Sara did not answer. She looked off to the side.
“You can’t even look at me,” Lena said. “Can you?”
Sara’s focus did not change.
“You let my sister die and you can’t even fucking look at me.”
“Lena,” Jeffrey said, finally stepping in. He put his hand on her arm, trying to get her to back off.
“Let me go,” she screamed, punching him with her fists. She started to pummel his chest, but he grabbed her hands, holding them tight. She still fought him, screaming, spitting, kicking. Holding her hands was like grabbing a live wire. He kept a firm hand, taking the abuse, letting her get it all out until she crumpled into a ball on the floor. Jeffrey sat beside her, holding her while she sobbed. When he thought to look, Sara was nowhere to be found.
Jeffrey pulled a handkerchief out of his desk with one hand, holding the phone to his ear with the other. He put the cloth to his mouth, dabbing at the blood as a metallic version of Sara’s voice asked him to wait for the beep.
“Hey,” he said, taking away the cloth. “You there?” He waited a few seconds. “I want to make sure you’re okay, Sara.” More seconds passed. “If you don’t pick up, I’m going to come over.” He expected to get a response to this, but nothing came. He heard the machine run out and hung up the phone.
Frank knocked on his office door. “The kid’s in the bathroom,” he said, meaning Lena. Jeffrey knew Lena hated to be called a kid, but this was the only way Frank Wallace could think to show his partner that he cared.
Frank said, “She’s got a mean right, huh?”
“Yeah.” Jeffrey folded the handkerchief for a fresh corner. “She know I’m waiting for her?”
Frank offered, “I’ll make sure she doesn’t make any detours.”
“Good,” Jeffrey said, then, “Thanks.”
He saw Lena walking through the squad room, her chin tilted up defiantly. When she got to his office, she took her time shutting the door, then slumped into one of the two chairs across from him. She had the look of a teenager who had been called into the principal’s office.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” she mumbled.
“Yeah,” Jeffrey returned, holding up the handkerchief. “I got worse at the Auburn-Alabama game.” She did not respond, so he added, “And I was in the stands at the time.”
Lena propped her elbow on the armrest and leaned her head into her hand. “What leads do you have?” she asked. “Any suspects?”
“We’re running the computer right now,” he said. “We should have a list in the morning.”
She put her hand over her eyes. He folded the handkerchief, waiting for her to speak.
She whispered, “She was raped?”
“Yes.”
“How badly?”
“I don’t know.”
“She was cut,” Lena said. “This is some Jesus freak?”
His answer was the truth. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t seem to know a hell of a lot,” she finally said.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “I need to ask you some questions.”
Lena did not look up, but he saw her give a slight nod.
“Was she seeing anybody?”
Finally she looked up. “No.”
“Any old boyfriends?”
Something flickered in her eyes, and her answer didn’t come as quickly as the last. “No.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Not even somebody from a few years back? Sibyl moved here, what, about six years ago?”
“That’s right,” Lena said, her voice hostile again. “She took a job at the college so she could be near me.”
“Was she living with someone?”
“What does that mean?”
Jeffrey dropped the handkerchief. “It means what it means, Lena. She was blind. I’m assuming she needed help getting around. Was she living with someone?”
Lena pursed her lips, as if debating whether or not to answer. “She was sharing a house on Cooper with Nan Thomas.”
“The librarian?” This would explain why Sara had seen her at the library.
Lena mumbled, “I guess I have to tell Nan about this, too.”
Jeffrey assumed Nan Thomas already knew. Secrets did not stay kept for very long in Grant. Still, he offered, “I can tell her.”
“No,” she said, giving him a scathing look. “I think it would be better coming from someone who knows her.”
The implication was clear to Jeffrey, but he chose not to confront her. Lena was looking for another fight, that much was obvious. “I’m sure she’s probably already heard something. She won’t know the details.”
“She won’t know about the rape, you mean?” Lena’s leg bobbed up and down in a nervous twitch. “I guess I shouldn’t tell her about the cross?”
“Probably not,” he answered. “We need to keep some of the details close in case somebody confesses.”
“I’d like to handle a false confession,” Lena mumbled, her leg still shaking.
“You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” he told her. “You want me to call your uncle?” He reached for the phone, but she stopped him with a no.
“I’m fine,” she said, standing. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jeffrey stood, too, glad to conclude this. “I’ll call you as soon as we have something.”
She gave him a funny look. “What time’s the briefing?”
He saw where she was going with this. “I’m not going to let you work on this case, Lena. You have to know that.”
“You don’t understand,” she said. “If you don’t let me work on this, then you’re going to have another stiff for your girlfriend down at the morgue.”
6
Lena banged her fist on the front door of her sister’s house. She was about to go back to her car and get her spare set of keys when Nan Thomas opened the door.
Nan was shorter than Lena and about ten pounds heavier. Her short mousy brown hair and thick glasses made her resemble the prototypical librarian that she was.
Nan’s eyes were swollen and puffy, fresh tears still streaking down her cheeks. She held a balled-up piece of tissue in her hand.
Lena said, “I guess you heard.”
Nan turned, walking back into the house, leaving the door open for Lena. The two women had never gotten along. Except for the fact that Nan Thomas was Sibyl’s lover, Lena would not have said two words to her.
The house was a bungalow built in the 1920s. Much of the original architecture had been left in place, from the hardwood floors to the simple molding lining the doorways. The front door opened into a large living room with a fireplace at one end and the dining room at the other. Off this was the kitchen. Two small bedrooms and a bath finished the simple plan.
Lena walked purposefully down the hallway. She opened the first door on the right, entering the bedroom that had been turned into Sibyl’s study. The room was neat and orderly, mostly by necessity. Sibyl was blind, things had to be put in their place or she would not be able to find them. Braille books were stacked neatly on the shelves. Magazines, also in Braille, were lined up on the coffee table in front of an old futon. A computer sat on the desk lining the far wall. Lena was turning it on when Nan walked into the room.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I need to go through her things.”
“Why?” Nan asked, going over to the desk. She put her hand over the keyboard, as if she could stop Lena.
“I need to see if anything was strange, if anyone was following her.”
“You think you’ll find it in here?” Nan demanded, picking up the keyboard. “She only used this for school. You don’t even understand the voice recognition software.”
Lena grabbed the keyboard back. “I’ll figure it out.”
“No, you won’t,” Nan countered. “This is my house, too.”
Lena put her hands on her hips, walking toward the center of the ro
om. She spotted a stack of papers beside an old Braille typewriter. Lena picked them up, turning to Nan. “What’s this?”
Nan ran over, grabbing the papers. “It’s her diary.”
“Can you read it?”
“It’s her personal diary,” Nan repeated, aghast. “These are her private thoughts.”
Lena chewed her bottom lip, trying for a softer tactic. That she had never liked Nan Thomas was not exactly a secret in this house. “You can read Braille, right?”
“Some.”
“You need to tell me what this says, Nan. Somebody killed her.” Lena tapped the pages. “Maybe she was being followed. Maybe she was scared of something and didn’t want to tell us.”
Nan turned away, her head tilted down toward the pages. She ran her fingers along the top line of dots, but Lena could tell she wasn’t reading it. For some reason, Lena got the impression she was touching the pages because Sibyl had, as if she could absorb some sense of Sibyl rather than just words.
Nan said, “She always went to the diner on Mondays. It was her time out to do something on her own.”
“I know.”
“We were supposed to make burritos tonight.” Nan stacked the papers against the desk. “Do what you need to do,” she said. “I’ll be in the living room.”
Lena waited for her to leave, then continued the task at hand. Nan was right about the computer. Lena did not know how to use the software, and Sibyl had only used it for school. Sibyl dictated into the computer what she needed, and her teaching assistant made sure copies were made.
The second bedroom was slightly larger than the first. Lena stood in the doorway, taking in the neatly made bed. A stuffed Pooh bear was tucked between the pillows. Pooh was old, balding in places. Sibyl had rarely been without him throughout her childhood, and throwing him away had seemed like heresy. Lena leaned against the door, getting a mental flash of Sibyl as a child, standing with the Pooh bear. Lena closed her eyes, letting the memory overwhelm her. There wasn’t much Lena wanted to remember about her childhood, but a particular day stuck out. A few months after the accident that had blinded Sibyl, they were in the backyard, Lena pushing her sister on the swing. Sibyl held Pooh tight to her chest, her head thrown back as she felt the breeze, a huge smile on her face as she relished this simple pleasure. There was such a trust there, Sibyl getting on the swing, trusting Lena not to push her too hard or too high. Lena had felt a responsibility. Her chest swelled from it, and she kept pushing Sibyl until her arms had ached.
Lena rubbed her eyes, shutting the bedroom door. She went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Other than Sibyl’s usual vitamins and herbs, the cabinet was empty. Lena opened the closet, rummaging past the toilet paper and tampons, hair gel and hand towels. What she was looking for, Lena did not know. Sibyl didn’t hide things. She would be the last person to be able to find them if she did.
“Sibby,” Lena breathed, turning back to the mirror on the medicine cabinet. Seeing Sibyl, not herself. Lena spoke to her reflection, whispering, “Tell me something. Please.”
She closed her eyes, trying to navigate the space as Sibyl would. The room was small, and Lena could touch both walls with her hands as she stood in the center. She opened her eyes with a weary sigh. There was nothing there.
Back in the living room, Nan Thomas sat on the couch. She held Sibyl’s diary in her lap, not looking up when Lena came in. “I read the last few days’ worth of stuff,” she said, her tone flat. “Nothing out of place. She was worried about a kid at school who was flunking.”
“A guy?”
Nan shook her head. “Female. A freshman.”
Lena leaned her hand against the wall. “Did you have any workmen in or out in the last month?”
“No.”
“Same mailman delivering to the house? No UPS or FedEx?”
“Nobody new. This is Grant County, Lee.”
Lena bristled at the familiar name. She tried to bite back her anger. “She didn’t say she felt like she was being followed or anything?”
“No, not at all. She was perfectly normal.” Nan clutched the papers to her chest. “Her classes were fine. We were fine.” A slight smile came to her lips. “We were supposed to take a day trip to Eufalla this weekend.”
Lena took her car keys out of her pocket. “Right,” she quipped. “I guess if anything comes up you should call me.”
“Lee—”
Lena held up her hand. “Don’t.”
Nan acknowledged the warning with a frown. “I’ll call you if I think of anything.”
By midnight, Lena was finishing off her third bottle of Rolling Rock, driving across the Grant County line outside of Madison. She contemplated throwing the empty out the car window but stopped herself at the last minute. She laughed at her twisted sense of morality; she would drive under the influence but she would not litter. The line had to be drawn somewhere.
Angela Norton, Lena’s mother, grew up watching her brother Hank dig himself deeper and deeper into a bottomless pit of alcohol and drug abuse. Hank had told Lena that her mother had been adamantly against alcohol. When Angela married Calvin Adams, her only rule of the house was that he not go out drinking with his fellow policemen. Cal was known to slip out now and then, but for the most part, he honored his wife’s wishes. Three months into his marriage, he was making a routine traffic stop along a dirt road outside of Reece, Georgia, when the driver pulled a gun on him. Shot twice in the head, Calvin Adams died before his body hit the ground.
At twenty-three, Angela was hardly prepared to be a widow. When she passed out at her husband’s funeral, her family chalked it up to nerves. Four weeks of morning sickness later, a doctor finally gave her the diagnosis. She was pregnant.
As her condition progressed, Angela became more despondent. She wasn’t a happy woman to begin with. Life in Reece was not easy, and the Norton family had seen its share of hardship. Hank Norton was known for his volatile temper and was considered to be the kind of mean drunk you didn’t want to run into in a dark alley. At her older brother’s knee, Angela had learned not to put up much of a fight. Two weeks after giving birth to twin baby girls, Angela Adams succumbed to an infection. She was twenty-four years old. Hank Norton was the only relative willing to take in her two girls.
To hear Hank tell the story, Sibyl and Lena had turned his life around. The day he took them home was the day he stopped abusing his body. He claimed to have found God through their presence and to this day said he could recall minute by minute what it was like to hold Lena and Sibyl for the first time.
In truth, Hank only stopped shooting up speed when the girls came to live with him. He did not stop drinking until much later. The girls were eight when it happened. A bad day at work had sent Hank on a binge. When he ran out of liquor, he decided to drive instead of walk to the store. His car didn’t even make it to the street. Sibyl and Lena were playing ball out in the front yard. Lena still didn’t know what had been going through Sibyl’s mind as she chased the ball into the driveway. The car had struck her from the side, the steel bumper slamming into her temple as she bent to retrieve the ball.
County services had been called in, but nothing came of the investigation. The closest hospital was a forty-minute drive from Reece. Hank had plenty of time to sober up and give a convincing story. Lena could still recall being in the car with him, watching his mouth work as he figured out the story in his mind. At the time, eight-year-old Lena was not quite sure what had happened, and when the police interviewed her she had supported Hank’s story.
Sometimes Lena still had dreams about the accident, and in these dreams Sibyl’s body bounced against the ground much as the ball had. That Hank had allegedly not touched another drop of alcohol since then was of no consequence to Lena. The damage had been done.
Lena opened another bottle of beer, removing both hands from the wheel to twist off the cap. She took a long pull, grimacing at the taste. Alcohol had never appealed to her. Lena hated being out of contr
ol, hated the dizzy sensation and the numbness. Getting drunk was something for the weak, a crutch for people who were not strong enough to live their own lives, to stand on their own two feet. Drinking was running away from something. Lena took another swig of beer, thinking there was no better time than the present for all of these things.
The Celica fishtailed as she took the turn off the exit too hard. Lena corrected the wheel with one hand, holding tight to the bottle with the other. A hard right at the top of the exit took her to the Reece Stop ’n’ Save. The store inside was dark. Like most businesses in town, the gas station closed at ten. Though, if memory served, a walk around the building would reveal a group of teenagers drinking, smoking cigarettes, and doing things their parents did not want to know about. Lena and Sibyl had walked to this store many a dark night, sneaking out of the house under Hank’s none-too-watchful eye.
Scooping up the empty bottles, Lena got out of the car. She stumbled, her foot catching on the door. A bottle slipped out of her hands and busted on the concrete. Cursing, she kicked the shards away from her tires, walking toward the trash can. Lena stared at her reflection in the store’s plate glass windows as she tossed her empties. For a second, it was like looking at Sibyl. She reached over to the glass, touching her lips, her eyes.
“Jesus.” Lena sighed. This was one of the many reasons she did not like to drink. She was turning into a basket case.
Music blared from the bar across the street. Hank considered it a test of will that he owned a bar but never imbibed. The Hut looked like its name, with a southern twist. The roof was thatched only until it mattered, then a rusted tin lined the pitched surface. Tiki torches with orange and red lightbulbs instead of flames stood on either side of the entrance, and the door was painted to look like it had been fashioned from grass. Paint peeled from the walls, but for the most part you could still make out the bamboo design.
Drunk as she was, Lena had the sense to look both ways before she crossed the street. Her feet were about ten seconds behind her body, and she held her hands out to her sides for balance as she walked across the gravel parking lot. Of the fifty or so vehicles in the lot, about forty were pickup trucks. This being the new South, instead of gun racks they sported chrome runners and gold striping along their sides. The other cars were Jeeps and four-wheel drives. Nascar numbers were painted onto the back windshields. Hank’s cream-colored 1983 Mercedes was the only sedan in the lot.