Read Online Blindsighted by Karin Slaughter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karin Slaughter
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lips.
"How's work treating you?" Hank asked, his voice tinny in the shack. His lower lip trembled slightly. His expression was one of total grief, in direct opposition to the words coming from his mouth. He said, "Doing okay?"
Lena nodded. She felt as if she was smack in the middle of a car accident. She finally understood the meaning of the word surreal . Nothing seemed concrete in this tiny space. The glass in her hand felt dull. Hank was miles away. She was in a dream.
Lena tried to snap herself out of it, downing her drink quickly. The alcohol hit the back of her throat like fire, burning and solid, as if she had swallowed hot asphalt.
Hank watched the glass, not Lena, as she did this.
This was all she needed. She said, "Sibyl's dead, Hank."
Tears came to his eyes without warning, and all that Lena could think was that he looked so very, very old. It was like watching a flower wilt. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose.
Lena repeated the words much as Jeffrey Tolliver had earlier this evening. "She's dead."
His voice wavered as he asked, "Are you sure?"
Lena nodded quickly up and down. "I saw her." Then, "Somebody cut her up pretty bad."
His mouth opened and closed like a fish's. He kept his eyes even with Lena's the way he used to do when he was trying to catch her in a lie. He finally looked away, mumbling, "That doesn't make sense."
She could have reached out and patted his old hand, maybe tried to comfort him, but she didn't. Lena felt frozen in her chair. Instead of thinking of Sibyl, which had been her mind's initial reaction, she concentrated on Hank, on his wet lips, his eyes, the hairs growing out of his nose.
"Oh, Sibby." He sighed, wiping his eyes. Lena watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. He reached for the bottle, resting his hand on the neck. Without asking, he unscrewed the cap and poured Lena another drink. This time, the dark liquid nearly touched the rim.
More time passed, then Hank blew his nose loudly, patting at his eyes with the handkerchief. "I can't see anyone trying to kill her." His hands shook even more as he folded the handkerchief over and over. "Doesn't make sense," he mumbled. "You, I could understand."
"Thanks a lot."
This was sufficient enough to spark Hank's irritation. "I mean because of the job you do. Now get that damn chip off your shoulder."
Lena did not comment. This was a familiar order.
He put his palms down on the desk, fixing Lena with a stare. "Where were you when this happened?"
Lena tossed back the drink, not feeling the burn so much this time. When she returned the glass to the desk, Hank was still staring at her.
She mumbled, "Macon."
"Was it some sort of hate crime, then?"
Lena reached over, picking up the bottle. "I don't know. Maybe." The whiskey gurgled in the bottle as she poured. "Maybe he picked her because she was gay. Maybe he picked her because she was blind." Lena gave a sideways glance, catching his pained reaction to this. She decided to expound upon her speculation. "Rapists tend to pick women they think they can control, Hank. She was an easy target."
"So, this all comes back to me?"
"I didn't say that."
He grabbed the bottle. "Right," he snapped, dropping the half empty bottle back into its box. His tone was angry now, back to the nuts and bolts. Like Lena, Hank was never comfortable with the emotional side of things. Sibyl had often said the main reason Hank and Lena never got along was that they were too much alike. Sitting there with Hank, absorbing his grief and anger as it filled the tiny shed, Lena realized that Sibyl was right. She was looking at herself in twenty years, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Hank asked, "Have you talked to Nan?"
"Yeah."
"We've got to plan the service," he said, picking up the pen and drawing a box on his desk calendar. At the top he wrote the word FUNERAL in all caps. "Is there somebody in Grant you think would do a good job?" He waited for her response, then
"How's work treating you?" Hank asked, his voice tinny in the shack. His lower lip trembled slightly. His expression was one of total grief, in direct opposition to the words coming from his mouth. He said, "Doing okay?"
Lena nodded. She felt as if she was smack in the middle of a car accident. She finally understood the meaning of the word surreal . Nothing seemed concrete in this tiny space. The glass in her hand felt dull. Hank was miles away. She was in a dream.
Lena tried to snap herself out of it, downing her drink quickly. The alcohol hit the back of her throat like fire, burning and solid, as if she had swallowed hot asphalt.
Hank watched the glass, not Lena, as she did this.
This was all she needed. She said, "Sibyl's dead, Hank."
Tears came to his eyes without warning, and all that Lena could think was that he looked so very, very old. It was like watching a flower wilt. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose.
Lena repeated the words much as Jeffrey Tolliver had earlier this evening. "She's dead."
His voice wavered as he asked, "Are you sure?"
Lena nodded quickly up and down. "I saw her." Then, "Somebody cut her up pretty bad."
His mouth opened and closed like a fish's. He kept his eyes even with Lena's the way he used to do when he was trying to catch her in a lie. He finally looked away, mumbling, "That doesn't make sense."
She could have reached out and patted his old hand, maybe tried to comfort him, but she didn't. Lena felt frozen in her chair. Instead of thinking of Sibyl, which had been her mind's initial reaction, she concentrated on Hank, on his wet lips, his eyes, the hairs growing out of his nose.
"Oh, Sibby." He sighed, wiping his eyes. Lena watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. He reached for the bottle, resting his hand on the neck. Without asking, he unscrewed the cap and poured Lena another drink. This time, the dark liquid nearly touched the rim.
More time passed, then Hank blew his nose loudly, patting at his eyes with the handkerchief. "I can't see anyone trying to kill her." His hands shook even more as he folded the handkerchief over and over. "Doesn't make sense," he mumbled. "You, I could understand."
"Thanks a lot."
This was sufficient enough to spark Hank's irritation. "I mean because of the job you do. Now get that damn chip off your shoulder."
Lena did not comment. This was a familiar order.
He put his palms down on the desk, fixing Lena with a stare. "Where were you when this happened?"
Lena tossed back the drink, not feeling the burn so much this time. When she returned the glass to the desk, Hank was still staring at her.
She mumbled, "Macon."
"Was it some sort of hate crime, then?"
Lena reached over, picking up the bottle. "I don't know. Maybe." The whiskey gurgled in the bottle as she poured. "Maybe he picked her because she was gay. Maybe he picked her because she was blind." Lena gave a sideways glance, catching his pained reaction to this. She decided to expound upon her speculation. "Rapists tend to pick women they think they can control, Hank. She was an easy target."
"So, this all comes back to me?"
"I didn't say that."
He grabbed the bottle. "Right," he snapped, dropping the half empty bottle back into its box. His tone was angry now, back to the nuts and bolts. Like Lena, Hank was never comfortable with the emotional side of things. Sibyl had often said the main reason Hank and Lena never got along was that they were too much alike. Sitting there with Hank, absorbing his grief and anger as it filled the tiny shed, Lena realized that Sibyl was right. She was looking at herself in twenty years, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Hank asked, "Have you talked to Nan?"
"Yeah."
"We've got to plan the service," he said, picking up the pen and drawing a box on his desk calendar. At the top he wrote the word FUNERAL in all caps. "Is there somebody in Grant you think would do a good job?" He waited for her response, then
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