“Because I want to know the truth.”

Before he could answer, the police were at the door and my mother screamed that he was murdered. It was funny. It was happening again and still I couldn’t cry. Then Cade said I could have the dark-haired woman if I did as my mother said. The champagne turned bitter in my mouth.

It was cold now and there was noise from the gnarled bushes next door. I had to kill the noises, but couldn’t move. My vertebrae had snapped. Footsteps stamped the leaves and branches. Henry Cantwell with no eyes quivered with orange lightning that lifted him out of sight as someone laughed. I knew the laugh but couldn’t place it. The fish swam away. The black boy followed alone.

The noise came closer. They would kill me now. There was nowhere to go and I had to tell my father I was sorry—

I awoke just before morning when the night is like thin smoke. The sweat had dried cold on my face. There was no one in the bushes.

I got the bag of dope and threw it out.

Kris Ann was still asleep. I laid out some clean clothes on a chair and went for a run. The morning was bright and clear and filled with nothing but facts.

I came home, showered, and drank coffee with Kris Ann without speaking of Henry, or us. Then I crossed the backyard to the car.

I was behind the wheel before I saw the scrap of paper crumpled beneath the rubber blade of my windshield wiper. I got out and lifted the blade to unfold it.

It was Kris Ann’s picture, from the newspaper. A pencil had etched harsh age lines by her eyes, nose, and mouth until she was a wrinkled old woman. There were holes where her pupils had been.

Sixteen

SIXTEEN

Kris Ann was in the attic, old shirt half-unbuttoned, staring at her easel in shafts of sunlight that came through the window behind her. Resting one hand on her shoulder I glanced dully at the painting, a nightmare of blues and purples surrounding the orange stick-figure of a woman. Then I held the scrap in front of her. “I found this on my windshield,” I said.

As if by instinct she brushed her fingertips across the surface of her face. Her voice was flat. “Is that how Lydia’s picture was?”

“The eyes. It’s probably just meant to scare us.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” I put the scrap in my pocket and pulled her up to me. “Krissy, I want you to go to your cousin’s for a while. Just until this is over.”

Her lips parted. “We should call the police.”

“We will. I want you safe. But I’m still not sure you would be. Last night Henry asked if I’d stay on the case.”