Her mouth was so dry she could hardly form the words. But her lie seemed effective. Indecision suddenly turned into action. Feet pounded across the kitchen; then the door slammed shut.
She raced around the corner, flipped off the light and stared out the window, hoping to see who it was. But all she caught was a flash of something white—a man’s head or arm—and then he was gone.
Shaking, she set the broken bottle aside and reached for the phone. The dial tone hummed warm and comforting in her ear.
Calm down. Take a deep breath.
She fumbled through 9-1-1 and finally got the police. Then she tried to call Hunter on his cell phone and at the motel. But he didn’t pick up.
“Where are you?” she muttered. Taking him to the motel had been a mistake.
Waiting for the siren that would tell her help was on its way, she slid down the side of the cupboards—only to sit in something wet. Confused, she got up and turned the lights back on. Then she covered her mouth.
It was blood. On the floor. Smeared by her own feet.
Spotting Madeline’s hulk of a brother in the far corner, Hunter started toward him, trying not to smell the alcohol that seemed to say “welcome home.” Instead, he focused on the cigarette smoke that hung thickly in the air, burning his lungs and nostrils. California had outlawed smoking in most public buildings years ago. Evidently, Mississippi was as far behind in public safety as it was in everything else, including fashion.
Most of the men around him were wearing Wranglers—so tight Hunter didn’t know how they could still father children—wool, button-up shirts with T-shirts underneath and cowboy hats. Except for two old men at the bar, dressed in overalls, Clay seemed to be the exception. He had on a pair of worn, faded jeans with a fashionable rip in the knee. Funny thing was, Hunter suspected his rip had actually come from wear.
“So you got me out of bed. Now what?” Clay said gruffly.
Hunter took the seat opposite him and didn’t respond because a waitress was already approaching.
“Can I get you boys somethin’ to drink?” she asked.
“I’ll have a Sam Adams,” Clay said.
Hunter wanted a beer, too. There might be cigarette smoke in the bar, and maybe they were playing countrywestern music—two things that set this place apart from the trendy pubs he used to frequent in California. But a bar was a bar. Hunter’s conditioned response to the atmosphere, from nearly a decade of visiting such places, was to order a real drink, then another…and eventually sink into oblivion.
But this was his first time inside a bar since he’d given up alcohol. He wasn’t going to blow it.
“Club soda.”
They sat without speaking until the waitress returned. Then Hunter tried not to watch Clay take his first drink. Averting his eyes, he stared out over the dance floor, where a bunch of women were laughing drunkenly while trying to do the Macarena.
Apparently that song was still popular in some parts of the country.
“You ready to tell me why we’re here?” Clay asked.
“I’ve found something,” he said.
Clay’s arm froze momentarily before carrying the bottle to his mouth. After another long swig, he set his drink back on the table. “What?”
Hunter took Madeline’s puffy journal from his coat pocket and slid it across the table.
“You found a child’s journal?” he said without picking it up. He slouched lower in his chair but watched Hunter closely.
“It’s Madeline’s,” he explained. “From when she was eight and nine years old.”
“We were living in Booneville then,” he said with a shrug. “Whatever’s in it couldn’t refer to me. Or any of my family.”
“I realize that, of course.”
Clay lifted his half-empty bottle with two fingers and swung it from side to side. “Then why are you showing me her journal?”
“Have you ever read it?”
One lazy eyebrow arched up. “Aren’t journals supposed to be private?”
“She gave it to me.” Hunter took it back again, opened it and began to read aloud.
“Katie has another sore on her neck. She won’t tell me how she got it. But Daddy said someone must have grabbed hold of her necklace or something. Why would that be such a big secret?”
Clay regarded him with half-closed, heavy-lidded eyes. “So Katie was teasing her about some minor injury. What’s that supposed to prove?”
Hunter flipped through a few more pages and read another entry.
“I’m so mad at Mom. Daddy wanted me to go to Jacksonville with him to see his cousin. We were going to stay two whole days. But she wouldn’t let me go. And when I started to cry, she shook me hard.”
“What do you have to say about that?” Hunter asked.
“From what I hear, Madeline’s mother wasn’t right in the head.” Clay spoke in a monotone. “Committed suicide. It was a real tragedy.”
“I think it might’ve been her father who was sick,” Hunter said meaningfully. “And now I’m wondering just how sick.”
Clay broke eye contact and gazed at the candle flickering in a red votive glass at the edge of the table. “I should warn you that won’t be a popular opinion around here.”
“Fortunately, I’m not running for office.”
Clay said nothing.
“When did you find out about it?” Hunter asked.
“Find out about what?”
“What he was doing to your sister.”
Clay appeared relaxed, but Hunter suspected that illusion was created only at the expense of great effort. “He didn’t do anything to my sister. Ask Chief Pontiff. She told him as much last week.”
“Why don’t I ask her?” Hunter countered softly.
“Because you’d have to go through me first,” Clay said.
Hunter didn’t respond to the comment. He had no intention of approaching Grace; he was sure she’d suffered enough. That was why he’d called Clay instead. He’d wanted to witness Clay’s reaction—which had turned out to be exactly as he’d expected.
Locating one more entry in the journal, Hunter cleared his throat and read again.
“I saw a naked lady in a magazine in my dad’s drawer. She had a man on her!”
Clay’s lips curved into a smile, but it seemed more nostalgic than anything else.
“Interesting that she’d find p**n ography in her father’s desk, don’t you think?” Hunter said. “Someone who preached so energetically against sins of the flesh?”