Through the Sheriff's Eyes

“I’m ready,” her sister said with remarkable calm. “I told you that.”

Charlotte looked back at her sister’s face in awe and disquiet. Had Faith really changed so much? Or was the armor she wore no more than a thin crust disguising the vulnerability and fear beneath?

Anger surged through Charlotte. Why couldn’t the police find Rory? Was it too much to ask that Faith be able to feel safe?

“Maybe I’ll stay at the house tonight,” she decided.

Faith only shook her head. “I’m ready,” she repeated. “You couldn’t do anything.”

“I can keep the baseball bat next to the bed.”

Faith’s mouth curved faintly. She’d been the one ready to swing the bat at Rory’s head last time, except that he’d run before she could. “We’ve changed the locks,” Faith said, “and Dad should hear if Rory breaks a window.” He was still sleeping downstairs, in the hospital bed they had rented when he came home after he was hurt. He could probably manage the stairs now with his crutches, but why should he?

“Maybe,” Charlotte said doubtfully. “The way he snores, how can he hear anything else?”

They both giggled. As long as they could remember, Dad had been insisting that he didn’t snore. Mom always said she’d tape him some night, but she never had, and somehow teasing him about it didn’t feel right without Mom here. Some nights this past summer Charlotte had even taken comfort from the familiar sound drifting upstairs.

“Maybe you and Dad should come stay at Gray’s, just until Ben finds Rory,” she suggested. She’d tentatively talked to Gray and he was willing, even though the two of them loved the time they had together, without anyone else.

“I let him terrorize me for three years,” Faith said, sounding completely inflexible. “I won’t let him make me go into hiding, Char. Anyway … How long would we have to stay with you and Gray? Two weeks? Two months? What if Rory never comes back? Or if he waits until Daddy and I go home again? No. I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary.”

Charlotte found her eyes resting on the tote bag, with its sunny colors and a semiautomatic pistol tucked inside. Faith followed her gaze, as if understanding what she was thinking. Her expression stayed resolute, almost stony. It was as if her weight loss was a manifestation of what was happening to her—Faith’s soft, gentle nature had hardened, as though baked in a kiln, the process altering her very substance.

Uneasily, Charlotte thought about how little it took to shatter kiln-fired stoneware.

Suppressing a shiver, she said, “If you change your mind, you’re always welcome. Even in the middle of the night. Okay?”

Faith reached out and hugged Charlotte, pressing her cheek to her sister’s. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you, Char.”

“And I love you,” Charlotte whispered, too, thankful that the words came so readily these days, a balm to soothe the hurt of ten years of estrangement.

Cold prickles walked up her spine as she thought about how precious their restored bond was. She could lose her sister so quickly if Rory stole into the farmhouse some night and slipped into Faith’s bedroom without waking her. A gun would do no good at all, if she didn’t have time to reach for it.

FAITH SHOWERED before bedtime to cool down, even though she had been swimming in the river only a few short hours ago. The day’s heat had risen in the house, found no escape. Despite the fan in her bedroom and the fact that she’d wrestled her sash window up, she was toying with the idea of taking a pillow and sheet downstairs and sleeping on the sofa in the living room with Dad.

If only he didn’t snore …

She had always enjoyed hot weather; she’d even thought that if it weren’t for Daddy and the farm she might have liked living in southern California or the Southwest. The idea was one she played with while waiting for sleep some nights. Starting anew where no one knew her both appalled and intrigued her. It would be so lonely, but also—she had thought a long time about the right word to describe the shimmer of excitement she felt, and settled on one—liberating. When she was younger, that kind of freedom had held no appeal. After the years of her marriage, though, she’d begun to imagine what it would be like to stand entirely, selfishly alone. To be the quintessential island.

It was only a fantasy, of course. She had a feeling she would wither and die if she truly found herself plunked down in Phoenix, say, knowing no one, unfettered by any ties.

And yet, sometimes she was so very tired.

She had gradually turned the water temperature colder and colder, and now it rained down on her, nearly icy. With a sigh, Faith turned the shower off and stepped out shivering. She towel-dried, then brushed her hair and plaited it with practiced hands. She knew from experience it would still be damp come morning, and help keep her cool.

Momentarily, head tilted as she gazed at herself in the mirror, Faith wondered what she’d look like if she cut her hair boyishly short, like Char’s. She laughed at herself. Silly—she’d look exactly like Char! Except different, really. She had become aware these past two months that they might be identical twins, but they didn’t move alike or laugh alike or even make the same gestures. Passing as each other wouldn’t be easy, as it had been when they were mischievous children.

Rory wouldn’t like it if I cut my hair.

Faith went still, looking at herself in the steam-misted mirror. Her eyes had widened, the shade of blue deepening, as she did battle with the tight knot of fear that had ruled her for too long.

“I should cut it,” she whispered. “Because.”

No. She shouldn’t do anything at all because Rory liked it or didn’t. If she cut her hair in defiance of him, she would be giving him more weight than he deserved.

And she liked her hair long. She always had, resisting haircuts while Char had experimented with every length when they were teenagers.

Faith began to breathe again. She wouldn’t give Rory any power at all. She’d think about him only as a threat, the reason she would be target shooting tomorrow again.

She went back to her bedroom and found it considerably cooler after the cold shower and with her hair wet and the braid heavy down her back.

Dad had long since fallen asleep. She’d heard the rumble of his snoring as she’d crossed the hall from the bathroom. A farmer his entire life, he rarely stayed awake much past nine o’clock, but he no longer awakened with dawn, and he napped in the afternoons, too. She worried a little about how much he was sleeping, although the doctor insisted that was normal, part of the healing process. She still thought some of it might be depression.

Faith turned off her light and stood for a minute looking out her bedroom window at the cornfield. She could see the highway from here, too, and on the other side of it a glint of river between stands of trees. The moon was nearly full and low in the sky, a buttery yellow that looked mystical but was probably, unromantically, caused by smog in the atmosphere. A month from now, on All Hallow’s Eve, it would be a sullen orange, the harvest moon.

She left the curtains open and lay in bed, the covers pushed aside, enjoying the wash of air over her skin as the fan rotated. The faint hum was mesmerizing, a kind of white noise that soothed her. Faith fell asleep to the sound of it.

She never slept soundly anymore. Waking suddenly wasn’t unusual. Old houses made noises, and sometimes Daddy got up at night to go to the bathroom. Faith thought it was a creak that she’d heard. She always left her door open now, in case her father needed her. The rectangle was dark, inpenetrable. She lay staring toward it, holding herself very still as she listened intently for the thump of his crutches, or the quiet groan of the hundred-year-old house settling.

Nothing. For the longest time, there was no repetition. Her instinctive tension eased. She began to relax, let the weight of her eyelids sink. She was always so tired….

This creak was closer. On the stairs, or in the hall. Faith went rigid. There was another whisper of sound—something brushing the wall, perhaps.

Her pulse raced and her blood seemed to roar in her ears. Was it Rory? How had he gotten into the house without her hearing glass break? The front and back doors both had dead-bolt locks now.

One hand crept for the cell phone on her bedside table. Before she could touch it, her eyes made out the deeper shadow within the dark rectangle that was the doorway.

It was too late for the phone. Faith eased her hand back, then shoved it beneath the pillow beside her and found the hard, textured grip of the gun.

I’m not ready for this.

She heard breathing now. Her own, but someone else’s, too. He had stepped inside the bedroom, almost—but not quite—soundlessly. Not Daddy, no thump or scrape of crutches. The shape took form in moonlight. He was only a few steps from her bed.

Something snapped in Faith, and with a scream of terror and rage she lunged for the lamp switch even as she lifted the gun.

In the flood of light, he threw himself forward, his face contorted and a deadly knife lifted to stab.

Faith went cold. As if she were outside her body, she saw her second hand come up to brace the first, her thumb folding just as it ought to.

Rory was almost on top of her when she squeezed the trigger.

CHAPTER THREE

THE RING OF THE PHONE WOKE Ben with all the subtlety of a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. Cursing, he groped on his bedside table for the damn phone.

“Wheeler,” he growled into it.

“Chief, this is Ron Meagher.” One of his young officers, greener than baby peas fresh from the pod. “You said to let you know, day or night, if anything comes in about the Russells.”