Grave Secret

Six

I must have unlocked the door in answer to the pounding, because Matthew was in the room, and I was not being any help to Tolliver because I was standing there looking down at him, my hands held out in front of me because I’d touched my face and my hands were covered with blood. Since my hands were dirty I didn’t want to touch Tolliver.

Matthew was on his knees beside his son. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and hit 911, though it required more concentration than anything I’d ever done. I gasped out the motel and its location, and I think I said we needed an ambulance immediately, and I said “sniper,” because I was thinking of the word.

In a thought that went by so quickly I couldn’t catch its trailing ends, I was sorry I’d mentioned a sniper because maybe the ambulance wouldn’t come because the driver was scared, and then I tossed that idea overboard and joined Matthew on the carpet, facing him over Tolliver’s body.

I’d been shot at through a window before, and it had been frightening. I’d had glass all over me then, too. But this was so much worse, terrible, it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me, because it had happened to Tolliver. That was all I could think of, the eeriness of such a thing happening twice, but I tried to yank myself out of the horror and I tried to help. Matthew was pulling off his shirt and folding it, and he pressed it to the bloodiest spot.

“Hold this, you idiot,” he said, and I put my hands on the pad formed by the shirt. It was soaking through with blood under my fingers.

If he hadn’t rushed back to the door so quickly, I would have accused him of doing this to Tolliver, but I just didn’t think. It was an idea I definitely would have adopted if it had even occurred to me.

Tolliver’s eyes opened. He was pale, bewildered. “What happened?” he said. “What happened? Honey, are you okay?”

“Yes, okay,” I said, pressing down with all my might. “Listen, they’re coming, baby.” I couldn’t remember ever calling Tolliver “baby” in all the years we’d known each other. “They’re coming, and they’ll fix you up. You’re not hurt bad, you’re going to be okay.”

“Was there a bomb?” he said. “Was there an explosion?” His voice faltered. “Dad, what happened? Harper’s hurt.”

“Don’t you worry about Harper,” Matthew said. “She’s fine. She’s going to be okay.” He was examining Tolliver’s wounds with his fingers, pulling Tolliver’s shirt up to examine the skin.

Then Tolliver’s eyes rolled up and his face went slack.

“Oh, Jesus!” I almost moved my hands, but even in the panic of the moment I knew I mustn’t. I’d held on for what felt like hours. It was no time to let go.

“He’s not dead,” Matthew yelled. “He’s not dead.”

But he looked dead to me.

“No,” I said. “He’s not dead. He’s not. He can’t be. It’s his right shoulder, and that’s not the heart. He can’t die from this.” I knew what a fool I was being, but there was no shame in it right at that moment.

“No, he won’t die,” his father said.

I opened my mouth to scream at Matthew, though I don’t know what I would have said, and then I clamped my lips together because I heard an ambulance.

There were people crowding in the door to the room, and they were talking and exclaiming, and I heard some of them shouting at the ambulance driver Come over here, come over here, and if I turned my head to my left, I could look out the window and see the flashing lights. More than anything else I’d ever wanted, I wanted someone who knew what the hell they were doing to come into this room and take the hell over, someone who could fix my brother and stop this bleeding.

There was more yelling outside, as the police got there right along with the ambulance and began urging everyone to move back, move back, and then the ambulance guys were there inside the room and Matthew and I had to get out of the narrow space so they could work.

The police took me outside, and I could not remember a single face after that night. “Someone shot him through the window,” I said, to the first face that seemed to be asking me a question. “I was standing behind him and someone shot him through the window.”

“What relation?” asked the face.

“I’m his sister,” I said automatically. “This is his dad. Not my dad, but his.” I don’t know why I made the distinction, except I’d been making it clear to people for years that I had no kinship to Matthew Lang.

“You need to go to the hospital, too,” said the face. “You need to get that glass pulled out.”

“What glass?” I said. “Tolliver got shot.”

“You have glass in your face,” the man said. I could see now that he was a man, that he was an older man in his fifties. I could see that he had brown eyes and deep creases radiating from their corners, and a big mouth and crooked teeth. “You gotta get that pulled out and cleaned.”

I needed to start wearing safety goggles if I was going to keep on getting glass in my face.

Then I was at the hospital, sitting in a cubicle, and someone had taken my wallet from my purse to get the insurance information. About a hundred people were asking me questions, but I couldn’t talk. I was waiting for someone to come to tell me how Tolliver was doing, and there was no point in talking until I knew what had happened to him. The doctor who was removing the glass seemed a little scared of me. She tried to keep talking, maybe thinking I’d relax if her voice kept going.

“You need to look down while I get this piece out,” she said finally, and when I looked down I could feel the tension go out of her body. I must have been staring. I was wishing that I could let go of my body and float down the hall to see what was happening to my brother. If I promised to give him up if he lived, would that help? The bargains you make when you are frightened are probably a true measure of your character. Or maybe just an accurate measure of your primitive nature, what you would be like if you’d never been to a mall or gotten a paycheck or relied on someone else to provide your food.

A woman in a pink smock asked me if there was anyone else she could call for me, anyone who would like to stay with me, and I knew I would start screaming if I saw Iona or Hank, so I said no.

They let his dad go in with him. Not me! I had to get the glass out! I was so angry I thought the top of my head was going to come off when my brain exploded. But I didn’t scream. I kept it inside me. When the doctor and the nurse had finished with me, and they’d given me a couple of pills because they thought I’d have an uncomfortable time of it for a while, I nodded to them and went in search of Tolliver. I found Matthew sitting in a waiting room, talking to a policeman.

He looked at me when I came in, and I could see the caution in his face.

“This is Tolliver’s stepsister. She was in the room with him, standing behind him,” Matthew said, as if he were the master of ceremonies introducing the lineup.

The policeman was a detective, I guess, since he was in slacks and a shirt and a Windbreaker. He was very tall, and he looked to me like a former football star, which in fact turned out to be the case. Parker Powers had been a famous high school football player from Longview, Texas, who’d gotten injured two years into his contract with the Dallas Cowboys. That made him very nearly a star, certainly a notable. I got all that within ten minutes of meeting him, thanks to Matthew Lang.

Detective Powers was a medium shade of brown and had light blue eyes. His hair was dusty brown and curly and clipped close. He wore a wide wedding ring.

“Who do you think shot at you?” he asked me, which was more direct than I’d expected.

“I can’t imagine,” I said. “I would have said it was Matthew, here, if he hadn’t gotten back in the room so quickly.”

“Why his dad?”

“Because who else cares?” I said, realizing that wasn’t the most coherent way to make my point. “Granted, some people don’t like what we do, but we’re honest and we don’t make enemies. At least, not any that I knew of. Obviously, we made at least one.” I don’t know how the police made any sense of this, but presumably at some point I had explained what Tolliver and I did. I don’t remember.

Detective Powers went through the whole question-and-answer routine about how we made our living, how long we’d been doing it, how much money we made, what our last case had been. I actually had to think for a minute about that, but then I remembered the Joyces’ visit and I told him about it. He didn’t seem too happy to discover that we were on speaking terms with a wealthy and powerful family.

A doctor came in, an older man with a fringe of hair and a worn-out face. I was on my feet in an instant.

“Mr. Lang’s family?” He looked from me to Matthew. I could not speak; I was waiting. Matthew nodded.

“I’m Dr. Spradling, and I’m an orthopedic surgeon. I’ve just operated on Mr. Lang. Well, good news, on the whole. Mr. Lang was shot by a small-caliber bullet, probably from a.22 rifle or a handgun. It went through his clavicle, his collarbone.”

I gasped. I couldn’t help it. I was acting like a fool.

“So I’ve pinned the clavicle. There was no major damage to nerves or blood vessels from the bullet, so he was a lucky man-if you can call anyone who gets shot lucky. He made it through the surgery just fine,” the doctor said. “And I think he’s going to recover without many hitches. As far as what’s going to happen next, he’ll have to stay in the hospital for two or three days. If everything continues to go well, if no complications come up, he can be released. But he’ll probably have to have IV antibiotics for a week after that. We can arrange for a visiting nurse to help with that, but you’ll have to remain in the area, and I understand you don’t have a residence here.” He aimed his gaze more or less between us, as he waited to see what would develop.

I nodded frantically to assure him I understood. “Anything you say,” I told Dr. Spradling.

“Where do you live, Miss Connelly? I understand he lives with you?”

I caught a glimpse of Matthew’s face, and I thought maybe Matthew was about to try to take control of Tolliver’s care. A huge fear bobbed to the top of all my other fears. Would they even let me in to see him if Matthew protested? I had to trump Matthew’s fatherhood card. I opened my mouth and surprised myself by telling the doctor, totally out of the blue, “We’re common-law married. What you call an informal marriage.” Texas recognized an unmarried union, and I was pretty sure that was what they called it. Common-law wife might beat out stepsister. “We have an apartment in St. Louis. We’ve been together for six years.”

The doctor couldn’t have cared less. He just wanted to let me know what was going to be involved in taking care of Tolliver. He did, however, turn slightly so he was addressing me specifically. “It would be easier if you could find a place near to the hospital until he’s stronger, when we release him. He’s not out of the woods yet, but I really think he’ll be all right.”

“Okay.” I ran all he’d said back through my mind, hoping I could remember it all. Broken clavicle, small-caliber bullet, no other major damage. Three days in the hospital. IV antibiotics a nurse would administer in the hotel. A closer hotel.

“They can stay with me and their brother if they need to,” Matthew said, and the doctor nodded, clearly uninterested in the details. I could guarantee that wasn’t going to happen, but this wasn’t the time to settle it.

“As long as he can have someone responsible with him. He needs to be quiet and comfortable, get up and move around several times a day, take his meds on time, avoid alcohol, and eat good food,” the doctor said. “And again, that’s assuming he continues to do well. We’ll know more tomorrow.” Dr. Spradling wanted to be sure we were sufficiently warned.

I nodded vigorously, shaking with anxiety.

“I’ll stay in his room here tonight,” I said, and the doctor, who’d half turned away, made an effort to look sympathetic.

“Since he’s just had surgery, he’ll be checked on very frequently tonight,” the doctor said. “And he won’t be awake. You’d be much better off going home, cleaning up, and coming back in the morning. If you’ll just leave a phone number, they’ll contact you if there’s any problem at all.”

I looked down at myself. I had blood all over me, and it had dried. I looked… horrendous, and now I understood why everyone who walked by me glanced away. And I smelled like blood and fear. And I needed our car. So against my own inclinations, I asked Matthew to take me back to the motel.

The police had finished processing the ruins of our room by then. When I trudged into the lobby to talk to the woman at the front desk, I was greeted by the manager, an African American woman in her fifties with clipped hair and a sympathetic manner. She was anxious to get me out of sight of any guests who might come in, and when we were in the little room in back of the check-in desk, she made me sit down and brought me a cup of coffee, which I didn’t remember requesting. Her name tag read Deneise.

“Miss Connelly,” she said, very earnestly and sincerely, “if you’ll give your consent, I’ll send Cynthia into the room to gather up your clothes and your personal items.”

I wondered where this scene was leading. “All right, Deneise,” I said. “That would be very helpful.”

She took a deep breath and said, “We hope you’ll accept our regret that this terrible incident occurred, and we want to make this time as stress free for you as we can. We know you have so many things to think about.”

I finally got it. Deneise was wondering if we considered the motel to blame in the shooting, and she wanted to feel me out about my intentions. And I think she was genuinely shaken up and sorry the whole thing had happened.

After Cynthia had been dispatched to the ruined room to salvage what she could of our stuff-to my relief, Matthew offered to go with her-Deneise got down to terms. “You may not want to stay here another night, Miss Connelly, but if you do, we’d love to have you.”

I felt that was less than sincere, but I also didn’t blame the woman.

“If you do decide to stay, of course we’d be glad to supply you with a comparable room free of charge, to show our regret that you’ve been… inconvenienced.”

I almost smiled. “That’s an understatement,” I said. “Yes, I’d like to have a room for the rest of the night, but I’ll be checking out first thing in the morning. I have to find something closer to the hospital.”

“How is Mr. Lang doing?” Deneise asked, and I told her he was going to be all right.

“Oh, that’s good news!” She seemed relieved on several different levels, and I didn’t blame her a bit.

Now that the motel situation was settled, I was anxious to get into a room and get clean. The manager called Cynthia on her cell phone and told her to take our luggage directly to room 203.

“I thought you might feel better if you weren’t on the ground level,” she explained as she hung up.

“You’re right,” I said. I thought of the black hole of the window, and I shuddered. My face and shoulders were hurting, I was covered with dried dots and smears of blood, and suddenly I began shivering, now that I had the luxury of time for myself. Now that I thought Tolliver would be all right.

Matthew appeared in the office doorway. “Your stuff’s in your new room, and I don’t think anything is missing. Everything seems to be in your purse.”

I didn’t like the idea of Matthew having access to my purse, but he had been a real help tonight, and I had to give the devil his due. I told Deneise I was grateful she’d been so thoughtful, and with my new key card in hand, I went out to the lobby with Matthew to get in the elevator.

“Thanks,” I said, as it rumbled up to the open area with snack machines and the ice maker. A couple coming up the stairs glanced at us curiously, and when they’d absorbed my bloody state, they hurried away to their room.

“That’s okay,” Matthew said. “I heard the shot, and I heard you scream. I ran across that parking lot pretty damn fast.” He laughed.

I hadn’t even realized I’d screamed.

“You didn’t see anyone in the parking lot?”

“Nope. And it makes me nuts, because the shooter had to have been really close to me.”

I stowed that idea away to think over later. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at the hospital tomorrow, if you can get off work,” I said. Abruptly, I wanted to be alone more than anything.

“You want me to call Iona?” Matthew asked.

When I said, “No!” he laughed, a choky sort of laugh that made him sound like Tolliver for a moment.

“You don’t mind me saying so, you’re pretty dependent on my son,” Matthew said, chiming in with my thoughts so neatly that I was instantly angry.

“Your son is my lover and my family,” I said. “We’ve been together for years. While you were gone.”

“But you need to be able to function on your own,” Matthew said in the righteous tone of someone who’s had counseling; and because he was trying to sound gentle, I was even angrier. I may not be your garden-variety person, but I am not as fragile as I seem. Or maybe I am, but that wasn’t any of Matthew Lang’s business.

“I don’t believe you have the right to tell me how I ought to live, how I ought to be,” I said. “You have no rights over me. You never did. You never will. I appreciate your help tonight. I’m glad you finally did something for your son, though it took him getting shot for you to do it. You need to go now, because I have to shower.” I used the key card, and the door to the new room swung open. The lights were on, and the room was warm. Our suitcases sat on the floor beside the bed.

Matthew nodded to me and walked away without saying one other word, which was a very good thing. I looked at Tolliver’s suitcase and began to cry, but I made myself go into the bathroom and shed my blood-speckled clothes. I took a very careful bath, mindful of my scores of cuts and nicks. I put on my pajamas.

I called the hospital again, and found Tolliver was still the same. I reminded them again to call me instantly if there was any change. I put the phone on the charger, and lay in bed, and listened for it to ring.

But it didn’t. All night.

THE next morning as I went through a McDonald’s drive-through, I realized I had to call Iona to tell her what had happened. Otherwise, she might read it in the papers. I didn’t expect anything from her, and it was a strange feeling to realize that there was someone I should report to; Tolliver and I are used to being on our own. If we hadn’t been in the same urban area, I would never have considered calling Iona about Tolliver’s injury. I got to the hospital early, looked into his room to find Tolliver sleeping, and returned to the lobby to use my cell phone. The reception in the lobby wasn’t good, so I stepped outside with the smokers. It was a cold, clear day, with a brilliant blue sky.

I checked my watch, felt there was a chance Iona hadn’t left for work yet, and called the house. Iona wasn’t best pleased to hear from me early in the morning, and she let me know it.

“Tolliver got shot last night,” I said, and she was silent.

“Is he all right?” she asked, even now sounding grudging.

“Yes, he’s going to make it,” I said. “He’s in a regular room at God’s Mercy Hospital. He had some surgery on his shoulder. He’ll be in the hospital for a couple more days, the doctor thinks.”

“Well, I don’t believe I need to tell the girls right now,” Iona said. “Besides, Hank’s already taken ’em to school. We’ll talk about it when they come home today.”

“Suit yourself,” I said. “I’ve got to call Mark.” I clicked the phone shut, angry and disappointed. It wasn’t that I wanted my little sisters upset and worried, especially after the skating rink incident yesterday-it was that I knew my interaction with them would always be ruled and regulated by the troll squatting across the draw-bridge that led to them. I was being pretty ungrateful to Iona with that comparison. I should be glad every day that she and Hank had had the nerve and grace to undertake the raising of two girls from such a damaging background.

But going through her was such an uphill battle.

For the first time, I thought Tolliver might be right. Maybe we should just butt out of our sisters’ lives and send them Christmas presents and cards on their birthdays.

Then Mark answered his phone in a drowsy voice, and I had to chuck aside these bad thoughts and deal with the here and now. Mark had worked late the night before so he wasn’t too coherent, but I made sure he got the gist of the story and knew the name of the hospital. He promised he’d come by when he could, probably later in the morning.

Then I had nothing else to do but return to the dreary room and watch Tolliver sleep. Of course I had a book in my purse, and I tried to read for a while, but I kept losing track of the narrative. Finally, I put the book away and simply looked at Tolliver.

Tolliver is seldom sick, and he’d never been hurt this seriously. The bandages and the IV and the gray tone of his skin made him seem almost a stranger, as if someone had crept in and usurped his body. I sat staring at him, willing him to sit up, willing the vigor to return to his body.

That worked as well as you’d expect.

I knew I had to be the strong one now. With my brother down, I had to take care of him, of us. It was good that we’d planned on spending a few days in Texas, because I knew we didn’t have any other jobs booked that I should be rescheduling. However, I’d have to check the laptop for new messages. I’d have to take care of everything. I immediately began to worry that I wouldn’t do a good job of it, that I’d forget something critical. But what could I forget that would matter so very much? As long as we didn’t miss an engagement, as long as I kept gas in the car so we didn’t run out, I would be doing a good job.

Finally, Dr. Spradling came in. Tolliver had been moving around a little, so I knew he was about to wake up. Dr. Spradling looked even more tired and old today. He gave me a glance and a nod before approaching Tolliver’s bed. He said, “Mr. Lang?” in a penetrating voice. Tolliver’s eyes flew open. He looked past the doctor, right at me, and relief relaxed the lines of his mouth.

“You okay, baby?” he said, trying to hold out a hand to me.

I stepped past the doctor, circled the bed to the other side. I took his left hand in both my own.

“How are you?” I asked.

Dr. Spradling was looking into Tolliver’s eyes, reading his chart, and listening to our conversation.

“My shoulder hurts. What happened to you?” he asked. “The window exploded. Someone throw a brick in? You have cuts on your face.”

“Tolliver, you got shot,” I said. I couldn’t think of a tactful way to ease into the subject. “I only got hit by some of the glass from the window. It’s nothing. You’re going to be okay.”

Tolliver looked confused. “I don’t remember,” he said. “I got shot?”

“His memory will clear up,” Dr. Spradling said. I looked at him, blinking so I wouldn’t cry.

“This is not uncommon,” he told me, and I appreciated his trying to reassure us. “Mr. Lang, I’m going to look at your wound.” A nurse came in, and the next few minutes were really unpleasant. Tolliver looked exhausted by the time he was rebandaged.

“Everything looks fine,” Dr. Spradling said briskly. “Mr. Lang, you’re coming along just like I’d hoped.”

“I feel so bad,” Tolliver said, not quite complaining, but as though he were worried.

“Being shot is a serious thing,” Dr. Spradling said, glancing at me with a slight smile. “It’s not like on television, Mr. Lang, when people hop right out of their hospital beds and go chase thieves.”

I don’t think Tolliver followed all that, because he was looking at the doctor with an uncertain expression. Spradling turned to me. “I expect he’ll be here tomorrow, and we’ll see the next day. He may have to have some physical therapy on that shoulder.”

“But he’ll have full use of his arm?” I said, suddenly realizing I hadn’t even begun to worry as much as I had reason to.

“If everything continues to go well, that’s probable.”

“Oh,” I said, flattened by the lack of certainty. “What can I do?”

Dr. Spradling looked as though he were as much at a loss as Tolliver. The doctor clearly didn’t think there would be much I could do for Tolliver except pay his bill. “It’s up to him,” Dr. Spradling said. “Your partner.”

I don’t think I would have liked any doctor that day, since a doctor couldn’t give me a clear-cut answer. My mind knew Dr. Spradling was being logical and realistic, and my mind also told me I should appreciate that. But my mind was taking a backseat to my emotions.

I managed to keep myself under control, and Dr. Spradling departed with a cheery wave. Tolliver still looked a little confused, but he drifted back into a doze. His eyelids flickered when there was a sound in the hall, but they never quite opened. I couldn’t figure out what to do next. I was standing by the bed, looking down at Tolliver and trying to make a plan, any plan, when Victoria Flores came in after a quick knock on the door.

Victoria was in her late thirties. A former police officer on the Texarkana force, she was both full figured and beautiful. I’d never seen Victoria wearing anything but a suit and heels. She had her own personal dress code. Victoria ’s dark, coarse hair was smoothed into a shoulder-length pageboy, and heavy gold earrings gave her some bling. Today the suit was a dull red, worn over a cream-colored blouse.

“How is he?” she said, nodding toward the silent figure on the bed. No hug, no handshake, no preliminaries. Victoria went straight to business.

“He’s hurt pretty bad,” I said. “He has a broken bone.” I tapped my own collarbone by way of illustration. “But the doctor who was just in here, he said Tolliver would be okay if he did physical therapy. If nothing changes.”

Victoria snorted. “So, what happened?”

I told her.

“What was your last case?” she asked me.

“The Joyces were.”

“I’m meeting with them later this morning.”

I didn’t describe the reading I’d gotten at the cemetery, because the Joyces hadn’t given me permission, but I did give Victoria an outline of the time we’d spent with them. And she knew they’d visited us at the motel.

“That has to be the most likely cause of the shooting,” Victoria said. “What about the case before this one?”

“You remember the serial killer, the boys killed in North Carolina? All buried in the same place?”

“That was you-you found them?”

“Yeah. That was awful. Also, we did get a lot of publicity, most of it the wrong kind.” I’d found that quiet word of mouth was better for getting actual paying jobs. Publicity might prompt a flare of interest, but that interest was mostly from people who wanted to explore the unexplained and lurid, not people who wanted to pay a lot of money to have it displayed in their neighborhood.

“So this shooting incident might be a fallout of the North Carolina case?”

“Now that I’ve said it out loud, that doesn’t sound very likely.” Tolliver needed a shave. I should do that, and then I had to comb his hair. I couldn’t think of anything else I could do to help him.

He looked so helpless. He was so helpless. I was the only defense he had. I had to man up.

“The North Carolina murders really, really upset a lot of people,” Victoria said, her voice thoughtful. She clearly believed Tolliver’s shooting must be related to the only case of mass murder we’d ever discovered.

“But the bad guys got caught. Why would anyone want to shoot us because we helped to catch who did it?”

“You sure there weren’t any more in on it? The two men were the only killers?”

“I’m sure, and what’s more, the police are sure. Believe me, that was one thorough investigation. They haven’t gone to trial yet, but the prosecutor’s pretty damn sure they’re going to get a conviction.”

“Okay.” Victoria looked down at Tolliver for a few seconds. “Then either you’ve got a stalker or it’s something to do with the Joyces.” She paused for a moment. “There hasn’t been anything new about your sister for a long time. I am assuming the trail’s too cold for Cameron’s abduction to have any relation to what’s happening to you now.”

I nodded. “I agree. I think the Joyce case is the most likely. If they okay me talking to you, I’ll be glad to tell you all about it. There’s really not much to tell.”

Victoria whipped out her cell phone and made a call, which I was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to do in a hospital. She started talking. A few seconds later, she handed the phone to me.

“Hello,” I said.

“This is Lizzie Joyce.”

“Hi. Did you want me to talk to Victoria?”

“That’s real ethical of you. You have my permission.” Did she sound amused? I didn’t think my morality was funny at all. “I’m sorry about your manager,” Lizzie continued. “I understand it happened at that same motel where we visited you. My God! What do you think happened? Was it just a random shooting?”

A memory surfaced. “One of the cops did tell me there was another shooting a couple of blocks away. So it’s possible. But that’s pretty hard to believe.”

“Well, I’m real sorry. If there’s anything I can do, you just let me know.”

I wondered how sincere the offer was. For one wild minute, I considered saying, “This hospital stay is going to be really expensive, because our insurance is shitty. Can you take care of the bill? Oh, and pick up the tab for his rehab, too, while you’re at it?” But I simply thanked her and handed the phone back to Victoria.

I’d been too preoccupied to think about the financial crunch we were going to face until that moment. I thought unhappy thoughts, while Victoria Flores wound up her conversation with Lizzie Joyce. For the first time, I saw the full scope of the problem in front of me. I realized Tolliver’s injury meant the end of our dream of buying a house, at least in the foreseeable future.

It was possible for me to be more depressed, which I would not have believed ten minutes earlier.

I told Victoria about the visit to Pioneer Rest Cemetery. She asked me a lot of questions I couldn’t answer, but finally she seemed satisfied that she’d wrung every last bit of knowledge and conjecture out of me.

“I hope I can perform like they want me to,” she said, having her own down moment. “I can’t believe they came to me instead of some big agency, but now that I know the details, I can see why they called someone like me.”

“It’s been hard, the move to this area?” I asked.

“Yeah, there’s a lot more business, but a lot more competition,” Victoria said. “It’s good to be close to my mother; she helps with my daughter. And the school MariCarmen’s in here is better than the one in Texarkana. Plus, the driving distance isn’t bad, and I still have business and a lot of contacts back there. It just takes me two and a half, three hours, depending on traffic and weather.”

“We’re never going to find Cameron, are we?” I said.

Victoria ’s mouth opened, as if she was going to tell me something. Then she closed it. “I wouldn’t say that. You never know when a lead will pop up. I wouldn’t string you along. You know that’s true.”

I nodded.

“It’s always in the back of my mind,” Victoria said. “All those years ago, when I came by your trailer and talked to Tolliver… I was just a rookie cop. I thought I could find her quick, and make a name for myself. That didn’t happen. But now that I’m out on my own, I still look for her, everywhere I go.”

I closed my eyes. I did, too.