Dead Right

“No.” She wished she had the strength to remove her sunglasses and meet his gaze directly. She’d coached enough witnesses to know how to enhance credibility. But she couldn’t do it. Kennedy’s hand, holding hers tightly, reminded her that what she saw on the table was her life then, and he and their children were her life now. It was the only thing that kept her from falling apart. He was determined to get her through this. She could feel him willing her to endure and to triumph. For everyone’s sake.

Don’t let your stepfather win. Don’t let him. He said that whenever the past began to encroach on her happiness. And, so far, it had worked.

Silently, she promised she wouldn’t disappoint him and ignored the terrible stabbing sensation she remembered so clearly, along with the stench of her stepfather’s breath, his eager grunts and groans, the flash of the camera when she was in the most vulnerable positions a girl could be in.

Pontiff spoke again. “No one ever used the rope or, um, the—any of these items to hurt you in any way?”

A bead of sweat rolled between her shoulder blades.

Madeline squeezed her arm as if to say it didn’t matter, that nothing would change if she answered in the affirmative. But Grace knew that wasn’t true. Summoning more strength—from where, she had no idea—she managed to add a scoffing tone to her voice. “Of course not.”

“No one…touched you inappropriately when you were a girl?” Pontiff repeated.

She lifted her chin. “Who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” he replied.

Suddenly, the door burst open and Clay charged in, his thick black hair standing up in front as if he’d shoved his hand through it so many times it would no longer lie flat.

Grace was mortified to think her brother would see what was on the table. He knew, of course, but knowing and actually seeing some of the implements of Barker’s torture were two completely different things. Clay already felt guilty for the fact that he hadn’t realized sooner, hadn’t protected her. This would make his guilt even more intense.

He looked at each person. Then, when his gaze landed on the items arranged on the table, his jaw tightened and his blue eyes glittered with dark emotion. “What’s going on?”

While Kennedy explained, Grace was afraid that Clay wouldn’t be able to control his reaction. The graying pallor of his skin told her how tortured he was by the mere thought of what she’d been through, and worry for him somehow made it easier for her to cope with her own pain.

“Someone must’ve stolen my underwear,” she said when Kennedy was through. “But I have no idea when or how. Or who might’ve owned these other pairs.” That last part was true. As far as she knew, she’d been her stepfather’s only victim. So what did this underwear signify? That there were more?

The possibility of others having suffered as she’d suffered sent a chill 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 all 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 pulled off her sunglasses. “Right. Which meant they were available to just about anyone. I’m guessing whoever collected these—” she motioned toward the table and fought to assume her professional persona, hoping no one could tell how badly she was quaking inside “—was in the fantasy stage.”

“That was twenty years ago,” Pontiff said. “So, if he’s still 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 killed 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 collected 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 still 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 still 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 tell him that the past was behind them, that they couldn’t allow this discovery to ruin the happiness they’d both found.

“How’s Allie?” 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. Allie’s…” His chest rose as he drew a deep breath. “Allie,” 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 well as she could’ve hoped. With any luck, this discovery would fade into the background and they’d be able to return to their lives.

As Madeline thanked Chief Pontiff for his efforts, Grace nudged Kennedy, indicating that they should go, too. She didn’t want to be in the same room with those panties, or with the other objects, either. The person she’d been was not the person she was now. “Grinding Gracie” was the one who’d been raped, repeatedly, by her stepfather, but Grinding Gracie was dead and gone. Grace wouldn’t be her anymore, she’d reject her pain, her inadequacies, her needs.

But halfway to the door she heard Madeline say something that made her freeze.

“How long will it take?”

“Depends on the lab. Could take a few weeks. Could take months. Without a suspect, we don’t have a legitimate reason to ask them to rush.”

Graced turned back. “You’re going to try and get a DNA sample?”

He nodded.

“From what?”

“Everything.”

“But it’s been nearly twenty years! Any DNA will be too degraded.”

“Not necessarily. This stuff was sealed up tight.”

She felt the pressure of Kennedy’s hand, warning her to be careful. She was sounding panicky, but she couldn’t help it. “But what good will getting a profile do?”

Pontiff’s eyebrows rose. “What good will it do?”

“It’s only helpful if you have something to match it against,” she said, “and you don’t even have a victim.”