Read Online Hear the Children Calling by Clare McNally - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Clare McNally
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“I was so caught up in paperwork. I’ll be staying home today, Mrs. Ginmoor. But I still need you to keep the boys out of my hair.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Ginmoor said doubtfully. She had never known Kate to reject her children this way. She glanced at the pile of papers Kate held in her arms. No, not papers. Photographs. She wondered what was on the other side of them.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Yes, Kate,” Mrs. Ginmoor said. “Come along, boys. Let’s get out the play clay.”
Joey followed her obediently, but Chris stayed behind. He threw his arms around his mother and, in doing so, knocked the photographs from her arms.
With a gasp, Kate fell to the floor and started gathering them up. Mrs. Ginmoor came rushing back to help her. “No, it’s all right,” Kate cried. “I can handle it myself.”
“Oh, Chris, look at the mess you—” Mrs. Ginmoorstopped short. She picked up one of the photographs, then met Kate’s guilty eyes. It was an old picture of Laura, but it had been altered. The soft baby curls had been lengthened, the brows darkened, the face shadowed along its edges to look thinner. All the pictures were altered in different ways, dozens of them, to look like Laura might if she were still alive.
11
J ILL PACED THE BLUE CARPETING OF HER APARTMENT , following the same path through her living room, bedroom, and kitchen over and over. The hair she had clipped back so neatly that evening hung loosely now. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, mascara blended there by tears. She ached all over; she was exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep.
The police had escorted her back to the station for questioning, but after a time had finally determined she was just a casual acquaintance of Deliah’s and that the woman’s death was probably a freakish, tragic accident. Drawing her strength back together, Jill had managed to get home safely. After a weary climb up the flight of stairs to her apartment, it took three tries to unlock her door.
Jill flopped into an easy chair and began to swivel it back and forth. It was so hard to believe: one moment, Deliah was alive; the next, she was gone. Worse, she hadn’t even tried to save herself. Why? What was going on in her mind when she saw that boat racing toward the dock?
“She never finished talking to me,” Jill whispered. She wondered, with some shame, whether she wasmore upset about the accident or about the fact that Deliah was no longer around to answer questions. Now what was she supposed to do? She jumped from the chair, moving with newfound energy into her bathroom. The bright light stung her eyes, but when she had splashed cold water on her face, her weariness vanished. Whatever reason there was for Deliah’s death, it wasn’t the end of her hopes. Someone would answer her questions, and she had a good idea where to start asking them.
Jill returned to her bedroom and opened the drawer of her night table. She pulled out a green leather address book filled with names of friends she’d made on Long Island, and then she finally unearthed an ancient, battered directory. Jeffrey had given it to her their first Christmas together, and in it she had listed all the people she knew in Wheaton, Michigan. There was a final entry listed, just a few months before she left for New York—the number of her local police station.
If there was anyone to set her mind at ease, it would be Craig Dylan, the detective who had been in charge of investigating Jeffrey and Ryan’s accident. As Jill listened to the phone ring, she closed her eyes and tried to steady her nerves. The detective was going to think she was crazy.
The line clicked.
“Wheaton police.”
“Hello, may I speak to Detective Craig Dylan, please?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dylan is no longer at this precinct,” the woman’s voice said.
Jill rubbed her eyes wearily. She should have known it would be a waste of time. “I really need to speak with Detective Dylan,” she
“Of course,” Mrs. Ginmoor said doubtfully. She had never known Kate to reject her children this way. She glanced at the pile of papers Kate held in her arms. No, not papers. Photographs. She wondered what was on the other side of them.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Yes, Kate,” Mrs. Ginmoor said. “Come along, boys. Let’s get out the play clay.”
Joey followed her obediently, but Chris stayed behind. He threw his arms around his mother and, in doing so, knocked the photographs from her arms.
With a gasp, Kate fell to the floor and started gathering them up. Mrs. Ginmoor came rushing back to help her. “No, it’s all right,” Kate cried. “I can handle it myself.”
“Oh, Chris, look at the mess you—” Mrs. Ginmoorstopped short. She picked up one of the photographs, then met Kate’s guilty eyes. It was an old picture of Laura, but it had been altered. The soft baby curls had been lengthened, the brows darkened, the face shadowed along its edges to look thinner. All the pictures were altered in different ways, dozens of them, to look like Laura might if she were still alive.
11
J ILL PACED THE BLUE CARPETING OF HER APARTMENT , following the same path through her living room, bedroom, and kitchen over and over. The hair she had clipped back so neatly that evening hung loosely now. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, mascara blended there by tears. She ached all over; she was exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep.
The police had escorted her back to the station for questioning, but after a time had finally determined she was just a casual acquaintance of Deliah’s and that the woman’s death was probably a freakish, tragic accident. Drawing her strength back together, Jill had managed to get home safely. After a weary climb up the flight of stairs to her apartment, it took three tries to unlock her door.
Jill flopped into an easy chair and began to swivel it back and forth. It was so hard to believe: one moment, Deliah was alive; the next, she was gone. Worse, she hadn’t even tried to save herself. Why? What was going on in her mind when she saw that boat racing toward the dock?
“She never finished talking to me,” Jill whispered. She wondered, with some shame, whether she wasmore upset about the accident or about the fact that Deliah was no longer around to answer questions. Now what was she supposed to do? She jumped from the chair, moving with newfound energy into her bathroom. The bright light stung her eyes, but when she had splashed cold water on her face, her weariness vanished. Whatever reason there was for Deliah’s death, it wasn’t the end of her hopes. Someone would answer her questions, and she had a good idea where to start asking them.
Jill returned to her bedroom and opened the drawer of her night table. She pulled out a green leather address book filled with names of friends she’d made on Long Island, and then she finally unearthed an ancient, battered directory. Jeffrey had given it to her their first Christmas together, and in it she had listed all the people she knew in Wheaton, Michigan. There was a final entry listed, just a few months before she left for New York—the number of her local police station.
If there was anyone to set her mind at ease, it would be Craig Dylan, the detective who had been in charge of investigating Jeffrey and Ryan’s accident. As Jill listened to the phone ring, she closed her eyes and tried to steady her nerves. The detective was going to think she was crazy.
The line clicked.
“Wheaton police.”
“Hello, may I speak to Detective Craig Dylan, please?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dylan is no longer at this precinct,” the woman’s voice said.
Jill rubbed her eyes wearily. She should have known it would be a waste of time. “I really need to speak with Detective Dylan,” she
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