she’d suffered sent a chil down her spine. But she steeled herself against it. She’d think about that later. She couldn’t add anything else to what she was feeling right now.
“I used to hang al our laundry on the clothesline,” her mother volunteered from the periphery. Considering Irene’s present state of mind, it was a worthy attempt at an explanation. They’d been so poor they hadn’t had a dryer.
But worthy or not, her mother seemed dangerously close to losing her composure. Grace feared that if Clay didn’t give them away, Irene would.
Throwing back her shoulders, she pul ed off her sunglasses. “Right. Which meant they were available to just about anyone. I’m guessing whoever col ected these—” she motioned toward the table and fought to assume her professional persona, hoping no one could tel how badly she was quaking inside “—was in the fantasy stage.”
“That was twenty years ago,” Pontiff said. “So, if he’s stil around, he might not be in the fantasy stage anymore.”
Grace focused on his neatly clipped mustache. “Have you had any complaints, Chief?”
“No, but…sometimes this type of thing goes unreported.”
“That’s true,” she murmured as if she had as much objectivity as he did.
“Whoever it was kil ed Lee and ran off,” Irene said.
Pontiff wore his skepticism as proudly as his badge.
“But no one else has gone missing.”
Irene crowded closer. “It was a drifter. It had to be a drifter. Why won’t anyone believe me?”
Clay put an arm around their mother and told her to calm down while Madeline tugged Grace from the table. “Mike Metzger lived within walking distance,” she said. “Do you think he might’ve col ected these?”
Mike had long been Madeline’s suspect of choice. A week before her father went missing, the reverend had caught nineteen-year-old Mike smoking pot in the bathroom of the church and turned him in to the authorities. Mike had spouted off a few threats but the circumstantial evidence pointing his way had never been solid enough for police to press charges. Now Mike was in prison for manufacturing crystal meth in his basement, and Madeline was stil harassing him with regular letters.
Grace drew enough breath to speak. Before she could say anything, however, Chief Pontiff interrupted. “We can ask him. He gets home in a few days.”
“A few days?” Irene echoed. “But he stil has two years.”
“Not anymore. He’s been granted parole.”
Grace felt almost sorry for Mike. He had his problems, but he wasn’t a murderer. After a stint in prison, he’d be coming home to another maelstrom of questions about Barker.
She glanced at Clay, wondering if he was thinking about Mike, too, but saw him staring over their mother’s head at the things on the table. From the veins standing out in his neck, she knew that what he saw bothered him as much as she’d expected. Hooking her arm through his, she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder to tel him that the past was behind them, that they couldn’t al ow this discovery to ruin the happiness they’d both found.
“How’s Al ie?” she asked to remind him of everything they had to protect.
He blinked, then let go of Irene, who was digging through her purse for a tissue.
Grace sensed him struggling to contain his emotions, but it was only when Madeline edged closer that he managed an answer. “Fine. Al ie’s…” His chest rose as he drew a deep breath. “Al ie,” he finished simply, using her name as the talisman Grace had intended it to be.
“Are you okay?” Madeline asked.
“I’m fine.” He stretched his neck. “But whoever put that stuff in the trunk is one sick bastard,” he said and stalked out.
Relieved, Grace watched him go. He’d been careful to say is one sick bastard. Not was. They’d handled this meeting as wel as she could’ve hoped. With any luck, this discovery would fade into the background and they’d be able to return to their
“I used to hang al our laundry on the clothesline,” her mother volunteered from the periphery. Considering Irene’s present state of mind, it was a worthy attempt at an explanation. They’d been so poor they hadn’t had a dryer.
But worthy or not, her mother seemed dangerously close to losing her composure. Grace feared that if Clay didn’t give them away, Irene would.
Throwing back her shoulders, she pul ed off her sunglasses. “Right. Which meant they were available to just about anyone. I’m guessing whoever col ected these—” she motioned toward the table and fought to assume her professional persona, hoping no one could tel how badly she was quaking inside “—was in the fantasy stage.”
“That was twenty years ago,” Pontiff said. “So, if he’s stil around, he might not be in the fantasy stage anymore.”
Grace focused on his neatly clipped mustache. “Have you had any complaints, Chief?”
“No, but…sometimes this type of thing goes unreported.”
“That’s true,” she murmured as if she had as much objectivity as he did.
“Whoever it was kil ed Lee and ran off,” Irene said.
Pontiff wore his skepticism as proudly as his badge.
“But no one else has gone missing.”
Irene crowded closer. “It was a drifter. It had to be a drifter. Why won’t anyone believe me?”
Clay put an arm around their mother and told her to calm down while Madeline tugged Grace from the table. “Mike Metzger lived within walking distance,” she said. “Do you think he might’ve col ected these?”
Mike had long been Madeline’s suspect of choice. A week before her father went missing, the reverend had caught nineteen-year-old Mike smoking pot in the bathroom of the church and turned him in to the authorities. Mike had spouted off a few threats but the circumstantial evidence pointing his way had never been solid enough for police to press charges. Now Mike was in prison for manufacturing crystal meth in his basement, and Madeline was stil harassing him with regular letters.
Grace drew enough breath to speak. Before she could say anything, however, Chief Pontiff interrupted. “We can ask him. He gets home in a few days.”
“A few days?” Irene echoed. “But he stil has two years.”
“Not anymore. He’s been granted parole.”
Grace felt almost sorry for Mike. He had his problems, but he wasn’t a murderer. After a stint in prison, he’d be coming home to another maelstrom of questions about Barker.
She glanced at Clay, wondering if he was thinking about Mike, too, but saw him staring over their mother’s head at the things on the table. From the veins standing out in his neck, she knew that what he saw bothered him as much as she’d expected. Hooking her arm through his, she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder to tel him that the past was behind them, that they couldn’t al ow this discovery to ruin the happiness they’d both found.
“How’s Al ie?” she asked to remind him of everything they had to protect.
He blinked, then let go of Irene, who was digging through her purse for a tissue.
Grace sensed him struggling to contain his emotions, but it was only when Madeline edged closer that he managed an answer. “Fine. Al ie’s…” His chest rose as he drew a deep breath. “Al ie,” he finished simply, using her name as the talisman Grace had intended it to be.
“Are you okay?” Madeline asked.
“I’m fine.” He stretched his neck. “But whoever put that stuff in the trunk is one sick bastard,” he said and stalked out.
Relieved, Grace watched him go. He’d been careful to say is one sick bastard. Not was. They’d handled this meeting as wel as she could’ve hoped. With any luck, this discovery would fade into the background and they’d be able to return to their
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