Fragile

He drove back through town and made a right, followed the road past Hollows High, and turned onto Blacksmith Bluff, his grandmother’s street. He pulled into her driveway, putting the car in neutral and drifting in the last fifty yards, like he did at home not to wake his dad. But as he stepped out of the car, he noticed that the light in his grandmother’s bedroom was on.

He used the key he had on his ring and pushed the front door open, stepping into the foyer. He flipped on the light and moved inside.

“Grandma?”

He saw a light shining down the stairs from the hallway on the second floor. He didn’t want to give her a heart attack. He didn’t want to wake her if she was sleeping, either. But when he heard a low and distant moaning, he broke into a run up the steps. Elizabeth was on the floor beneath the attic access, her cane toppled beside her.

“Grandma,” he said, kneeling beside her.

“Ricky,” she said. “You need to tell them.”

She looked pale and withered lying there, so helpless. Beneath his hand, her shoulder felt tiny and frail. It scared him. She was a powerhouse, as strong and permanent as the old oak tree out in the backyard.

“Grandma, it’s okay.” He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911, though his first instinct was to call his mother. He knew enough not to try to move his grandmother, though he could easily have scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom.

“You have to tell them, Ricky.” She clutched his wrist, her grip urgent.

“I need an ambulance at 173 Blacksmith Bluff,” he said to the dispatcher. “My grandma fell. She’s hurt.”

“Ricky,” Elizabeth said. “She was already dead when he found her.”

Rick didn’t know what she was talking about, tried to focus on the dispatcher’s voice while giving his grandmother a comforting rub on the arm.

“She’s disoriented,” Rick said, holding her gaze. “Can you contact my father, Jones Cooper? He’s the head detective at the Hollows Police Department.”

The dispatcher told him to stay on the line until the ambulance arrived. Rick tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Grandma.” He heard the dispatcher requesting the ambulance. Arrival in four minutes. Hang in there.

“She was already dead, Ricky. He didn’t kill her.”

“Grandma… I don’t understand.” He felt a tingle of panic. Was she talking about Charlene? Did she know something? “Grandma? What are you talking about?”

But her gaze was glassy and distant, staring through him. She released a sigh and relaxed her hold on his arm. In the distance, he heard the wailing of sirens.

After calling Ricky several times to no avail, Maggie found herself at a loss. She considered calling her mother and then, when she noted the time, decided against it. She wouldn’t “keep looking,” as Jones had urgently requested, nor would she go out after Ricky and drive aimlessly searching for him. She couldn’t think of anything more crazy-making.

So she found herself paralyzed, staring at the cordless phone in her hand, trying to figure out an appropriate course of action-one that was reasonable and productive, not the unhinged move of a frantic mother, or the fearful action of an overly obedient wife. Even if Jones didn’t know their son, she did. He would call or come home, and he would do it sooner rather than later. Or so she hoped.

But then the phone was ringing in her hand. She answered it without glancing at the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Cooper?”

Her heart sank to hear an unfamiliar voice. “Yes, this is.”

“It’s Angie Crosby.” In the current chaotic context, it took Maggie a moment to place the name. Marshall’s mother.

“Oh, Angie.” Maggie’s worry about Marshall returned to the forefront of her mind for a moment. And she was ashamed to note that she was almost glad for it, the distraction from her personal crisis.

“It’s late,” said Angie. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s quite all right. I’m up,” Maggie said. “What’s wrong?”

There was silence on the other line and then a muted weeping.

“Angie?” Maggie said. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry I hung up on you before. I didn’t want-But now I’ve been thinking.”

“What’s happening?” Maggie felt a flutter of fear and something else she wouldn’t have admitted, the relief of being on solid ground, of knowing what to do, what to say.

Angie issued a few more shuddering breaths, then, “He came here earlier today.”

“Okay,” Maggie said. “And something happened between you. Tell me about it.”

Stop shrinking, Jones would say to her. You use those benign questions and leading statements as a shield, Maggie. Always calm, always in control, always looking for a way to “help.” But where are you? What do you need? What do you feel? He was right, in a way. It was always so much easier to help others than it was to help yourself. But what was wrong with that? It was her job.

“Something’s happened to him,” Angie said. “He’s changed.”

Maggie opted for silence. Sometimes that was a better way to draw things out than the affirming statement or coaxing question.

“He said that Travis was right,” Angie went on after a moment. “That all women were whores and users. Especially me.”

Maggie realized she was gripping the phone, leaning so hard against the table that the edge was digging into her rib cage. She forced herself to lean back and breathe. When the other woman didn’t continue on her own, Maggie said, “Did he hurt you?”

More muffled crying. “He pushed me, hard against a wall of shelves. I hit my head on a corner-hard enough to black out.”

“I’m so sorry, Angie. Are you all right?”

“I am. But when I came back around, Marshall was gone.”

Maggie wanted more details about how the encounter had started and what had happened to make it escalate to violence, though she saw from Marshall’s actions in her office earlier that there was a simmering rage there, just waiting for an opportunity to boil over.

“When I talked to you earlier, I was upset about what happened between Marshall and me,” Angie went on. “I figured I’d change my locks and not be so quick to answer the door to him next time. I didn’t want him to get in trouble, you know. So much of what’s wrong with him is my fault, Dr. Cooper. I know that. I left him to Travis.”

Angie started crying again. Maggie felt her own eyes tear; she could hear so clearly the pain and frustration in the other woman’s voice.

“So what’s changed since last we talked?” Maggie asked. “Did he come to your house again?”

“No, no. After I talked to you and pulled myself together, I had a horrible thought. I keep guns here in my house. A revolver and a semiautomatic weapon. I have a license and am trained to use them.”

“Angie.”

“They’re gone, Dr. Cooper. Marshall stole my guns.”

The words made Maggie feel sick, as if she couldn’t draw another breath. The thousand incredulous questions she wanted to ask-Didn’t you have them locked up? How did he know you had those guns and where you kept them? When was this and how long did it take you to call me?-lodged in her throat. The best she could do was to say, “Oh, my God, Angie. Did you call the police?”

Maggie heard Angie blowing her nose. Then, “No.”

“What?” she said. “Why not?”

Another sniffle. “I didn’t want to get him in trouble.”

Maggie issued a long, slow breath. “Okay. What you need to do, right now, is hang up the phone and report the theft to your local police department. You need to tell them that Marshall is unstable and that he is