying to help. “We don’t even know if any of us are safe here.” He was not helping.
He heard the woman begin to whisper no, over and over.
“Doug, you wanna do something about that?” Garret called out over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off Snow White. He heard Doug guide squirrel-man into his kitchen, where he knew his partner would keep him busy and see if he could get any more information out of him.
He needed to get her name, but she was white as a sheet and her hands covered her mouth as she continued to whisper her chant of no. He was back to thinking she looked like a china doll who might break
if handled the wrong way. Demanding to see identification probably wasn’t going to get him results. He’d need to take another tack if he wanted to find out anything from her.
“My name is Detective Garret Hensley, ma’am. Are you a friend of Ms. Johnson’s?”
And bam. The transformation from Snow White to Ice Queen was instantaneous and palpable. She turned cold, crystalline eyes on him. The eyes of someone who’d learned as a kid you don’t talk to cops. Yeah, she was one of Alice’s kids. He’d bet a few paychecks on that.
“Do you have any suspects in custody?”
Interesting way to ask the question. Not do you know who killed her? or who did this? No. She wanted to know if they had any suspects in custody. He was sure she wasn’t law enforcement. She didn’t carry herself the right way. Didn’t cover her six like a LEO would. But she wasn’t simply a citizen, either.
He answered her question with a question. “When was the last time you saw Ms. Johnson?”
Referring to Alice as Ms. Johnson gutted him. She wasn’t just a victim he was trying to find justice for. This was Alice. He didn’t know if it was the effect Snow White was having on him, or the fact that he was investigating Alice’s death, but he was off-balance. Way off-balance.
Snow White seemed to be assessing him, so he held still and let her look, then watched as she seemed to make a decision.
“I haven’t seen her in almost a year.” She offered no further information. Simply answered the question he’d asked. She used two fingers from each hand to swipe at the tears under her eyes and pulled herself together. He had a feeling she wouldn’t let him see her cry again. As though she’d remembered where she was, and her barriers were now in place.
“Have you talked to her in that time, Ms.—” He drew out the last, essentially asking her name once again.