Read Online A Living Grave by Robert E. Dunn - Free Book Online Page B

what I was.
    â€œIt wasn’t your fault,” I said to myself. I looked back with sad eyes and scars that seemed to disagree. It was an odd sort of shame that I felt; I was ashamed of what others had done to me. I was ashamed of the flashbacks that made me relive it. Both seemed like a kind of weakness. I kept staring at myself, the short hair with the red summer cooked into a burnished penny color, the scars that tracked my skin, the pale skin and faded freckles that spoke of hiding under mannish clothing for so long. All those things carried an accusation that I had been facing for a decade.
    While I stared I saw the girl, Angela Briscoe. Finding her, seeing her body in the woods, had pulled the hammer back on me, then pulled a slow-motion trigger. The thought and self-knowledge that came with it did nothing to lessen any of the effects of the flashback. But they did serve to make me mad. It was the anger about her that got me out of the bathroom.
    Powder fresh and dressed for work, I carried a thermos full of hot, black coffee out into the world, resolved—once again—to keep my ghosts behind me. When I climbed into the truck, I saw myself in the mirror again. This time I tried something the therapist had told me. I tried to visualize what others saw rather than my own judgment. What I visualized was Nelson Solomon looking at me, more than what I imagined he saw. But it made me smile. Smiling changed the image and I brushed the hair back from the scar beside my eye. That was the woman I wanted him to see.
    I felt a little hope and then I felt a little shame. Story of my life, really. Suddenly I thought of the night before, with my uncle, and regretted telling him about Nelson. It was a mixture of wishful thinking on my part and the desire to seem normal to my family. Uncle Orson would tell my father. For a while Dad would be hopeful that his daughter had finally walked away from the damage in her life. I looked away from the rearview mirror and tucked it all away. I had work to do.
    My official day began when I called in and let Darlene know I would take my own vehicle to make a couple of calls following up on the murder of Angela Briscoe.
    First, I went to the murder scene. I stopped at the convenience store for a soda. Thirty-two ounces was 99 cents and twice that much was $1.19. I got the giant size. It was an offering of thanks for a long, boring job. I passed it through the window on the cruiser posted on the road where I had first met Clare. The deputy was William Blevins by his nameplate, but everyone called him Billy. It wasn’t just an affectionate nickname; it was because he looked to be twelve years old. He was short and pudgy with wire glasses and a kid’s haircut. The hair came courtesy of a barber named Finas Gold who was half blind and, it’s said, learned his trade snipping hair under bowls before sending boys off to Korea. Billy was one of those people who you never imagined in uniform. Funny and nerdy looking, it was easy to imagine him being bully bait in school until you met him. After knowing him for a few minutes everyone liked him. Even bullies. I don’t know how he became a deputy, but he was always doing the work no one else wanted. Honestly, I think it was to be sure he was kept safe and out of harm’s way. But he did his jobs well and without complaint.
    â€œHow’d you know?” he asked me with a grateful smile as he took the soda. He took a big drink with his eyes closed. “Thanks. I really needed that.”
    â€œYour vices are open secrets, Billy. They aren’t really vices, either.”
    â€œCaffeine.”
    I watched him take another long drink. “Anything happen overnight?”
    â€œNews trucks all left by eleven. I heard some noise out that way.” He pointed north with the soda cup. “And probably a truck driving around. It was up the road a ways. I called it in, then went to keep an eye on the scene just in case someone