gun in her hand trained on Mark Patterson. Mark was more defined in Jeffrey's memory now, and he could pick out details about the boy: the way he stood with his arms out to his sides, the way his knees bent a little as he stared at Jenny. The whole time, Mark had never really looked at Jeffrey. Even after Jeffrey had shot her, Mark had stood there, staring down at the ground where she lay.
Jeffrey rubbed his eyes, trying to push out this image. He let his gaze travel back to the Mustang, taking it in the way he had every morning of his teenage life. The car had represented so much to him when he was growing up, chief among these things being freedom. As a teenager, he had sometimes sat in bed, his eyes closed, imagining getting in that car and taking off across country. Jeffrey had wanted so much to get away, to leave Sylacauga and his mother's house, to be something other than his father's son.
Jimmy Tolliver had been a petty thief in every sense of the term. He never stole big, which was a point in his favor, because he always got caught. Jeffrey's mother liked to say that Jimmy couldn't break wind in a crowded building without getting caught. He just had that look of guilt about him, and he liked to talk. Jimmy's mouth was his biggest downfall; he couldn't stand not taking credit for the jobs he pulled. Jimmy Tolliver was the only person who was surprised when he had ended up dying in prison, serving out a life term for armed robbery.
By the time he was ten years old, Jeffrey knew practically every man on the Sylacauga police force by name, because at some time or another, one or all of them had come to the house, looking for Jimmy. To their credit, the patrol cops knew Jeffrey, too, and they always made a point of taking him aside whenever they saw him. At the time, being singled out by the police had annoyed Jeffrey. He had considered it harassment. Now, as a policeman himself, Jeffrey knew the cops had been taking time with him as insurance. They did not want to waste their time chasing down another Tolliver for stealing lawn mowers and weed whackers out of his neighbors' yards.
Jeffrey owed these cops a lot, not least of all his career. Watching the fear in his father's eyes that last time the cops had come to the house and slapped the cuffs on Jimmy, Jeffrey had known then and there that he wanted to be a cop.
Jimmy Tolliver had been a drunk, and a mean one at that. To the town, he was a bumbling crook and a sloppy drunk, to Jeffrey and his mother, he was a violent asshole who terrified his family.
Jeffrey stretched his hands up to the ceiling, his palms flat against the warm wood. As he padded to the bathroom, he noticed that even his socks were wrinkled. The heel had slid around sometime during the night. Jeffrey was balancing on one foot, trying to twist it back, when he heard his cell phone ringing in the other room.
'Dammit,' he cursed, bumping his shoulder into the wall as he turned the corner to his room. The house seemed so much smaller now than it had when he was growing up.
He picked up the phone on the fourth ring, just before the voice mail came on. 'Hello?'
'Jeff?' Sara asked, a bit of concern in her voice.
He let it linger in his ear before saying, 'Hey, babe.'
She laughed at the name. 'Less than ten hours in Alabama and you're calling me 'babe'?' She waited a beat. 'Are you alone?'
He felt irritated, because he knew part of her was not joking. 'Of course I'm alone,' he shot back. 'Jesus Christ, Sara.'
'I meant your mother,' she told him, though he could tell from her lack of conviction that she was covering.
He let it pass. 'No, they kept her overnight in the hospital.' He sat on the bed, trying to get his sock to twist back into place. 'She fell down somehow. Broke her foot.'
'Did she fall at home?' Sara asked, something more than curiosity in her tone. He knew what she was getting at, and it was the same reason Jeffrey had come to Alabama himself in the middle of a case instead of just making a phone call. He wanted to see if his mother's drinking was finally getting out of hand. May Tolliver had always been what was politely called a functional alcoholic. If she had crossed the line into hopeless drunk, Jeffrey would have to do something. He had no idea what this would be, but knew instinctively that it would not be easy.
Jeffrey tried to redirect her interest. 'I talked with the doctor. I haven't really seen her to find out what happened.' He waited for her to get the message. 'I'll see her today, see what's going on.'
'She'll probably be on crutches,' Sara told him. He could hear a tapping noise, and assumed she was at her office. He looked at his watch, wondering why she was there so early, but then he remembered the time change. Sara was an hour ahead of him.
'Ms. Harris across the street will look in on her,' Jeffrey volunteered, knowing that Jean Harris would do whatever she could to help a neighbor. She worked as a dietician at the local hospital, and had often waved Jeffrey over after school to make sure he had a hot meal. Sitting at the table with her three lovely daughters had been a bit more enticing than Ms. Harris's chicken pot pie, but Jeffrey had appreciated both at the time.
Sara said, 'You need to tell her to be very careful not to mix her pain meds with alcohol. Or tell her doctor that. Okay?'
He looked at his sock, realizing it was still backward. He twisted it the other way, asking, 'Is that why you called?'
'I got your message about Mark Patterson. What am I pulling a sample for?'
'Paternity,' he told her, not liking the image the word brought to his mind.
Sara was silent, then asked, 'Are you sure?'
'No,' he told her. 'Not at all. I just thought I should look at everything I could.'
'How'd you get a court order so fast?'
'No order. His father's sending him in voluntarily.'
She was still incredulous. 'Without a lawyer?'
Jeffrey sighed. 'Sara, I left all of this on your machine last night. Is something going on?'
'No,' she answered in a softer tone. Then, 'Yes, actually.'
He waited. 'Yeah?'
'I wanted to make sure you were all right.'
Sarcasm came, because that was all he could muster in light of her question. 'Other than waking up knowing I killed a thirteen-year-old little girl, I guess I'm just peachy.'
She was quiet, and he let the silence continue, not knowing what to say to her. Sara had not called him in a long time, not even for county-related matters. In the past, she had faxed him documents on cases, or sent Carlos, her assistant, over with sensitive information. Since the divorce, personal calls were out of the question, and even when they had started back kind of dating, Jeffrey had always been the one to pick up the phone.
'Jeff?' Sara asked.
'I was just thinking,' he said, then, to change the subject, he asked, 'Tell me a little bit more about Lacey.'
'I told you yesterday. She's a good kid,' Sara said, and he could hear something off in her tone. He knew she was feeling responsible for Jenny Weaver, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Sara continued, 'She's bright, funny. Just like Jenny in a lot of ways.'
'Were you close to her?'
