Indelible

Chapter Six

During the five hours she spent at Nell's, Sara found out more about Jeffrey Tolliver than she had in three months of dating him. Jeffrey's mother was a confirmed alcoholic and his father was serving time in prison for something no one was very specific about. Jeffrey had dropped out of Auburn two classes away from graduating and joined the police force without telling anybody why. He was an excellent dancer and he hated lima beans. He was definitely not the marrying kind, but Sara did not need Nell to tell her this. Jeffrey radiated the words "confirmed bachelor."

Considering Nell had managed to mumble most of these details under her breath during a particularly competitive game of Trivial Pursuit, Sara was only privy to the headlines and none of the details behind them. It was pitch dark by the time they left the group, and as Sara and Jeffrey walked down the street toward his mother's house, she tried to think of a way to find out more.

She settled on "So, what does your mother do?"

"Different things," he said, not offering anything else.

"And your dad?"

He switched her suitcase to his other hand and wrapped his arm around her. "You seem like you had a good time tonight."

"Nell's just full of insight."

"She likes the sound of her own voice." He slid his hand to her hip. "I wouldn't believe everything she says."

"Why is that?"

His hand slid lower as he nuzzled her neck. "You smell good."

She got the message, but did not exactly change the subject. "Are you sure your mother won't mind us staying over?"

"I called her from Nell's a few hours ago," Jeffrey said. "You remember when Nell was telling you my life story?" He gave her a look that said he knew exactly what had been going on with Nell, though Sara had to assume Jeffrey would not have taken her to meet his friends without knowing exactly what would happen.

She decided to call him on it. "This is a pretty cheap way for me to find out all about your life without you having to say a word."

"I told you, I wouldn't believe everything Nell has to say."

"She's known you since you were both six."

"She's not exactly my biggest fan."

Sara finally picked up on the tension between them. "Don't tell me you dated her, too?"

He didn't answer, which she took for an affirmation. "It's right here," he said, indicating a house with a beat-up Chevy Impala parked in the driveway. Even though Jeffrey had called ahead, his mother hadn't bothered to leave on any lights for them. The house was completely dark.

Sara hesitated. "Shouldn't we stay in a hotel?"

He laughed, helping her as her foot caught on some loose gravel. "There aren't any hotels here except the one behind the bar that truck drivers rent by the hour."

"Sounds romantic."

"Maybe for some of them," he suggested, leading her up the front steps. Even in the darkness, Sara could tell the house was one of the ones that had been allowed to fall into disrepair. Jeffrey warned her, "Watch that board," as he slid his hand along the top of the door-frame.

"She locks her door?"

"We were robbed when I was twelve," he explained, jiggling the key in the lock. "She's lived in fear ever since." The door stuck at the bottom and he used his foot to push it open. "Welcome."

The smell of nicotine and alcohol was overwhelming, and Sara was glad the darkness hid her expression. The house was stifling and she could not imagine spending the night, let alone living here.

"It's okay," he said, indicating she should go in.

She lowered her voice, "Shouldn't we be quiet?"

"She can sleep through a hurricane," Jeffrey said, closing the door behind him. He locked it with the key, then, judging from the sound, dropped the key into a glass bowl.

Sara felt his hand on her elbow. "Back this way," he said, walking close behind her. She took about four steps through the front room before she felt the dining room table in front of her. Three more steps and Sara was in a small hallway, where a nightlight revealed a bathroom in front of her and two closed doors on either side. He opened the door on the right and followed her through, closing the door again before he turned on the light.

"Oh," Sara said, blinking at the small room. A twin bed with green sheets and no blanket was pushed into the corner under a window. Posters of half-naked women were taped around the walls, with Farrah Fawcett given a place of prominence over the bed. The closet door was the only departure from the decorating scheme: a poster showed a cherry red convertible Mustang with an exaggerated blonde leaning over the hood – probably because the weight of her enhanced breasts prevented her from standing up straight.

"Lovely," Sara managed, wondering how bad the hotel was.

Jeffrey seemed embarrassed for the first time since she had met him. "My mother hasn't changed things much since I left."

"I can see that," she said. Still, part of Sara was intrigued. As a teenager, her parents had made it clear that boys' rooms were off-limits and Sara had therefore missed the experience. While the Farah Fawcett poster was predictable, there was something else to the room, some sort of essence. The smell of cigarette smoke and bourbon did not exist here. Testosterone and sweat had muscled it out.

Jeffrey put her suitcase flat on the floor and unzipped it for her. "I know it's not what you're used to," he said, still sounding embarrassed. She tried to catch his eye, but he was busy sorting through his duffel bag. She realized from his posture that he was ashamed of the house and what she must be thinking about him for growing up here. The room looked different in light of this, and Sara noticed how neatly everything had been arranged and the fact that the posters were hung equidistant, as if he had used a ruler. His house back in Grant County reflected this need for orderliness. Sara had only been there a few times, but from what she had seen, he kept everything exactly in its place.

"It's fine," she assured him.

"Yeah," he said, though not in agreement. He found his toothbrush. "I'll be right back."

Sara watched him leave, pulling the door shut quietly behind him. She took advantage of the situation and quickly changed into her pajamas, all the while keeping her eye on the door in case his mother walked in. Nell had not sounded exactly complimentary when she had talked about May Tolliver, and Sara did not want to meet the woman with her pants down.

Sara sat on the floor and went through her suitcase, looking for her hairbrush. She found it wrapped up in a pair of shorts and managed to remove her hair clip without tearing out too much of her curly, tangled hair. She looked around the room as she brushed her hair, taking in the posters and the various items Jeffrey had collected throughout his childhood. On the windowsill were several dried bones that had once been in a small animal. The bedside table, which looked homemade, had a small lamp and a green bowl with a handful of loose change. Track ribbons were scattered on a bulletin board, and a milk crate held cassette tapes with song titles typewritten neatly across the labels. Across from where she sat was a makeshift bookshelf of two-by-fours and bricks, stacked end to end with books. Where Sara had been expecting comic books and the occasional Hardy Boys, she found thick tomes with titles such as Strategic Battles of the Civil War and The Socio-Political Ramifications of Reconstruction in the Rural South.

She put down the brush and picked up the least intimidating-looking textbook. Flipping to the front, she found Jeffrey's name, followed by a date and course information. Thumbing through the pages, she saw where he had taken copious notes in the margins, underlining and highlighting passages that were of interest. Sara was slightly shocked to realize that she was completely unfamiliar with Jeffrey's handwriting. He had never left her notes or written lists in her presence. Contrary to her own cramped printing, he wrote in a beautiful, flowing script, the kind they no longer taught in school. His w's were impeccable, transitioning neatly into adjoining vowels. The loops on his g's were all the same identical pattern, as if he had used a stencil to make them. He even wrote in a straight line, not diagonally like most people did without a baseline to follow.

She traced her finger along his notations, feeling the indentation the pencil had made in the page. The words seemed almost engraved, as if he had gripped the pencil too tightly.

"What are you doing?"

Sara felt a flicker of guilt, as if she had been caught reading his diary instead of a textbook from long ago. "The Civil War?"

He kneeled beside her, taking the book. "I majored in American History."

"You're just full of surprises, Slick."

He winced at the name as he slid the book back into place, lining it up carefully so that it was flush with the others. A thin line of dust marked the exact spot. He pulled out a slim leather-bound volume. Gold letters stamped the cover, saying, simply, LETTERS.

"Soldiers wrote these to their sweethearts back home." Jeffrey said, thumbing through the fragile-looking book, turning to a page he must have known from heart. He cleared his throat and read, " 'My darling. Night comes and I lay awake, wondering at the character of the man I have become. I look at the velvet sky and wonder if you look up on these same stars, and pray that your mind holds on to the image of the man I was to you. I pray that you still see me.' "

Jeffrey stared at the words, a smile at his lips like he shared something secret with the book. He read the way he made love: deliberately, passionately, eloquently. Sara wanted him to continue, to lull her to sleep with the deep cadence of his voice, but he broke the spell with a heavy sigh.

"Anyway." He tucked the book back into place, saying, "I should have sold these back when the classes ended, but I didn't have the heart."

She wanted to ask him to continue, but said, "I kept some of mine, too."

He sat down behind Sara, his legs on either side of her. "I couldn't afford to."

"I wasn't exactly rich," she told him, feeling defensive. "My father's a plumber."

"Who owns half the town."

Sara did not comment, hoping he would drop it. Eddie Linton had invested well in real estate down by the college, which Jeffrey had found out on a couple of landlord calls about soon-to-be-evicted noisy tenants. She supposed by Jeffrey's standards the Linton family was wealthy, but Sara and Tessa had grown up with the impression that they should never spend more money than what they had in their pockets – which was never much.

Jeffrey said, "I guess Nell told you about my dad."

"A little."

His laugh had a harsh edge to it. "Jimmy Tolliver was a small-time crook who thought he was walking into a big score. Two men were shot and killed robbing that bank, and now he's locked up with no chance of parole." Jeffrey picked up the hairbrush. "You talk to anybody in town, they'll tell you I'm just as bad as he is."

"I seriously doubt that," Sara countered. She had worked with Jeffrey for a while now, and knew that he always went out of his way to do the right thing. His integrity was one of the main things that had attracted her to him.

He said, "I got into trouble a lot when I was a kid."

"Most boys do."

"Not with the police," he countered, and she did not know what to say. He couldn't have been that bad or there was no police force in the country that would have accepted him, let alone given him the keys to the station house.

He added, "I imagine Nell gave you an earful about my mother."

Sara did not answer.

He started to brush her hair. "Is that why you sucked at Trivial Pursuit? You were too busy trying to follow what Nell was saying?"

"I've never been good at board games."

"What about other games?"

She closed her eyes, enjoying the stroking bristles. "I beat you at tennis," she reminded him.

"I let you," he said, though she knew he had nearly killed himself trying to win.

Jeffrey pulled back her hair and gently kissed her neck.

"We could have a rematch?" she suggested.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. He did something with his tongue that made her sink back into him without thinking.

She tried to sit up but he would not let her. She whispered, "Your mother is in the next room."

"The toilet's in the next room," he told her, slipping his hands under her shirt.

"Jeff -" She gasped as his hand dipped below her pajama bottoms. She stopped him before he could go any farther.

Jeffrey said, "Trust me, she can sleep through anything."

"That's not the point."

"I locked the door."

"Why did you lock it if she can sleep through anything?"

He growled at her much the way he had growled over his high school teacher. "Do you know how many nights I laid awake in this very room when I was a kid, wishing I had a beautiful woman in here with me?"

"I seriously doubt I'm the first woman you've had here."

"Here?" he asked, indicating the floor.

She twisted around so she could see him. "Do you think that's some kind of aphrodisiac, telling me how many women you've had in your bedroom?"

He scooted a few inches across the floor, dragging her with him. "You're the first one I've ever had here."

She gave an exaggerated sigh. "Finally, a way to distinguish myself."

"Stop that," he said, suddenly serious.

"Or what?" she teased.

"I'm not playing around."

"According to what I've heard -"

"I mean it, Sara. I'm not having fun."

She stared at him, not following.

"What you said to your mother," he told her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not just having fun with you." He paused before looking away from her, staring at the bookshelf. "I know that's what you're doing, but I'm not, and I want you to stop saying stuff like that."

Every warning Sara had heard over the last few months came flooding into her brain, and she bit back the raging impulse to throw her arms around him and declare her love. Instinctively, she knew that part of the reason Jeffrey was saying this to her now was because he had no idea how she felt. Sara was not foolish enough to tell him.

Her silence obviously unnerved him. She saw his jaw work, and he stared somewhere over her shoulder.

Sara tried to face him, but he would not look at her. She traced her finger along his lips, smiling as she realized he had shaved for her. His skin was smooth, and she smelled his aftershave along with something like oatmeal.

He said, "Tell me how you feel."

Sara could not trust herself to answer. She kissed his jaw, then his neck. When he did not respond, she kissed the palm of his hand, knowing better than to tell him that was exactly where he held her.

Jeffrey put his hands on either side of her face, his eyes intense and unreadable. He gave her a long, sensual kiss as he pushed her back, and Sara felt herself melt to the floor. He cupped her breasts, using his tongue to bring out chills along her skin. Slowly, he started to work his way down, his breath a feathery kiss across her belly, then lower. He put his tongue inside of her, and Sara felt a momentary weight-lessness as everything in her body focused on that one spot. She ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him up toward her, making him stop.

His voice was a hoarse whisper. "What?"

She drew him closer, kissing him, tasting herself in his mouth. Nothing was rushed, but Sara felt the need for urgency as she fumbled with the zip on his jeans. He tried to help, but Sara told him, "No," relishing the weight of him in her hand.

"Inside me," she said, biting his ear until a guttural sound caught in his throat. "I want you inside me."

"Christ," he whispered, his body shaking as he tried to hold himself back. He reached for his pocket, trying to find a condom, but she pulled his attention sharply back to focus, guiding him inside her.

She arched up as he entered her. At first, he moved slowly, almost painfully so, until Sara's entire body was tense as a violin string. The muscles along his back were equally taut, and she could not help digging her nails in as she tried to pull him in deeper. Jeffrey kept the rhythm slow, watching her every move, tuning his body to hers so that several times she was taken to the edge, only to be gently brought back. Finally the rhythm increased, his hips grinding into hers, the weight of his body pressing her to the limit until the release forced her head back, her mouth open. He kissed her, stifling the sounds she made, even as his own body shuddered against hers.

"Sara," he breathed into her ear, finally letting himself go.

She held him inside her, and he started kissing her again, slow and sensual, his hand stroking the side of her face like a cat. Her body pulsed with aftershocks, and she slid her arms around him, holding him close, kissing his lips, his face, his eyelids, until he finally rolled to his side, resting his weight on his elbow.

She let out a short breath, feeling her body slowly come down from the high. Her head was still swimming and she could not keep her eyes open no matter how hard she tried.

He stroked his fingers along her temple, touching her eyelids, her cheeks. "I love the way your skin feels," he said, letting his hand slide down her body.

She rested her hand on his, letting out a content sigh. She could stay like this all night – maybe even for the rest of her life. She felt closer to Jeffrey now than she had ever felt with a man in her life. Sara knew that she should be scared, should try to hold part of herself back, but right now all she could think to do was lie there and let him do whatever he liked.

His fingers found the scar on her left side, and he said, "Tell me about this."

Sara's mind reeled with white-hot panic, and she forced herself not to jerk away from him. "Appendix," she said, though the injury had come from a hunting knife.

He opened his mouth, and she was sure he would ask how she could be a doctor and not know that the appendix was on the right side, but what he said was, "Did it burst?"

She nodded, hoping that would suffice. Lying was not a normal habit of Sara's, and she knew better than to invent a complicated story.

"How old were you?"

She shrugged, watching him watch his finger trace along the scar. The edge was jagged, far from the precision slice of a surgeon's scalpel. A serrated blade had made the cut as the knife was buried nearly to the hilt in her side.

"It's kind of sexy," he told her, leaning down to kiss it.

Sara put her hand to the back of his head, staring up at the ceiling as the enormity of the lie began to sink in. This was just the beginning. If she ever wanted any kind of future with Jeffrey, she should tell him now before it was too late.

He brushed his lips across hers. "I thought we'd get out early tomorrow."

Her mouth opened, but instead of telling him the truth, she said, "You don't want to say goodbye to your friends?"

He shrugged. "We can call them when we get to Florida."

"Crap." Sara sat up, looking for a clock. "What time is it?"

He tried to pull her back but Sara was too fast. She rifled through her suitcase, asking, "Where's my watch?"

He folded his hands behind his head. "Women don't need to wear watches."

"Why is that?"

He gave a smug, deeply satisfied smile. "There's a clock on the stove."

"Very funny," she said, throwing her brush at him. He caught it with one hand. "I told my mother I'd call as soon as we got to Florida."

"So call her tomorrow."

Sara found her watch, cursing under her breath. "It's past midnight. She'll be worried."

"There's a phone in the kitchen."

Her underwear was still wrapped around her ankle from where she had not quite managed to kick it off. Sara tried to look as graceful as possible as she pulled them back on, followed by her pajama bottoms.

"Hey," he said.

She looked up, but he shook his head, indicating he had changed his mind.

She buttoned her shirt as she walked toward the door. Her hand was on the knob before she realized, "It doesn't have a lock."

He feigned surprise. "Is that so?"

Sara walked into the hall and pulled the door to behind her. She felt her way along the wall, stopping when she remembered the dining room table. The nightlight did not illuminate much this far from the bathroom, and Sara used her hands to feel her way toward the kitchen. Outside the room, the smell of nicotine was even stronger than she had remembered. By sheer luck, she found the telephone on the wall by the refrigerator.

She dialed her parents' house collect, whispering her name when the operator asked, hoping she would not wake up Jeffrey's mother. The call was put through and the phone rang once before her father picked up.

"Sara?" Eddie said, his voice like a croak.

She leaned against the counter, relieved to hear him. "Hey, Daddy."

"Where the hell are you?"

"We stopped in Sylacauga."

"What the hell is that?"

She started to explain, but he would not let her.

"It's past midnight," he said, his tone sharp now that he realized she was okay. "What the hell have you been doing? Your mother and I have been worried sick."

She heard Cathy murmur something in the background, and Eddie said, "I don't want to hear that bastard's name. She never used to call late before him."

Sara braced herself for a tirade, but her mother managed to wrestle the phone from her father before he could get another word out.

"Baby?" Cathy sounded equally worried, and Sara felt guilty for how she had spent the last two hours when she could have taken two minutes to call her parents and let them know she was okay.

"I'm sorry I didn't call before," Sara told her. "We stopped in Sylacauga."

"And that is?"

"A town," Sara said, still not sure she was pronouncing it correctly. "It's where Jeffrey grew up."

"Oh," Cathy said. Sara waited for more, but all her mother said was, "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Sara assured her. "We had a nice time with his friends. They all went to school together. It's just like home, only smaller."

"Is that so?"

Sara tried to decipher her tone, but could not. "We're at his mother's now. I haven't met her yet, but I'm sure she's nice, too."

"Well, let us know when you get to Florida tomorrow if you have the time."

"Okay," Sara answered, still unable to read her mother's tone. She wanted to tell her what had happened, what Jeffrey had said, but she did not have the courage. What's more, she did not want to be called a fool.

Cathy seemed to read nothing into Sara's hesitation. She said, "Good night, then."

Sara wished her the same, and hung up the phone before her father could get back on the line. She pressed her head back against the kitchen cabinet, wondering if she should call them again. As much as she hated her mother being in her business, Sara valued Cathy's opinion. Too much was happening right now. She needed to talk to someone about it.

A loud bump came from the dining room as someone fell against the table and a woman's voice growled a curse.

"Hello?" Sara said, trying not to surprise Jeffrey's mother.

"I know you're there," she said, her voice raspy and cold. "Jesus Christ," she mumbled to herself, opening the refrigerator door. In the light, Sara saw a bent-over old woman with salt-and-pepper hair. Her face was wrinkled far beyond her years, and every line in her mouth seemed devoted to smoking a cigarette. She held one there now, ash hanging off the end.

May Tolliver pounded a bottle of gin onto the counter, took a long drag from her cigarette, then turned her attention on Sara. "What do you do?" she asked, then gave a nasty chuckle. "That is, other than fuck my son?"

Sara was so taken aback she began to stutter. "I…I…d-don't…"

"Fancy doctor," she said. "Isn't that right?" The laugh came again, this time even nastier. "He'll bring you down a peg or two. You think you're the first one? You think you're special?"

"I -"

"Don't lie to me," the old woman barked. "I can smell him on your cunt from here."

Seconds later, Sara was in the street. She could not recall finding the key or opening the front door or even leaving the house. The only thing she knew was that she had to put as much distance between herself and Jeffrey's mother as she could. Never in her life had another woman spoken to her that way. Sara's face burned from the shame of it, and when she finally stopped under a street lamp to catch her breath, she found that tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Shit," she hissed as she turned in a full circle, trying to get her bearings. She had taken a left turn at least, but beyond that, Sara was completely unsure of her surroundings. She could not even recall the name of Jeffrey's street, let alone remember what his house looked like. A dog barked as she passed a yellow house with a white picket fence, and Sara felt a chill as she realized that she did not recognize the dog or the fence. To make matters worse, her feet were burning from the hot asphalt and mosquitoes had come out in force to feast on the idiot who was walking around alone, wearing nothing but a thin pair of cotton pajamas, in the middle of the night. She did not know why she cared about finding the house. Even if she made it back, Sara would sleep in the street before she went back in. Her only hope was to backtrack from Jeffrey's to find Nell and Possum's house. There was a magnetic key safe on the undercarriage of the BMW. Jeffrey could find his own ride to Grant. Sara did not care if she ever saw her clothes or suitcase again.

Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream cut through the night. Sara stopped mid-stride, tension filling the air like molasses. A car backfire sounded like gunshot, and adrenaline tensed every muscle in her body. In the distance, she could see a tall figure moving quickly toward her, and instinctively Sara turned, running away as fast as she could. Heavy footsteps pounded behind her, and she pumped her arms, her lungs nearly exploding in her chest as she pushed herself to get away.

"Sara," Jeffrey called, his fingertips brushing against her back. She stopped so quickly that he smacked into her, knocking them both down. He managed to cushion the fall with his body, but her elbow was jarred against the pavement.

"What is wrong with you?" he demanded, jerking her up by the arm. He slapped grit off the side of her pajama leg. "Did you scream?"

"Of course not," she snapped, suddenly angrier with him than she had ever imagined herself capable. Why had he brought her here? What did he hope to accomplish?

"Just calm down," he said, reaching out at if to soothe her.

She slapped away his hand. "Don't touch me" was all she could say before the car backfired again. Though this time, Sara knew it was not a car. She had been to the firing range often enough to know the sound of a weapon being discharged.

Jeffrey cocked his head to the side as he tried to figure out from which direction the sound had come. Again, there was a single gunshot, and he turned away from her, saying, "Stay here," as he bolted down the road toward the yellow house with the picket fence.

Sara followed as best she could, going around the fence that Jeffrey had hurdled, using a worn path in someone's garden to get to the backyard of the yellow house. There was a bright flash of light as Jeffrey kicked in the back door, followed by another scream. He ran out seconds later, and all the lights seemed to turn on in the house at once.

"Sara!" Jeffrey yelled, waving her in. "Hurry!"

She jogged toward him, feeling a sharp sting in the arch of her foot as she crossed the grass. There were pine needles and cones in the yard, and she tried to step as carefully as she could without slowing down.

Jeffrey grabbed her arm and pulled her the rest of the way into the house. The layout was similar to Possum's, with a long hallway down the center and the bedrooms on the right.

"Down there," Jeffrey said, pushing her toward the hall. He picked up the kitchen phone, telling her, "I'll call the police."

Shock overcame Sara for a moment as she walked into the master bedroom.

The ceiling fan wobbled out of balance overhead, the blades making an awkward chopping sound. Jessie stood beside an open window, her mouth moving but no noise coming out. A shirtless man lay facedown on the floor by the bed. The right side of his head was blown off. Streaks of blood led to a short-nosed gun that looked as if it had been kicked away from the area near his left hand.

"My God," Sara breathed. Blood sprayed the area by the bed in a fine mist, spattering parts of the ceiling and the light on the fan. A chunk of skull and scalp was hanging from the bedside table; what looked like a section of earlobe was stuck to the front of the drawer.

Despite the horrific scene in front of her, Sara felt her medical training kick in. She went to the man, pressing her fingers against his neck, trying to find a pulse. She checked his carotids and found nothing, her fingers sticking to the skin when she pulled them away. There was a sheen of sweat on the body. The sickly sweet smell of vanilla filled the air.

"Is he dead?"

Sara spun around at the question.

Robert stood behind the bedroom door. He was partially bent over, leaning against the wall for support. His left hand covered a wound in his side, blood seeping out between his fingers. His right hand held a gun that was pointed toward the dead man.

Sara told Jessie, "Get me some towels," but the woman did not move.

"Are you okay?" Sara asked, keeping her distance from Robert. He still held the gun at his side and there was a glassy look to his eyes, like he did not know where he was.

Jeffrey entered, assessing the scene with a quick glance. "Robert?" he said, taking a few steps toward his friend. The other man blinked, then seemed to recognize Jeffrey.

Jeffrey indicated the gun. "Why don't you give me that, man?"

His hand shook as he handed the weapon to Jeffrey muzzle first. Jeffrey engaged the safety and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans.

Sara told Robert, "I need to take off your shirt, okay?"

He looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Is he dead?"

"Why don't you sit down?" she suggested, but he shook his head, leaning back against the wall again. He was a tall man and very muscular. Even in his undershirt and boxer shorts, he looked like someone who was not used to taking orders.

Jeffrey caught Sara's eye before asking, "What happened, Bobby?"

Robert's mouth worked, as if he had difficulty speaking. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Jeffrey stood between his friend and the body. "What happened?"

Jessie spoke in a rush, pointing to the window. "Here," she said. "He came in through here."

Jeffrey walked along the periphery of the room, peering though the open window without touching it. He said, "The screen's off."

Robert hissed with pain as Sara peeled back the shirt. Still, he helped her lift it over his head so she could see the full extent of the damage. He cursed between his teeth, gripping his shirt in his hand as she tentatively pressed the wound. Blood dribbled steadily from the small hole in his side into the waistband of his boxer shorts, but he put his shirt over the area to staunch the blood before Sara could properly examine the wound. She could see an exit wound higher up in his back before he turned his body away from her. The bullet was lodged in the wall directly behind him, red pinpricks of blood forming a circle around the hole.

"Bob," Jeffrey said, his tone sharp. "Come on, man. What happened?"

"I don't know," Robert said, practically grinding his shirt into the wound. "He just…"

Jessie interrupted, "He shot Bobby."

"He shot you?" Jeffrey repeated, obviously trying to get the story from Robert. There was a surprising underlayer of anger to his tone as he looked around the room, probably trying to reconstruct the scene in his head.

Jeffrey pointed to a bullet hole in the wall on the far side of the bed. "Is this from his gun or yours?"

"His," Jessie said in a high-pitched voice. From the way she was acting, Sara guessed the other woman was talking loudly to try to hide the fact that she was stoned out of her mind. She swayed back and forth like a pendulum, her pupils wide enough to blind her in direct sunlight.

Jeffrey hushed Jessie with a look. "Robert, tell me what happened."

Robert shook his head, holding his hand tightly to his wounded side.

Jeffrey demanded, "Goddammit, Robert, let's get your story straight before somebody puts it on paper."

Sara tried to help, saying, "Just tell us what happened."

"Bob?" Jeffrey prodded, his anger still palpable.

Sara tried to be gentle, telling Robert, "This would be easier if you sat down."

"It'd be easier if he fucking talked," Jeffrey yelled.

Robert looked at his wife, his mouth a straight line. He shook his head, and Sara thought she saw tears in his eyes. For her part, Jessie just stood there, slightly swaying, her robe pulled around her as if to stop a chill. She probably would not even realize how close they had both come to death until the morning.

"He came in through the window," Robert finally told them. "He put a gun on Jess. A gun to her head."

Jessie's expression as he said this was unreadable. Even from this distance, Sara could see that the other woman was having difficulty following the story. At Jessie's feet were several opened prescription bottles that had probably fallen from the bedside table. Blood splotched the triangular-shaped white pills. Sara could see where her footprints had smeared into the thick pile of the carpet. Jessie had run past the body on the way to the window. Sara wondered what she had been thinking. Was she trying to escape while her husband fought for his life?

Jeffrey asked, "What happened next?"

"Jessie screamed, and I pushed…" Robert glanced at the dead man on the floor. "I pushed him back and he fell…and then he shot at me – shot me – and I…" He stopped, trying to control the emotion that obviously wanted to come.

"There were three shots," Sara remembered. She looked around the room, trying to reconcile what she had heard in the street with the story he told.

Robert stared at the dead man. "Are you sure he's gone?"

"Yes," she told him, knowing that lying would serve no purpose.

"Here?" Jeffrey said, obviously trying to distract Robert from the grim truth. He pointed to the bullet hole by the bed. "He missed the first time?"

Robert made a visible swallow. Sara could see a bead of sweat roll down his neck when he answered, "Yeah."

"He came in through the window," Jeffrey began. "He put a gun to Jessie's head." He looked at Jessie for confirmation, and she nodded quickly. "You pushed him off the bed and he shot at you. You got your gun then. Right?" Robert gave a curt nod, but Jeffrey was not finished. "You keep your piece where? The closet? In the drawer?" He waited, but again Robert was reluctant. "Where do you keep your piece?"

Jessie opened her mouth, but closed it when Robert pointed to the closed armoire opposite the bed, saying, "There," before Jeffrey could repeat himself.

"You got your gun," Jeffrey said, opening the armoire door. A shirt fell out and he replaced it on the pile. Over his shoulder, Sara could see there was a plastic-molded gun safe on the top shelf. "You keep your backup in here, too?"

He shook his head. "The living room."

"All right." Jeffrey rested his hand on the open door. "You went for your gun. He shot you then?"

"Yes," Robert nodded, though he did not sound convinced. His voice was stronger when he added, "And then I shot him."

Jeffrey turned back to the scene, nodding his head as if he was having a conversation with himself, working everything out. He walked over to the window again and looked out. Sara watched him do all of this, shocked. Not only had Jeffrey changed the crime scene, now he was helping Robert concoct a plausible story for how this had all happened.

Jessie cleared her throat, and her voice shook when she asked Sara, "Is he going to be okay?"

Sara took a moment to realize Jessie was talking to her. She was still focused on Jeffrey, wondering what he would do next. He'd had a few minutes alone with Robert and Jessie before he called Sara into the house. What had he done during that time? What had they worked out?

"Sara?" Jessie prompted.

Sara made herself concentrate on what she could control, asking Robert, "Can I look?"

He moved his hand away from the bullet wound and Sara resumed the examination. His shirt had smeared the blood, but she thought she could make out a V-shaped sear pattern just below the opening.

She tried to wipe away the blood, but Robert put his hand back over the wound, saying, "I'm all right."

"I should check -"

He interrupted her. "I'm fine."

Sara tried to hold his gaze, but he looked away. She said, "Maybe you should sit down until the ambulance gets here."

Jeffrey asked, "Is it bad?"

"It's okay," Robert answered for her, leaning back against the wall again. He told Sara, "Thank you."

"Sara?" Jeffrey asked.

She shrugged, not knowing what to say. In the distance, she heard the wail of a siren. Jessie crossed her arms over her chest with a shudder. Sara wanted to see that shirt, wanted to see if the material was burned in the same pattern as Robert's skin, but he held it tightly in his fist, pressing it into the wound.

Sara had been a coroner for only two years, but the type of marking she thought she had seen was textbook quality. Even a rookie cop two days on the job would know what it meant.

The gun had been fired at contact range.