“I will.”
She settled behind the steering wheel of the Impala, breathing deeply to calm her still-ragged nerves. Her mouth tasted bitter; she dug in the glove compartment for a pack of breath mints she kept there and popped one in her mouth. As she started the car, she pulled the newspaper clipping from her pocket. Earlier, she’d noticed something bleeding through the back of the clipping. She turned it over now and found a ten-digit phone number written in black ink.
Her own cell phone number.
She rubbed her burning eyes, her mind spinning in a million different directions. Who was this man who called himself Bryant Thompson? What did he want from her mother?
And how the hell had he gotten her cell phone number?
SAM HAD JUST PUT MADDY to bed around eight-thirty that evening when he heard a knock on the guesthouse door. He finished tucking her in and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Sleep tight, Maddycakes.”
Already drowsing, she made a soft murmuring noise and rolled onto her side.
He went to the front door, opening it a crack to find Kristen Tandy on his doorstep, looking pale and tense.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, letting her in. “Why didn’t you just let yourself in with the key?”
She made an attempt to straighten her face. “Forgot I had a key.” She sat on the sofa hunched forward, her elbows resting on her knees as if she was winded.
He sat beside her, alarmed by the obvious distress she was trying to hide. “I talked to Detective Foley a couple of hours ago. He said Morris hasn’t confessed to the attack yet.”
“He still looks good for it,” she said, but he sensed a little hesitation underlying her words.
“But?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s-it’s stupid. Every perp nabbed red-handed tries out the same lame excuse-‘I didn’t really do it. You have the wrong guy.’”
“Foley said he admitted most of it.”
“He admitted delivering the envelope. He admitted taking the photos. But he said someone paid him for them, and he didn’t know what they were for. He also swears he didn’t write the threatening note on the back of the photo.”
“Do you believe him?”
She paused, the furrow in her brow deepening. “Morris admits holding you responsible for dropping the charges against the man who hit his son’s motorcycle. He cops to the taking the pictures. But we’re supposed to believe someone else asked him to take them and deliver them to you? It’s crazy.” Her voice firmed up. “It’s unbelievable. He’s got to be the guy.”
“So it’s over?” Sam was afraid to believe.
“I think so,” she said after a pause.
“Who’s booking him? Chickasaw County or Jefferson?”
“All anyone can book him on at the moment is the threatening note to you. That happened in Birmingham, so Jefferson County’s going to file the charges for now. But we’re still trying to tie him to the attack on Maddy and Cissy.”
“They won’t let me near the case.” He smiled wryly. “You’ll probably have to give me all the updates.”
She slanted a look at him, her expression almost pained.
“Okay, that’s it,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
She looked away. “Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
She pushed to her feet. “It’s been a long day and I could use a shower and some sleep. Let’s table this until morning.”
He stood, closing his hand around her upper arm. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and dark with pain.
He eased his grip on her arm. “You’re scaring me.”
She looked away. “It’s nothing to do with Maddy or this case. It’s personal.”
He moved his hand slowly up her arm, over her shoulder, finally settling his fingers gently against the soft curve of her cheek. He lifted his other hand to cradle her face between his palms, forcing her to look at him. Her lips trembled as she visibly fought for control.
“Tell me what happened,” he said in a quiet but firm voice.
She closed her eyes. “Sam, please. Just let it go, okay?”
He let go with reluctance, stepping back. She opened her eyes, gave him a halfhearted smile and went down the hall to the bathroom, leaving him to lock up for the night.
He checked the doors and windows, tiptoeing into Maddy’s room to double-check the window by her bed. Outside, the moon had risen high in the cloudless sky, surrounded by a million stars. He’d forgotten, living in D.C., what the night sky looked like when there weren’t a lot of city lights around to pollute the view.
He heard the shower kick on down the hall, and he left Maddy’s room quietly, his mind returning to the disturbing encounter with Kristen. What had set her on edge that way? Knowing what he did of her past, he imagined it would take something pretty terrible to shake Kristen Tandy’s control.
He suddenly remembered her shaken reaction to the phone call she received the day before. What had he heard her say to the caller?
Tell whom no? Had to be her mother, didn’t it? Who else could send Kristen into such an emotional tailspin?
The case was nearly over. Morris was in jail, waiting for arraignment. With any luck, the judge would deny bail and Sam and Maddy could go back to a normal life, while Kristen Tandy went on to whatever case came her way next. It was better for everyone that way, he told himself.
But he knew letting Kristen walk away wasn’t going to be anywhere near that simple or easy.
A hot metallic odor permeated the air as Kristen bent over the trash can in the kitchen and tried to throw up, though her stomach was empty after a long night’s sleep. She welcomed the pain of the dry heaves, needing something to crowd out the pictures imprinted on her brain.
Blood everywhere, smeared on the walls and floor, spread over the bedsheets and the pajamas and nightgowns of her younger brothers and sisters-the images burned into her brain. Kristen had found Tammy first, her nine- year-old sister’s small body stretched out on the floor in the hall outside Kristen’s bedroom, half blocking the door. She’d crouched by her sister, her mind rebelling against what she was seeing, only to realize there was more blood. A lot more blood.
Four bodies. Julie. Tammy. David. Kevin. All beyond help. And her mother was nowhere to be found.
The dry heaves ended and she slithered to the floor, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. She tried to think. What should she do? Who should she call now?
“Kristy?” Mama’s voice was soft and bewildered.
Kristen looked up. Mama stood in the kitchen doorway, still in her pale blue nightgown. Blood painted a grotesque abstract pattern across the nylon fabric. She held a large chef’s knife at her side. Blood dripped from the blade to the linoleum in slow, steady drops.
Kristen’s heart slammed into her rib cage.
Mama walked past her to the sink. She laid the knife on the counter and reached for the paper towels hanging on the wall by the stove. On one of the eyes, a pot of oatmeal was boiling over, making a mess on the stovetop.
Mama wet a couple of paper towels under the tap and wiped up the overflow. Pulling open the utensil drawer, she pulled out a steel serving spatula, shaped like a diamond with a fleur-de-lis cutout in the middle, and started stirring the oatmeal.
Kristen stared at the spatula, her overloaded brain latching on to that one small incongruity. Why would Mama use a cake spatula to stir oatmeal? That was crazy.
Mama turned to look at her, her eyes widening as if she were surprised to see Kristen. “When did you get up, baby?”
Kristen stumbled backward. “I need to go get dressed.”
“Have breakfast first.” Mama scraped the spatula on the edge of the pan. “It’s almost ready. Go get yourself a
