“What did you do?” Christy-Lynn demands, eyeing the paring knife still clenched in his fist. “She’s covered with blood!”
The blade in his hand is bloody too. Derrick looks down at it, as if surprised to find it there. “Bitch threw a bottle at me,” he growls, revealing bloody gums and a missing incisor. His lip is split like a ripe plum, his chin smeared with blood.
He takes a step forward, but Christy-Lynn is there, blocking him. “Get away from her,” she hurls at him. “Or I’ll do more than that!”
Charlene is sobbing, flailing drunkenly as she struggles to rise, then slips again in the rapidly growing slick of blood. “You cut me!” she wails raggedly. “You cut my face, you drunken bastard!”
It takes some doing, but Christy-Lynn manages to pull her mother to her feet. She’s snarling now and sobbing, the front of her T-shirt smeared a bright, gory red. Christy-Lynn feels a cold whirl of panic, a faintly metallic tang at the back of her throat. She’s never seen so much blood—her mother’s blood—and for a moment, the room sways as she registers the damage.
The left side of Charlene Parker’s face has been flayed from cheek to chin, revealing a gaping span of quivering pink flesh beneath. There will be a scar, Christy-Lynn notes dimly. Her mother’s beautiful face is in ruins.
And then there are sirens wailing outside the apartment complex, blue lights flashing coldly through thin curtains. Fists begin to pound on the apartment door, mingling with Charlene’s desperate wails.
“Police! Open up!”
“Help me!” Charlene bellows over the pounding. “He’s trying to kill me!”
Derrick looks down at the knife in his hand, and for a moment, Christy-Lynn is sure he’s about to lunge at one of them. Desperate men do desperate things. Instead, he drops the knife, frantically casting about for some alternate route of escape. Before he can manage a step, there’s the shriek of splintering wood, and then the police are exploding through the door, guns drawn like on TV. Christy-Lynn’s legs wobble with relief at the sight of them. For once, she’s grateful for nosy neighbors.
Derrick stands stonily as he’s handcuffed and read his rights. Christy-Lynn watches with a kind of savage satisfaction. She’s glad he’s going to jail, glad he won’t be hanging around anymore, freeloading off what little they have. But her satisfaction is short-lived. The medics have arrived and are in the kitchen examining Charlene, starting an IV and tending to her face. The police are in the kitchen too, reading Charlene her rights. Assault, they explain. Not self-defense. Because she threw the bottle at Derrick before he came at her with the knife and not after.
Christy-Lynn is allowed to ride in the ambulance, but when they arrive at the hospital, she’s told to have a seat in the waiting room. She can only watch helplessly as they wheel her mother away. It’s nearly 5:00 a.m. before she’s allowed to see her.
The room is cold and smells of antiseptic. Its stillness after the clamor of the waiting room is unsettling. Charlene lies very still in the slightly raised bed, a tube in her arm, her left cheek swathed in gauze. The doctors have sewn up her face.
Her lids flutter open. “Baby . . .”
Christy-Lynn stares down at the bed, and for a moment, her mother’s face goes blurry. She used to be the most beautiful girl in Monck’s Corner, and now—
“Does it hurt?”
“Not now.” Charlene’s fingers creep to the bandage on the left side of her face. Her nails are still crusted with blood. “They gave me . . . something. Numb.”
“Did they say when you can come home?”
Charlene closes her eyes, turning her head as a pair of tears squeeze from beneath her lashes. “I don’t think I’ll be coming home, baby. Not for a while, at least. I’m in some trouble.”
Trouble. The word hovers ominously in the quiet. “But Derrick—”
“It isn’t just tonight, Christy-Lynn.”
“The money you took from the Piggly Wiggly?”
She nods, sighing heavily. “And . . . other things.”
“What things?”
“Things I didn’t want you to know about. It has to do with a guy I know. An . . . arrangement we had.”
“Sex?” Christy-Lynn asks softly.
“Yes, sort of.”
“So you could get drugs.”
She nods again, eyes skittering away. “And one night I got caught. It didn’t amount to much—solicitation, first offense. But it all adds up, and now . . .”
“You’ll go to jail?”
“That’s how it’s looking.”
Christy-Lynn takes an involuntary step back. “What about me? Did you tell them you had a daughter?”
“There are places . . .”
“No!”
“It’ll only be for a few months,” she promises in the wheedling, petulant voice she hauls out when she’s made a mess of things. “A year at the most. It’ll be over before you know it. And when it is, we’ll be together again. We’ll move away, start somewhere new. It won’t be so bad, you’ll see. You’ll even be able to visit me.”
But Christy-Lynn has stopped listening. She doesn’t want to visit her mother in jail or move somewhere new when this is all over. Because it will never be over. It will only start again in a new town, with a new set of problems, and probably a new dealer.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Charlene whispers, reaching for her daughter. “So sorry.”
“I know, Mama,” she says quietly, ignoring her mother’s outstretched hand. “You’re always sorry.”
TWENTY-TWO
Sweetwater, Virginia
May 1, 2017
Christy-Lynn eyed Wade’s Jeep in the driveway as she lifted her hand and knocked a third time. He was clearly home. Was he ignoring her? Paying her back for snubbing his lunch invitation? If so, it probably wasn’t a great time to ask for a favor.
She knocked again and waited, almost relieved when there was still no answer. It had been a crazy idea anyway. She was about to step off the porch when she heard a door slam somewhere around back. She weighed her options—suck it up and ask what she’d come to ask or leave with her pride intact and no hope of getting the answers she now knew she wanted.
Skirting the remains of last winter’s woodpile, she made her way around the back of the cabin. Wade was coming down the deck steps, a red nylon tote slung over his shoulder as he headed for the small wooden canoe beached at the waterline. He had one leg in when he spotted her. He straightened and stood staring at her, a hand raised to shield his eyes against the lowering sun.
“Hello,” she said awkwardly, as if she’d been caught trespassing.
“Have you changed your mind about lunch?”
She ducked her head sheepishly. “I came to talk.”
“About a truce?”
Christy-Lynn smothered a groan, too weary to spar. “Can’t we just . . . talk?”
“Get in the boat.”
Christy-Lynn’s eyes went wide. “What?”
“If you want to talk, you’ll need to do it on the water.”
She laughed, though something told her he wasn’t kidding. “I’m not really dressed—”
“We won’t be waterskiing or anything. Kick off your shoes and leave your purse. You’ll be fine.”
Christy-Lynn eyed the canoe warily, asking herself again just how badly she wanted Wade’s help.
“What’s wrong? Can’t you swim?”
“Of course I can swim.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
When it became clear he had no intention of relenting, Christy-Lynn dropped her purse and kicked off her ballet flats. Wade steadied the boat as she stepped in, instructing her to keep both hands on the gunwales—which she assumed meant the sides—as she inched her way forward, then turned and carefully lowered herself onto the narrow cane seat.
A moment later, Wade was pushing away from shore, settled across from her as they headed smoothly out onto the water. For a time, neither spoke, Wade paddling with close, easy strokes, Christy-L
ynn marveling at the echo of sunlit clouds mirrored in the lake’s glassy surface.
“It’s beautiful.” She took a deep breath, feeling herself relax as she filled her lungs with pine-scented air. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. In fact, she didn’t realize she had until Wade met her gaze.
“Yes, it is. So?”
“So . . .”
He shrugged, his face blank as he pulled the paddle out of the water and laid it across his knees. “It’s your meeting.”
Christy-Lynn nodded. “Yes, I guess it is.” She paused to regroup, then began again. “The last time I was here you said something. You said I might not really want to know the truth about the woman in Stephen’s car.”
“Yeah, sorry. I had no right to say that stuff. Your grief is none of my business.”
“No, it isn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that you were probably right. The longer I thought about it, and about what I might learn, the more I realized I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
Her eyes were fixed on her lap, fingers pleating and unpleating the hem of her skirt. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to learn your spouse’s darkest secrets from a pack of reporters? To be the last one to know he’s been leading some kind of double life?”
“No, but I can imagine.”
She lifted her chin. “Can you?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Mrs. Ludlow, do you know the woman they pulled from your husband’s car the night he died and were they involved sexually? Do you know how long the relationship had been going on? Have there been other women, or was she the first?” She held his gaze, fighting tears that were more about anger than self-pity. “And those were the polite questions. But the worst part was I couldn’t have answered them if I wanted to. And it made me ashamed. How could I not know what my own husband was up to? And then when you said what you said the other night, about me not wanting to know, I was ashamed all over again. Because I realized you were right. I didn’t want to know. Not really.”
Wade reached for the red tote and unzipped it, producing a paper towel and a bottled water. “Here,” he said, pushing the paper towel into her hands. “You’re leaking.”
“Sorry.” She felt foolish as she blotted her eyes. “I didn’t come here because I wanted you to feel sorry for me. I just wanted you to understand.”
“I get it. I do.” He was foraging in the tote again, pulling out a variety of leftover containers, peeling off lids and balancing them on his lap. “Because I’ve seen it firsthand. The news business was different when I got in. It used to be about real news. Now it’s about voyeurism and the public’s need to revel in the suffering of others. The human fallout doesn’t enter into it. It’s about ratings, circulation, copies sold.”
She dabbed at her eyes again. “And that’s why you quit?”
“Yes. It had been coming for a while, but things reached critical mass when they asked me to interview a kid who’d just watched his mother die at the Crystal Lake shooting. So here I am.”
“Writing your book?”
“Trying to, yes. Want some dinner?”
Christy-Lynn blinked at him, surprised by the abrupt change of subject. For a moment, she considered pressing for more, but something in his expression warned her off. Instead, she surveyed the makeshift picnic spread out on his lap: cold chicken, fresh fruit, and what looked like potato salad.
“Go on,” Wade prompted, holding out the container of chicken. “There’s plenty.”
She chose a drumstick and began nibbling, not because she was hungry but because she wasn’t ready to tell him why she had really come.
“This is delicious,” she said between bites, an awkward attempt at small talk. “Where did you get it?”
Wade glanced up, looking mildly insulted. “I didn’t get it. I made it.”
“Well then, I’m impressed.”
He shrugged. “Not much to it actually. Lemon, olive oil, some rosemary, and a little garlic. Marinate it for a couple of hours, then throw it on the grill. The potato salad, on the other hand, is from the deli. If it isn’t some form of pasta or something I can toss on the grill, I’m fairly hopeless.”
Christy-Lynn found herself smiling. “I’m still impressed. I don’t think Stephen knew how to turn on the oven.”
“My ex-wife’s idea of a home-cooked meal was coffee and a Twinkie. She was a whiz with a takeout menu, though.” He reached back into the tote, producing a fork, and handed it to her along with the container of potato salad. “Sorry, there’s only one. I wasn’t expecting company. You go first.”
They ate in silence as dusk settled around them, the quiet broken only by the occasional splash or a birdcall from high in the trees. After a few bites, she wiped the fork with her paper towel and handed it back to Wade, along with the potato salad, watching as he dove in with gusto.
“So,” she said, trying to sound offhand and failing miserably. “Are you still . . . connected to any of the people you worked with at Review?”
Wade looked up and stopped chewing. “We’re going there again?”
“No,” she said quickly. “But yes, a little. I was wondering if you might . . . be able to help me.”
He suddenly looked leery. “Help you how?”
Christy-Lynn clamped her hands between her knees and glanced away. “I called the Clear Harbor police this afternoon. They said Daniel Connelly has taken early retirement. So I did what you said and went over his head. Or tried to. No one would tell me anything. Not even her name. So I was wondering . . .”
“If I could get one of my parasitic reporter pals to dig up the dirt on her?”
Christy-Lynn felt her cheeks go hot. “I suppose I deserved that.”
“I was merely pointing out the irony of the situation in case you had missed it.”
He was enjoying himself immensely, and she supposed he had a right to that. “You don’t have to explain it to me,” she told him sheepishly. “I’m aware. In fact, I almost didn’t come. But I was out of options. So here I am, sitting in your boat, eating crow. If you’ll just row me back to shore, I’ll go.”
“Paddle.”
“What?”
“You don’t row a canoe. You paddle. Oars are attached. Paddles aren’t.”
“Fine. Then will you paddle me back to shore?”
“No.”
Christy-Lynn’s eyes widened. “No?”
“I have some questions first.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, what do you plan to do with the information you’re asking for?”
She scowled at him, confused by the question. “I don’t plan to do anything with it. I just want to know who she was. My husband died with a half-naked woman in his car. I have a right to at least know her name, even if the police don’t agree.”
“And how will her name change anything?”
“It won’t. But at least I’ll have some closure.”
“Knowing the name of your husband’s mistress will give you closure?”
Christy-Lynn squirmed on the narrow cane seat. He was doing it again, studying her, probing for more than she wanted to tell. And he was good at it. “I’m not planning on causing trouble if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It is, in part. You’re asking me to do something I normally wouldn’t consider. But I do think you have the right to know her name, even if I don’t understand your need to know it. If I agree to do this, I have to know you’re not going to use the information to hurt someone.”
Her chin came up a notch. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to close the door on that chapter of my life. I thought that was what you wanted me to do.”
“Where does what I want come into it? I just asked a question. But I’m starting to think there’s something else going on, something you’re not telling me.”
“Like what exactly?”
“I don’t know, but it’s there. And this isn’t just the journalist in me talking. I can feel it. What’s reall
y going on?”
“A dream,” she said grudgingly. But the words were almost a relief as they left her lips. “Almost every night. It’s her . . . under the water. Her eyes are open like they were in the morgue photos, only she isn’t dead. She’s blinking and her mouth is moving like she’s trying to talk to me, only I can’t hear what she’s saying.” Christy-Lynn closed her eyes, trying to keep the quaver from her voice. “I want it to stop.”
“And having a name will make it stop?”
“I don’t know. I just thought . . .” She shrugged, wiping at her cheek with the back of her hand. “I honestly don’t know what I thought. Never mind. It was a stupid idea.”
“I’ll make a call.”
The canoe rocked lightly as Christy-Lynn jerked her head up. “You will?”
“There’s a guy I used to work with at Review—Glen Hoyt. He’s a crime beat writer. The old-school type with plenty of contacts. He might be . . . helpful.”
“Thank you.”
“You do know you’re probably not going to like what you find out, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
She returned his gaze frankly. “Honestly? I can’t imagine learning anything worse than what I already know.”
Wade grunted darkly as he began to pack up the food containers. “First rule of journalism—never assume you’ve seen the worst.”
TWENTY-THREE
Sweetwater, Virginia
May 9, 2017
Christy-Lynn juggled an armload of cookbooks, nearly dropping them all as she reached for the phone. “Good afternoon. The Crooked Spine.”
“Since when does the boss answer the phone?”
The sound of Wade’s voice caught her off guard. “Since Aileen’s out having a root canal and next Sunday is Mother’s Day. They’re running me ragged around here.”
“Sounds like it. Are you getting any sleep?”
“Here and there,” she said, trying not to sound evasive even as she avoided the question. “What’s up?”
“Actually, I had a phone call this morning. I have some information.”
“Oh . . .” The news nearly knocked the breath out of her, but it was what she wanted, wasn’t it? All the gritty details?
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