And it might have worked for her except that Tandy had come across a lockbox containing old photos and love letters. Fragile to begin with and still swaddled in grief over the loss of her family and aborted baby, Tandy had never fully forgiven her mother or her father. After reading the letters, seeing tangible proof of her father’s affair with her aunt, she wasn’t about to absolve anyone. For a while, weight lifting helped keep the voices away, but it just wasn’t enough.

Deep emotional hurt never really goes away. It always leaves a scar, even if it fades to the faintest of spots. Trouble brews when the pain refuses to heal, left as an open wound just waiting to abscess. And it doesn’t take much steeping if the person is unbalanced to begin with.

“Know who your granddaughter is, Lita?”

Lita opened her eyes. “Who?”

“Tandy Roberts. She’s Hetty’s kid.”

“Tandy, the fat nurse who used to work here?”

“Yep.”

“She’s Hetty’s kid?”

“Yep.”

“You don’t say.”

“It’s the truth.”

Lita was quiet for a moment. “I can see that. Tandy was strange. A little like Hetty. I always got along with Tandy. I felt sorry for her, but I liked her, too. I’m glad I got a chance to know her, even if I didn’t know she was my own blood. Sometimes things work out for the best.”

“Sometimes they do.”

“Can you wheel me out of the sun? I’m gettin’ hot.”

“My pleasure.” Carefully, Decker wheeled the old lady to one of the dining tables. “Anything else you need, Lita, before I go?”

“You going to visit me again, handsome?”

“No, Lita. I don’t think so.”

“I can dream.” The old woman shrugged. “What time is it?”

“About four-thirty.”

“Dinner’s not until five.”

“That’s only a half hour away.”

“It seems like a year when you got nothing better to do.” The old woman picked her head up, and their eyes met. Lita’s face was as hard as stone, as craggy as a mountain ridge. “Think you can get me some spumoni?”

“I’ll do my best.”

She gave Decker a conspiratorial wink. Then she said, “Think if I’d had boys, I would have been a better mother?”

“I don’t know, Lita.”

“Maybe.” Lita waited a while before speaking. “But probably not. Like I always freely admitted, I was a shitty mother.”

38

Highlighted by the moonlight streaming through the barred window, Marie’s face appeared blue and skeletal. Her bony hands rested in her lap, pressing her cotton prison gown between her legs. Her legs were bare and crossed at the ankles; her feet held soft shoes. She refused to turn when Decker entered the cell, refused to acknowledge his presence. His questions fell upon deaf ears.