gaze was hopeful.
Her eyes lighted. “That sounds wonderful.” The words came on a ragged breath. “I’ll apply Monday.” I smiled. My presence hadn’t been necessary. Everything looked positive for the widowed chief and the young woman he had inspired.
I was glad to see the beginnings of happiness. Moreover, I now had the last piece of information I needed. Unless I was very much mistaken, the woman who had desperately wanted Daryl Murdoch to call her lived at 623 Olive Street.
It was time for Officer M. Loy to begin her investigation.
The middle front step to 623 had buckled in the center. The window shades were down. No light glimmered in front. I circled the house. Light shone from a high kitchen window. I looked inside, drew my breath in sharply.
A young woman with a mass of dark curls and a round face sat at a battered kitchen table. Slowly she raised a gun to her temple. Tears
Ca ro ly n H a rt
streamed down a face blotched from crying. She gulped and sniffed, her eyes dull with misery.
There was no time to knock, no time to arrive in customary fashion. I was at her side at once. Reaching out, I gripped her arm, forced the gun to one side. I willed myself present, saw my image, unfamiliar in the blue uniform, in a cracked mirror over the sink.
“No.” I spoke sternly.
Her hand sagged. The gun clattered to the floor.
Now I knew that my detour through Chief Cobb’s office had not been on behalf of Anita Leland. I relinquished my grip, reached down to pick up the gun. I broke it open, spilled out the shells in my hand. Bobby Mac taught me how to handle a gun a long time ago.
She stared at me. “How did you get in?” She brushed back dark curls. “You’re the police?”
I pulled out a chair, sat opposite her. “That doesn’t matter. I’m here to help you.” I smiled. “Tell me, Cynthia.”
“No one can help me.”
“God will help.”
She stared at me uncertainly. “You sound as if you know.” She shook her head almost angrily. “What can you know? You aren’t any older than I am.”
I wished suddenly I could shout it aloud:
No one would listen. The world would go on its merry way, adoring youth for the wrong reason, ignoring those in the winter season.
Instead, I looked deep into her eyes.
She looked into mine.
Slowly her face changed.
I’ve known sorrow and fear, loss and trouble, sat at the bedside of the dying, tried to help the lost, struggled to find my own way. Bobby Mac and I were happy, but no life is untouched by heartbreak and
G h o s t at Wo r k
pain. That was part of me and that was what I offered to Cynthia.
“Your eyes . . . They’re like my mother’s eyes. Oh, if only she hadn’t died. She would have kept him from hurting me. He’ll hurt me so bad I’d wish I was dead, so I might as well do it myself.” I took her hand, felt its clammy coldness. “Who will hurt you?”
“My dad. He’s hurt me a lot and if he finds out I’m pregnant—” She clapped her hand to her mouth.
“Daryl Murdoch?”
The emptiness of her face told its own story. “I told him about the baby and he didn’t care. He said I should have been more careful.”
“When did you tell him?”
She massaged her head as if it hurt. “I called him and he didn’t call back. I went to his office yesterday. I told him when he came out to his car. He pushed me away and left. Now he’s dead. I saw it on the morning news. He’s dead and there’s no one to help me, no one at all.”
“Yes, there will be help. Go to Father Bill at St. Mildred’s Church.
Do you know where that is?”
She nodded, her hand clinging to mine.
“Tell him you need help to go away to a safe place to have your baby. You can go and stay. They’ll help you find a job, and when the baby comes, they’ll find a home. Will you do that?”
“Yes.” The word was a sigh.
But I had to ask. “Did you follow Daryl when he left his office last night?”
“No.” Her eyes flared in alarm. “I didn’t shoot him.” I felt cold. “How did you know he was shot?”
