Kisscut

Chapter Eight

Around six o'clock in the morning, Jeffrey rolled out of bed and fell onto the floor. He sat up, groaning at the pain in his head as he tried to remember where he was. The trip to Sylacauga had taken him six long hours last night, and he had tumbled into the twin bed without even bothering to take off his clothes. His dress shirt was wrinkled, the sleeves pushed up well past his elbows. His pants were creased in four different places.

Jeffrey yawned as he looked around his boyhood room. His mother had not changed a thing since he had left for Auburn over twenty years ago. A poster of a cherry-red 1967 Mustang convertible with a white top was on the back of the door. Six pairs of worn-out sneakers were on the floor of the closet. His football jersey from Sylacauga High was tacked to the wall over the bed. A box of cassette tapes was stacked high under the room's only window.

He lifted the mattress and saw a stack of Playboys, that he had started stockpiling at the age of fourteen. A much-loved copy of Penthouse, purloined from the local store down the street, was still on the top. Jeffrey sat back on his heels, thumbing through the magazine. There had been a time in his life when he had known every page of the Penthouse by heart, from the cartoons to the articles to the lovely ladies in provocative poses that had been the focus of his sexual fantasies for months on end.

"Jesus," he sighed, thinking some of the women were probably old enough to be grandmothers now. Christ, some of them were probably eligible for social security.

Jeffrey groaned as he slid the mattress back into place, trying not to push the magazines out on the other side. He wondered if his mother had ever found his stash. Wondered, too, what she must have thought of it. Knowing May Tolliver, she had ignored them, or made up an excuse that allowed her to block out the fact that her son had enough pornography under his mattress to wallpaper the entire house. His mother was good at not seeing things she did not want to see, but then most mothers were.

Jeffrey thought about Dottie Weaver, and how she had missed all the signs with her daughter. He put his hand to his stomach, thinking about Jenny Weaver standing in the parking lot at Skatie's. The image was like a Polaroid etched into his eyelids, and he could see the little girl standing there, the 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?"

"As close as you can be to a kid you only see a few times a year." Sara paused, then said, "Yeah. Some of them you connect with. I connected with Lacey. I think she has a little crush on me."

"That's weird," he said.

"Not really," Sara told him. "Lots of kids get crushes on adults. It's not a sexual thing, they just want to impress them, to make them laugh."

"I'm still not following."

"They get to be a certain age and their parents can't be cool anymore. Some kids, not all of them, can transfer their feelings onto another adult. It's perfectly natural. They just want someone to look up to, and at that point in their lives it can't be their parents."

"So, she looked up to you?"

"It felt that way," Sara said, and he could hear the sadness in her voice.

"You think she would've told you if something was going on?"

"Who knows?" Sara replied. "Something happens to them when they get into middle school. They get a lot more quiet."

"That's what Grace Patterson said. That they keep secrets."

"That's true," Sara agreed. "I just chalked up the change to puberty. All those hormones, all those new feelings. They've got a lot to think about, and the only thing they're certain of is that adults have no way of understanding what they're going through."

"Still," Jeffrey countered, "don't you think she would've talked to you if something was wrong?"

"I'd like to think so, but the truth is, she'd have to have her mother drive her here. I can't kick the mother out of the room without causing some suspicion."

"You think Grace would have been reluctant to leave y'all alone?"

"I think she would've been worried. She's a good mother. She takes an interest in her kids and what they're doing."

"That's what Brad said."

"What does Brad have to do with this?" Sara asked.

"He's the youth minister at Crescent Baptist."

"Oh, that's right," Sara said, making the connection. "He must've been on the retreat."

"Yeah," Jeffrey told her. "There were eight kids from the church: three boys, five girls."

"That doesn't sound like a lot of kids."

"It's a small church," Jeffrey reminded her. "Plus, skiing is expensive. Not a lot of people have that kind of money to begin with, especially around the holidays."

"That's true," she agreed. "But it was just Brad chaperoning?"

"The church secretary was supposed to help out with the girls, but she got sick at the last minute."

"Have you talked to her?"

"She had some kind of stroke. She was only fifty-eight years old," he said, thinking that when he had been a kid, fifty-eight had seemed ancient. "She moved down to Florida so her kids could take care of her."

"So, what did Brad say about Jenny and Lacey?"

"Nothing specific. He said Lacey and Jenny pretty much stayed by themselves while the rest of the kids were off skiing and having fun."

"That's not uncommon for girls that age. They tend to form tight little groups."

"Yeah," Jeffrey sighed, feeling yesterday's frustrations settling into his gut. "Brad went over to Jenny's house when she stopped coming to church. She pretty much burst into tears the minute she saw him and wouldn't talk."

"What'd he do?"

"Left with his hat in his hands. He asked Dave Fine to check in on her, but Dave got the same treatment."

"Did you talk to Dave about it?"

"Briefly. He was about to go into a therapy session." Jeffrey felt a flash of guilt, thinking about Lena. He should not have allowed her to use her therapy appointment to interview Fine. Jeffrey had given in too easily because it was convenient.

"Jeffrey?" Sara said, her tone indicating she had asked him a question and was waiting for an answer.

"Yeah, sorry," Jeffrey apologized.

"What did Fine say?"

"The same as Brad. He offered to come in tomorrow and talk some more, but neither one of them seem like they're going to be much help." Jeffrey rubbed his eyes, trying to think of any straw he could grasp. "What about Mark Patterson?" he finally asked. "Does he seem kind of weird to you?"

"Weird how?"

"Weird like…" Jeffrey tried to find the words. He did not really want to go into the Patterson interview with Sara, mostly because of what had happened with Lena. There had been something between her and the boy, something that set his teeth on edge. They both worked off each other somehow. "Weird like I don't know."

Sara laughed. "I don't think I can answer that."

"Sexual," he said, because that was a good word to describe Mark Patterson. "He seemed really sexual."

"Well," Sara began, and he could hear the confusion in her voice. "He's a good-looking kid. I imagine he's been sexually active for a very long time."

"He just turned sixteen."

"Jeffrey," Sara said, as if she were talking to an idiot. "I've got ten-year-old girls who haven't even started their periods asking me about birth control."

"Jesus," he sighed. "It's way too early in the morning to hear that kind of thing."

"Welcome to my world," she told him.

"Yeah." He stared at the jersey on his wall, trying to remember what it had felt like to be Mark Patterson's age and have the world in the palm of his hand. Though, Mark Patterson did not seem to feel that way.

Jeffrey did not like this helpless feeling. He should be back in Grant, trying to figure this out. At the very least, he should be keeping an eye on Lena. For a while Jeffrey had felt she was on the edge, but not until yesterday did he realize that she was closer to falling than keeping herself balanced.

"Jeff?" Sara asked. "What's wrong?"

"I'm worried about Lena," he told her, and the words felt familiar to him. He had been worried about Lena since he hired her ten years ago. First, he was worried that she was so aggressive on patrol, taking every collar like her life depended on it. Then, he had worried that she put herself in danger too often as a detective, pushing suspects to their breaking point, pushing herself to her own breaking point. And now he worried that she was about to lose it. There was no question in his mind that she would explode soon. It was just a matter of when. With a start, he realized this had been his fear from the beginning: When would Lena finally break in two?

"I think you should be worried about her," Sara said. "Why won't you take her off active duty?"

"Because it would kill her," he answered, and he knew this was true. Lena needed her job like other people needed air.

"Is there something else?"

Jeffrey thought about the conversation he'd had with Lena in the car. She had not been exactly sure of herself when she told him the shot was clean. "I, uh," he began, not knowing how to say this. "When I talked to Lena yesterday…" he said.

"Yeah?"

"She didn't seem too sure about what had happened."

"About the shooting?" Sara demanded, obviously irritated. "What exactly did she say?"

"It wasn't what she said so much as how she said it."

Sara mumbled something that sounded like a curse. "She's just playing with you to get back at me."

" Lena 's not like that."

"Of course she is," Sara shot back. "She's always been like that."

Jeffrey shook his head, not accepting this. "I think she's just not sure."

Sara mumbled a curse under her breath. "That's just great."

"Sara," Jeffrey said, trying to calm her down. "Don't say anything to her, okay? It'll only make it worse."

"Why would I say anything to her?"

"Sara…" He rubbed sleep from his eyes, thinking he did not want to talk about this now. "Listen, I was just fixin' to go to the hospital-"

"This really ticks me off."

"I know that," he said. "You've made it clear."

"I just-"

"Sara," he interrupted. "I really need to go."

"Actually," she said, moderating her tone, "I was calling for a reason, if you've got a minute?"

"Sure," he managed, feeling a sense of trepidation. "What's up?"

He heard her take a deep breath, as if she were about to jump off a cliff. "I was wondering if you'll be back tonight."

"Late, probably."

"Well, then, how about tomorrow night?"

"If I come back tonight, I won't have to come back tomorrow night."

"Are you being dense on purpose?"

He played back their conversation in his mind, smiling when he realized that Sara was trying to ask him over. Jeffrey wondered if she had ever done something like this in her life.

He said, "I've never been very bright."

"No," she agreed, but she was laughing.

"So?"

"So…" Sara began, then she sighed. He heard her mumble, "Oh, this is so stupid."

"What's that?"

"I said," she started again, then stopped. "I'm not doing anything tomorrow night."

Jeffrey rubbed his whiskers, feeling the grin on his face. He wondered if there had ever been a time in this room when he had felt happier. Maybe the day he got the call from Auburn, saying he could go to college for free in exchange for getting the shit beaten out of him on the football field every Saturday.

He said, "Hey, me neither."

"So…" Sara was obviously hoping he would fill things in for her. Jeffrey sat back down on the bed, thinking hell would freeze over before he helped her out.

"Come over to my house," she finally said. "Around seven or so, okay?"

"Why?"

He could hear her chair squeak as she sat back. Jeffrey imagined she probably had her hand over her eyes.

"God, you are not going to make this easy, are you?"

"Why should I?"

"I want to see you," she told him. "Come at seven. I'll make supper."

"Wait a minute-"

She obviously anticipated his problem with this. Sara was not exactly a good cook. She offered, "I'll order something from Alfredo's."

Jeffrey smiled again. "I'll see you at seven."

As a boy, Jeffrey had done his share of stupid things. His two best friends from elementary school to high school had lived down the street from him, and between Jerry Long, a boy with a curiosity about fireworks, and Bobby Blankenship, a boy who liked to hear things explode, they had managed to risk their lives any number of times before puberty took hold and girls became more important than blowing things up.

At the age of eleven, the three had discovered the pleasure of exploding bottle rockets in a steel drum behind Jeffrey's house. By the time they were twelve, the drum was as dented and pockmarked as Bobby "Spot" Blankenship's face. By the time they were thirteen, Jerry Long had been given the name "Possum" because, when the drum had finally exploded, a piece of shrapnel had nearly sliced off the top of his head, and he had lain in Jeffrey's backyard like a possum until Jean Harris had called an ambulance to take him to the hospital, and the police to scare the bejesus out of Jeffrey and Spot.

Jeffrey had not earned his nickname until later, when he had started to notice girls and, more important, they had started to notice him. Like Possum and Spot, he was on the football team, and they were pretty popular in school because the team was winning that year. Jeffrey was the first of the trio to kiss a girl, the first to get to second base, and the first to finally lose his virginity. For these accomplishments, he was given the nickname "Slick."

The first time Jeffrey had taken Sara to Sylacauga, he had been so nervous that his hands would not stop sweating. They had just started dating, and Jeffrey had been under the impression that Sara was a little too socially elevated for Possum and Spot, and more than likely for ol' Slick as well. Sylacauga was the epitome of a small Southern town. Unlike Heartsdale, there was no college up the street, and no professors in town to add some diversity to the mix. Most of the people who lived here worked in some kind of industry, whether it was for the textile mill or the marble quarry. Jeffrey was not saying they were all backward, inbred hicks, but they were not the kind of people he thought Sara would be comfortable hanging around.

Sara wasn't just what the locals would call "book learned," but a medical doctor, and her family might have been blue collar, but Eddie Linton was the kind of man who knew how to manage a dollar. The family owned property up and down the lake, and even had some rental units in Florida. On top of that, Sara was sharp, and not just about books. She had a cutting wit, and wasn't the kind of woman who would have his slippers and a hot meal waiting for him when he got home from work. If anything, Sara would expect Jeffrey to have these things ready for her.

About six miles from the Tolliver house, there was a general store called Cat's that Jeffrey and everyone else had frequented growing up. It was the kind of place where you could buy milk, tobacco, gasoline, and bait. The floor was made from hand-hewn lumber and there were enough gashes and scars in it to trip you up if you did not watch where you were walking. The ceiling was low, and yellowed from nicotine and water stains. Freezers packed with ice and Coca-Colas lined the entranceway, and a large Moon Pie display was up by the cash register. The gas pumps outside dinged with every gallon pumped.

While Jeffrey was at Auburn, Cat had passed away, and Possum, who worked at the store, had taken over for Cat's widow. Six years later, Possum had bought out the widow Cat, and changed the name to "Possum's Cat's." When Sara had first seen the sign over the dilapidated building, she had been delighted, and made reference to the Eliot poem. Jeffrey had fought the urge to crawl under the car and hide, but Sara had laughed when she found out the truth. As a matter of fact, she had enjoyed herself that weekend, and by the second day there, Sara was lying out by the pool with Possum and his wife, laughing at stories about Jeffrey's errant youth.

Now, Jeffrey could smile at the memory, though at the time he had been slightly annoyed to be the butt of their jokes. Sara was the first woman who had made fun of him like that, and, truth be told, that was probably the point at which she had hooked him. His mother liked to say that he liked a challenge.

Jeffrey was thinking about this, thinking that Sara Lin-ton was, if anything, a challenge, as he turned into the parking lot of Possum's Cat's. The place had changed a lot since Cat had owned it, and even more since the last time Jeffrey had been in town. The only thing that remained the same was the big Auburn University emblem over the door. Alabama was a state divided by its two universities, Auburn and Alabama, and there was only one important question every native asked the other: "Who are you for?" Jeffrey had seen fights break out when someone gave the wrong answer in the wrong part of town.

A day care was to the right of the store, a new addition since the last time Jeffrey had visited. On the left was Madam Bell's, which was run by Possum's wife, Darnell.

Like Cat, Madam Bell had passed a long time ago. Jeffrey thought that Nell ran the place just to give her something to do while the kids were at school. He had dated Nell off and on in high school until Possum had gotten serious about her. Jeffrey could not imagine that same restless girl being happy with this kind of life, but stranger things have happened. Besides, Nell had been three months pregnant the week they all graduated from school. It wasn't like she had been given a lot of choices.

So he wouldn't take up one of the spaces in front of the store, Jeffrey let the car idle outside Bell 's, Lynyrd Skynyrd's " Sweet Home Alabama " playing softly on the car's speakers. He had found the tape in the box under the window in his room, and experienced a bit of nostalgia when the first chords of what was one of his favorite songs reached his ears. It was odd how you could love something so much, but forget about it when it wasn't right under your nose. He felt that way about this town, and his friends here. Being around Possum and Nell again would be like nothing had changed in the last twenty years. Jeffrey did not know how he felt about that.

What he did know was that seeing his mother in the hospital ten minutes ago had made him want to get back to Grant as fast as he could. There was something suffocating about the way she held on to him when she hugged him, and the way she let her voice trail off, saying things by leaving them unsaid. May Tolliver had never been a happy woman, and part of Jeffrey thought his father had been such a bumbling crook so that he would get caught and taken off to jail, where his miserable wife could not nag him every day about what a disappointment he was. Like Jimmy, May was a mean drunk, and though she had never raised her hand to Jeffrey, she could cut him in two with her words faster than anyone he had ever met. Thankfully, she still seemed to be functioning, even with enough alcohol in her to fuel a tractor for sixty miles. If May could be believed, a feral cat from under the neighbor's house had startled her and she had fallen down the steps. Since Jeffrey had heard some cats over there this morning, he had to give his mother the benefit of the doubt. He did not want to admit to anyone, let alone to himself, how grateful he was that his mother did not need further intervention.

Jeffrey stepped out of the car, his foot sliding a little on the gravel drive. He had changed into jeans and a polo shirt back at his mother's house, and he felt odd being clothed so casually in the middle of the week. He had even considered wearing his dress shoes, but had changed his mind when he caught a glance of himself in the mirror. He slipped on his sunglasses, looking around as he walked toward Madam Bell's.

The fortune-teller's building was more like a shack, and the screen door groaned when Jeffrey opened it. He knocked on the front door, stepping into the small front parlor. The place looked just as it had when he was a boy. Spot had once dared Jeffrey to go in and have his palm read by Madam Bell. He had not liked what she had to say, and never stepped foot back in the place again.

Jeffrey craned his head around the door, looking into the shack's only other room. Nell sat at a table with a deck of tarot cards in front of her. The television was on low, or maybe the air conditioner in the window was drowning out the sound. She was knitting something as she watched her show, her body leaning forward as if to make sure she caught every word.

Jeffrey said, "Boo."

"Oh, my God." Nell jumped, dropping her knitting. She stood from the table, patting her palm against her chest. "Slick, you 'bout scared me half to death."

"Don't let that happen twice," he laughed, pulling her into a hug. She was a small woman, but nice and curvy through the hips. He stepped back to get a good look at her. Nell had not changed much since high school. Her black hair was the same, if not a little gray, straight and long enough to reach her waist, but pulled back in a ponytail, probably to fight the heat.

"You been over to Possum's?" she asked, sitting back down at the table. "What're you doing here? Is it about your mama?"

Jeffrey smiled, sitting across from her. Nell had always talked a hundred miles an hour. "No and yes."

"She was drunk," Nell said in her usual abrupt way. Her candor was one of the reasons Jeffrey had stopped dating her. She called things the way she saw them, and at eighteen Jeffrey had hardly been introspective.

Nell said, "Her liquor bills 'bout kept us afloat last winter."

"I know," Jeffrey answered, crossing his arms. He had paid his mother's utility bills for some time now just to keep her in liquor. It was pointless to argue with the old woman about it, and at least this way he knew she would stay at home and drink instead of going out to do something about it.

He said, "I just came from the hospital. They gave her a shot of vodka while I was standing there."

Nell picked up the cards and started to shuffle them. "Old biddy'd go into the DTs if they didn't."

Jeffrey shrugged. The doctor had said the same thing in the hospital.

"What're you lookin' at?" Nell asked him, and Jeffrey smiled, realizing that he had been staring at her. What he had been thinking was that it was easier to talk to Nell about his mother's alcoholism than it was to talk to Sara about it. He could not begin to understand why this was. Maybe it was because Nell had grown up with it. With Sara, Jeffrey tended to get embarrassed, then ashamed, then finally angry.

"How is it you get prettier every time I come see you?" he teased her.

"Slick, Slick, Slick," Nell said, clucking her tongue. She laid a couple of cards face up on the table, asking, "So, why'd Sara divorce you?"

Jeffrey startled, asking, "You see that in the cards?"

She smiled mischievously. "Christmas cards. Sara's had 'Linton' on the return address." She put another card down on the table. "What'd you do, cheat on her?"

He indicated the cards. "Why don't you tell me?"

She nodded, laying down a couple more. "I'd guess you cheated on her and got caught."

"What?"

Nell laughed. "Just 'cause she don't talk to you don't mean she don't talk to me."

He shook his head, not understanding.

"We've got a phone, too, puppy," she told him. "I talk to Sara every now and then, just to catch up."

"Well, then you must know I've been seeing her again," he said, aware he was sounding like the cocky old Slick he had been, but unable to stop it. "What do your cards say about that?"

She turned a couple more over and studied them for a few seconds, a frown tugging her lips down. Finally, she scooped the cards back into a deck. "These stupid things don't tell you nothing anyway," she mumbled. "Let's get over to Possum's. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

She held her hand out to him, and he hesitated, wonder-ing if he should push her on the reading. Not that Jeffrey believed Nell had the gift, or that anyone did for that matter, but it set his teeth on edge that she would not at least make something up so that he would feel better.

"Come on," she said, tugging at his sleeve.

He acquiesced, letting her lead him out of the shack and back into the unrelenting Alabama heat. There were no trees in the gravel parking lot, and Jeffrey could feel the sun baking the top of his head as they crossed toward the gas station.

Nell looped her hand through his arm, saying, "I like Sara."

"I do, too," he told her.

"I mean, I really like her, Jeffrey."

He stopped, because she seldom called him "Jeffrey."

She said, "If she's giving you another chance, don't fuck it up."

"I don't plan to."

"I mean it, Slick," she said, tugging him toward the store. "She's too good for you, and God knows she's too smart." She waited at the door so he could open it. "Just don't fuck it up."

"Your faith in me is inspiring."

"I just don't want Little Jeffrey messing things up for you again."

" 'Little?'" he repeated, opening the door. "Your memory giving out on you?"

Jeffrey could tell she was going to answer him, but Possum's booming voice drowned out everything.

"That Slick?" Possum yelled as if Jeffrey had just gone out for a walk instead of been away for years. Jeffrey watched as the other man edged over the counter. His belly got in the way, but he landed on his feet despite the laws of physics.

"Damn," Jeffrey told him, rubbing the other man's large gut. "Nell, why didn't you tell me you got another one on the way?"

Possum laughed good naturedly, rubbing his belly. "We're gonna call it Bud if it's a boy, Dewars if it's a girl." He put his arm around Jeffrey, leading him into the store. "How you been, boy?"

Without thinking, Jeffrey delivered his standard response. "I ain't been a boy since I was your size."

Possum laughed, throwing back his head. "Wish we had Spot around. How long you gonna be in town?"

"Not long," Jeffrey told him. "I'm actually on my way out." He turned around to see that Nell had left them alone.

"Good woman," Possum said.

"I can't believe she's still with you."

"I take away her keys at night before I go to sleep," he told Jeffrey, giving him a wink. "Wanna beer?"

Jeffrey looked at the clock on the wall. "I usually don't drink until at least noon."

"Oh, right, right, right," he answered. "How about a Co-Cola?" He scooped a couple out of an ice chest without waiting for a response.

"Hot out," Jeffrey said.

"Yep," Possum agreed, popping the bottles open on the side of the chest. "I guess you dropped by to ask me to keep an eye on your mama."

"I've got a case back home," he said, and it felt good that home meant Grant now. "If you don't mind."

"Shit," he waved this off, handing Jeffrey a Coke. "Don't worry about that. She's still just right down the street."

"Thanks," Jeffrey said. He watched as Possum took a bag of peanuts off the rack and ripped it open with his teeth. He offered some to Jeffrey, but Jeffrey shook his head no.

"Damn shame her falling," Possum said, funneling some peanuts into the open neck of his Coke bottle. "Been real hot lately. Guess she just got dizzy in this heat."

Jeffrey took a swig of Coke. Possum was doing what he had always done, and that was covering for May Tolliver. Jerry Long didn't just get his nickname from playing dead that day in Jeffrey's backyard. If there was one thing Possum was good at, it was ignoring what was right in front of his face.

The heavy baseline from a rap song shook the front windows, and Jeffrey turned around in time to see a large burgundy colored pickup truck pull into a space in front of the store. Rap music blared, a cacophony of missed beats, before the engine was cut and a surly-looking teenager got out of the cab and walked into the store.

He was dressed in a shirt that matched the color of his truck, with the words roll tide emblazoned in white over a rampaging elephant. His hair was what got Jeffrey's immediate attention, though. It was corn rowed with little crimson colored barrettes at the end, and they snapped against each other as he walked. The boy was wearing black-and-gray camouflage pants that were cut off at the knee, but his socks and sneakers were colored the Crimson Tide. Jeffrey realized with a start that the kid was dressed head to toe in the colors of Alabama University.

"Hey, Dad," the boy said, meaning Possum.

Jeffrey exchanged a look with his friend, then turned back to the boy. "Jared?" he asked, certain this could not be Possum and Nell's sweet little kid. He looked like a motorcycle thug dressed for an Alabama gang.

"Hey, Uncle Slick," Jared mumbled, shuffling his feet across the floor. He walked right past Jeffrey and his father and into the room behind the counter.

"Man," Jeffrey said. "That has got to be embarrassing."

Possum nodded. "We're hoping he changes his mind." Possum shrugged. "He likes animals. Everybody knows Auburn 's got a better vet school than Alabama."

Jeffrey kept his teeth clamped so he would not laugh.

"I'll be back," Possum said, going after the boy. "Help yourself to anything you want."

Jeffrey finished his Coke in one swallow, then walked to the back of the store to see what kind of bait Possum had stocked. There were wire-meshed cages with crickets chirping up a storm as well as a large plastic barrel filled with wet dirt that probably had a thousand or so worms in it. A small tank of minnows was over the cricket stands, with a net and some buckets in which to transport the bait. Sara liked to fish, and Jeffrey thought about getting her some worms before he considered what a hassle it would be, taking live bait back in his car. He would probably have to stop outside of Atlanta for something to eat, and it wasn't like Jeffrey could leave the worms to fry in the heat of his car. Besides, there were plenty of bait stands in Grant.

He dropped the empty Coke bottle into a box that looked like it was used for recycling and glanced out the window at the day-care center beside the store. Obviously, it was time for recess, and kids were running around, screaming their heads off. Jeffrey wondered if Jenny Weaver had ever felt that free. He could not imagine the overweight girl running around for any reason. She seemed more like the type to sit in the shade reading a book, waiting for the bell to ring so she could go back to class, where she felt more comfortable.

"You work here?" someone asked. Jeffrey turned around, startled. A thirtyish-looking man was standing behind him at the bait display. He was what Jeffrey always thought of as a typical redneck: skinny and soft-looking with razor burns from shaving too close. His arms seemed to be well-developed, probably from working construction. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

"No," Jeffrey said, feeling a little embarrassed to be caught staring so aimlessly out the window. "I was looking at the kids."

"Yeah," the man said, taking a step toward Jeffrey. "They're usually out this time of day."

"You got one over there?" Jeffrey asked.

The man gave him a strange look, as if to assess him. His hand went to his mouth, and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. With a start, Jeffrey noticed a tattoo on the webbing between the man's thumb and index finger. It was the same tattoo Mark Patterson had on his hand.

Jeffrey turned away, trying to think this through. He stared out the window, and he could make out the man's partial reflection in the glass.

"Nice tattoo," Jeffrey said.

The man's voice was a low, conspiratorial whisper. "You got one?"

Jeffrey kept his lips pressed together, shaking his head no.

"Why not?" the man asked.

Jeffrey said, "Work," trying to keep his tone even. He had a bad feeling about this, like part of his mind was working something out, but not sharing it with him.

"Not many people know what it means," the man said, fisting his hand. He looked at the tattoo on the webbing, a slight smile at his lips.

"I've seen it on a kid," Jeffrey told him. "Not like them," he nodded toward the day care. "Older."

The man's smile broke out wider. "You like 'em older?"

Jeffrey looked back over the man's shoulder to see where Possum was.

"He won't come back for a while," the man assured him. "That boy of his gets hisself into trouble most every day."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," the man said.

Jeffrey turned back to the window, looking at the children running around the yard in a different light. They no longer seemed young and carefree. They seemed vulnerable and in jeopardy.

The man took a step toward Jeffrey and used the hand with the tattoo to point out the window. "See that one there?" he asked. "Little one with the book?"

Jeffrey followed the man's direction and found a little girl sitting under the tree in the middle of the yard. She was reading a book, much the way Jeffrey had imagined Jenny Weaver would.

The man said, "That one's mine."

Jeffrey felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The way the man said the words made it clear he was not referring to the girl as his daughter. There was something proprietary to his tone, and under that, something unmistakably sexual.

The man said, "You can't tell from this far, but up close, she's got herself the prettiest little mouth."

Jeffrey turned around slowly, trying to hide his disgust. He said, "Why don't we go somewhere else where we can talk about this?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with here?"

"Here makes me nervous," Jeffrey said, making himself smile.

The man stared at him for a long while, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Yeah, okay," he said, and he started walking toward the door, tossing a look over his shoulder about every five feet to make sure Jeffrey was still there.

Behind the building, the man started to turn, but Jeffrey kicked him in the back of his knees so that he fell to the ground.

"Oh, Jesus," the man said, pulling himself into a ball.

"Shut up," Jeffrey ordered, raising his foot. He kicked the man in the thigh hard enough to let him know there was no use trying to stand.

The man just stayed there, curled into a ball, waiting for Jeffrey to beat him. There was something at once pathetic and disgusting about his behavior, as if he understood why someone might want to do this, and was accepting his punishment.

Jeffrey looked around, making sure no one could see him. He wanted to do this man some serious harm for threatening the child, but part of his resolve was lost when faced with the pathetic, whimpering lump lying on the ground in front of him. It was one thing to kick the shit out of somebody who fought back, quite another to harm what was basically a defenseless man.

"Stand up," Jeffrey said.

The man looked out between his crossed arms, trying to gauge if this was a trick. When Jeffrey took a step back, the man slowly uncurled himself and stood. Dust kicked up around them, and Jeffrey coughed to clear his throat.

"What do you want?" the man asked, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. They were crushed, and the one he put in his mouth bent at an angle. His hands shook as he tried to light the tip.

Jeffrey fought the urge to slap the cigarette out of his mouth. "What's that tattoo for?"

The man shrugged, some surliness slipping into his posture.

Jeffrey asked, "Is that for some kind of club you're in?"

"Yeah, the freak club," the man said. "The club that likes little girls. That what you're going after?"

"So, other people have this?"

"I dunno," he said. "I don't got no names, if that's what you want. It's from the Internet. We're all anonymous."

Jeffrey hissed a sigh. Among other things, the Internet fed child molesters and pedophiles, linking them together to share stories, fantasies, and sometimes children. Jeffrey had taken a law enforcement class on this very thing. There had been some spectacular busts in recent history, but even the FBI could not work fast enough to track down these people.

"What does it stand for?" Jeffrey asked.

The man gave him a hard look. "What the fuck you think it stands for?"

"Tell me," Jeffrey said through clenched teeth, "unless you want to be back on that ground trying to figure out why your intestines are coming out of your asshole."

The man nodded, taking a drag on the cigarette. He blew smoke out through his mouth and nose in a slow stream.

"The heart," the man began, pointing to his hand. "The big heart is black."

Jeffrey nodded.

"But, inside, there's this little heart, right?" The man looked at the tattoo with something like love in his eyes. "The little heart is white. It's pure."

"Pure?" Jeffrey asked, remembering that word from somewhere. "What do you mean, pure?"

"Like a child is pure, man." He allowed a smile. "The white heart makes just a little part of the black heart pure, you know? It's love, man. It's nothing but love."

Jeffrey tried to do something with his hands other than beat the man into the ground. He held out his palm, saying, "Give me your wallet."

The man did not hesitate to do as he was told, nor did he protest when Jeffrey took a small spiral notebook out of his pocket and recorded the information.

"Here," Jeffrey said, throwing the wallet so hard at the man that it popped off his chest before he could catch it. "I've got your name now, and your address. You ever come back in this store again, or even think about hanging around that day care, my friend in there will beat the shit out of you." Jeffrey waited a beat. "You understand me?"

"Yes, sir," the man said, his eyes on the ground.

"What's this Web site?" he asked.

The man kept staring at the ground. Jeffrey started to take a step toward him, but the man backed up, holding up his hands.

"It's a girl-lovers newsgroup," he said. "It moves around sometimes. You gotta search for it."

Jeffrey wrote down the phrase, though he was familiar with it from the class.

The man took another drag on his cigarette, holding the smoke in for a second. He finally let it go, asking, "That all?"

"That kid," Jeffrey began, trying to keep his composure. "You ever hurt that kid…"

The man said, "I've never even been with one, okay? I just like looking." He kicked at a rock with his shoe. "They're just so sweet, you know? I mean, how could you hurt something that was so sweet?"

Without thinking, Jeffrey slammed his fist into the man's mouth. A tooth went flying, followed by a stream of blood. The man dropped to the ground again, prepared to take a beating.

Jeffrey walked back to the store, a sickening feeling washing over him.

Chapter Nine

Robert E. Lee High School was what locals called a "super school." This meant that the building was designed to house about fifteen hundred students from the three cities comprising Grant County. As it was, the school was still not large enough, and temporary classrooms-what other people called trailers-were in the back of the building, taking over the baseball field. Grades nine through twelve were offered here, while two middle schools served as feeders for Lee. There were four assistant principals and one principal, George Clay, a man who from all accounts spent most of his time behind his desk pushing paperwork for the governor's innovative new education program-a plan that made sure teachers spent more time filling out forms and attending certification classes than actually teaching kids.

Brad fiddled with his hat as they walked down the hallway, his police-issue sneakers thumping against the floor. Without thinking, Lena had started to count his steps as they walked up the locker-lined corridor. The place was in-stitutional in its ambiguity, with its bright-white tile floor and muted cement-block walls. To match the school's colors, the lockers were painted a dark red, the walls a darker gray. There were posters cheering the Rebels to victory on every available blank space, but this served more to clutter than to encourage. Bulletin boards urged students to say no to drugs, cigarettes, and sex.

"It seems so small," Brad said, his voice a hushed whisper.

Lena did not roll her eyes at this, though it was hard. Since they had talked to George Clay, Brad had been acting like a high school freshman instead of a cop. Brad even looked the part, with his round face and wispy blond hair that seemed to fall into his eyes every three seconds.

"This is Miss Mac's room," he said, indicating a closed door. He glanced through the window as they passed by. "She taught me English," he said, pushing back his hair.

"Hmm," Lena answered, not looking.

All the doors on the hall were closed between classes, and all of them were locked. Like most rural schools, Lee had taken precautions against intruders. Teachers walked the hallways, and there were two officers, what Jeffrey called "deputy dogs," in the front office in case anything bad went down. As a patrolman, Lena had been called to the school more than her share of times to arrest drug dealers and brawlers. In her experience, perps picked up from school were a hell of a lot harder to deal with than their adult counterparts. Habitual juvenile offenders knew the laws governing their arrests better than most cops, and there was no fear in them anymore.

"Things have changed so much," Brad said, echoing her thoughts. "I don't know how the teachers do it."

"The same way we do," Lena snapped, wanting to cut off the conversation. She had never liked school and was not comfortable being here. Actually, since her interrogation of Mark Patterson, Lena had felt off. She was experiencing an odd mixture of self-assurance from being able to connect with the kid and an unsettling feeling that she had connected too closely. Worst of all, Jeffrey seemed to have picked up on this, too.

"Here we go," Brad said, stopping in front of Jenny Weaver's locker. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and started to unfold it, saying, "The combination is-" as Lena hooked her thumb under the latch and popped the locker open.

"How'd you do that?" Brad asked.

"Only geeks use the combinations."

Brad blushed, but covered for it by taking things out of Jenny Weaver's locker. "Three textbooks," he said, handing them to Lena so she could thumb through the pages. "A notebook," he continued. "Two pencils and a pack of gum."

Lena peered into the narrow cabinet, thinking that Jenny Weaver was a lot neater than she had been. There weren't even pictures taped on to the inside. "That's all?" she asked, even though she could see for herself.

"That's all," Brad answered, going through the books Lena had already checked.

Lena opened the notebook, which had a puppy on the cover. There were six colored tabs, one for each period, dividing the paper into sections. Almost every page was filled, but as far as she could tell there were only class notes. Jenny Weaver had not even doodled on the edges.

"She must've been a good student," Lena said.

"She was thirteen and in the ninth grade."

"Is that unusual?"

"Just means she skipped a grade," Brad told her, stacking the books back in the locker the way they had found them. He checked the packet of gum to make sure it was just gum. "She sure was neat."

"Yeah," Lena agreed, handing Brad the notebook. She waited while he thumbed through it, looking for something she might have missed.

"She wrote real neat," Brad said in a sad voice.

"What'd you think of her on the retreat?"

Brad pushed his hair out of his eyes. "She was quiet. I hate to say that I barely noticed her, but the girls pretty much kept to themselves. Mrs. Gray was supposed to be there to help out with them, but she got sick at the last minute. I didn't want to disappoint everybody, and the deposits were nonrefundable…" He shook his head. "The boys were a handful. I had to spend most of my time looking after them."

"What about Jenny and Lacey?"

"Well…" Brad's forehead wrinkled as he thought. "They didn't do much, is the thing. The other kids skied and had fun. Jenny and Lacey kind of kept to themselves. They had their own room and I only really saw them around supper time."

"How'd they act?"

"Kind of like they had their own language. They'd look at me and giggle, you know, like girls do." He shifted uncomfortably, and Lena could see exactly why the girls had giggled. Brad probably knew as much about teenage girls as a goat did.

"They didn't act strange?"

"Stranger than giggling for no reason?"

"Brad…" Lena said. She stopped herself before she told him why the girls were laughing at him. Telling him they probably thought he was a dork would only make him pout, and Lena did not want to deal with that for the rest of the day.

He stared at her openly, waiting for her to finish.

"Just…" Lena began, then stopped again. "Did it seem like Jenny was sick?"

"That's what the chief asked," Brad said, and it seemed like he felt this was a compliment to Lena. "He asked a lot of questions about Jenny and how she looked, who she was hanging around with."

Lena closed the locker and indicated that they should continue walking. "So?"

"She didn't look sick to me," he said. "I mean, like I told you, they kept to themselves. They didn't seem to like the other kids. Honestly, I don't know why they went. They're not exactly part of that group."

"Meaning what?"

He shrugged. "Popular, I guess. I mean, Lacey could've been. She's real cute, like a cheerleader." He shook his head, as if he was still trying to figure it out. "Jenny definitely wasn't popular. I didn't catch anyone being mean to her-I would'a done something about that-but they didn't go out of their way to be nice to her, either."

"Weren't you supposed to be chaperoning them?"

He took this as it was meant, and immediately became defensive. "I watched them as best I could, but it was just me there, and the boys were getting into a lot more trouble than the girls."

Lena bit her tongue, wondering how someone as dense as Brad had gotten on the force.

"Here we go," Brad said, stopping in front of the library. He held the door open for Lena, something Brad's mama had taught him to do from an early age. Working with Frank, then Jeffrey, Lena was so used to men opening doors for her that she barely noticed it anymore.

The library was cool, yet friendly. Student projects were tacked up on the walls, and row after row of bookshelves were packed almost to overflowing. About twenty computer stations-another education initiative funded by Georgia 's lottery-sat empty, their monitors dark because the school's electrical system was not equipped to handle the extra load. There was a second-level balcony with an open railing lining the back wall, and for just a moment Lena imagined that some kid had probably sat up in that second level, thinking about how easy it would be to open fire on his classmates.

Brad was staring at her, an expectant look on his face. "That's them," he said, indicating three girls and three boys sitting by the librarian's desk. Lena knew instantly what Brad had been talking about. These were the popular kids. There was something about the way they sat there, talking and laughing with each other. They were an attractive bunch, dressed in the latest fashions and with that casual air of entitlement that kids have who are worshipped by their peers.

"Let's get this over with," Lena told him, walking purposefully toward the table. She stood there for several seconds, but none of the kids acknowledged she was there. Lena gave Brad a wary look, then cleared her throat. When that didn't work, she rapped her knuckles on the table. The group started to quiet down, but two of the girls finished their conversation before looking up.

Lena said, "I'm detective Adams, this is Officer Stephens."

Two of the girls giggled as if they knew the best secret in the world. Lena was reminded of one of the many reasons she did not like kids, especially girls this age. There was nothing more vicious than a teenage girl. Maybe it was because boys were more capable of settling an argument with their fists, but girls at this age were much more conniving and torturous than anyone wanted to believe.

One of the giggling girls smacked her gum while the other said, "We know Brad."

Lena tried not to be hostile as Brad introduced the kids. "Heather, Brittany, and Shanna," he said, pointing them out. Then, indicating the boys, who were slouching so far into their chairs their butts were nearly touching the ground, " Carson, Rory, and Cooper." Lena wondered when parents had stopped giving their kids normal names. Probably around the time they stopped teaching them manners.

"Okay," Lena began, sitting opposite them. "Let's wrap this up quickly so y'all can go back to class."

"Why are we here?" Brittany demanded, her tone as hostile as her posture.

"You were on the ski retreat with Officer Stephens," Lena told them. "Jenny Weaver was there. You know what happened to her Saturday?"

"Yeah," Shanna said, smacking her gum." Y' all shot her."

Lena took a deep breath and let it go. As shitty as she had been at this age, Lena would never have talked to a cop like this. She said, "We're just asking some routine questions about her, trying to figure out why she did what she did."

One of the boys spoke. Lena couldn't remember his name, but it was hardly relevant as they all looked alike. "Does my father know you're talking to me?"

"What's your name?" Lena asked.

" Carson."

" Carson," she repeated, returning the belligerent stare he gave her. His eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated.

"What?" he said, finally breaking the stare. He crossed his arms, looking around the room as if he was bored.

"One of your classmates is dead," Lena reminded him. "Are you not interested in helping us find out why?"

"The 'why' is because you shot her," Carson answered, picking up his backpack. "Can I go now?"

"Sure," Lena told him. "Why don't we get Dr. Clay to take a look in your bookbag?"

Carson smirked. "You don't have probable cause."

"No," Lena agreed. " But Dr. Clay doesn't need it."

Carson knew she was right. He dropped the bag onto the floor. "What do you want to know?"

Lena exhaled slowly. "Tell me about Jenny Weaver."

He waved his hand. "I didn't know her, okay? She was on the retreat and all, but she and Lacey didn't really socialize."

The other boys nodded. One of them said, "They didn't like to party."

Lena assumed that by "party" he meant get high. From what little she knew about Jenny Weaver, this was not surprising.

"She was younger than us," Carson added. "We don't hang around with babies."

Lena turned to the girls. "What about y'all?"

Brittany started first. Her posture was as poor as the others', and her backbone seemed pliable, molding her into the back of the chair like Silly Putty. She sounded just how Lena had imagined she would: whiny and put-upon. There was something wrong with a society that let children talk to adults this way.

Brittany said, "Jenny was weird."

Lena tried to stir them up, asking, "I thought y'all were friends."

"We most certainly weren't," Shanna toned in. "I for one couldn't stand her."

She said this as if she was proud of the fact.

"That so?" Lena asked.

Shanna's bravura dropped down a notch when she saw Lena was taking her seriously. She was considerably less confident when she said, "We weren't friends."

"None of us was really," Heather said, and she seemed to be the logical one. She had uncrossed her arms, and Lena thought that, of the six, she was the only one who seemed to show any regret. Actually, Heather reminded Lena a little of herself at that age, on the periphery of things, more interested in sports than school gossip.

Heather said, "Jenny was quiet most of the time. Even back in middle school."

"You all went to the same school?"

They all nodded.

Heather indicated the other girls. "All of us live near her. We rode the bus together for a while."

Lena asked, "But you weren't friends?"

"She didn't really have a lot of friends." Heather was quiet for a few beats, then said, "When she first moved into the neighborhood, I tried to talk to her and all, but she liked to stay home and read a lot. I invited her to hang out a couple of times, but she didn't want to, then I just stopped trying."

"No one liked her," Brittany provided. "She was a real-what do you call it?-introvert."

Shanna laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Yeah, right," she said.

Lena pointed out, "She was friends with Lacey Patterson."

The girls exchanged a look.

"What?" Lena asked.

They shrugged in unison. The boys were either comatose or not interested.

Lena sighed, sitting back in her chair. "We'll sit here all night until you tell me what I need to know."

They seemed to believe her, even though Lena wanted nothing more than to leave this school.

Brittany spoke first. "Lacey was only friends with her because of Mark."

"Mark Patterson, Lacey's brother?"

"Okay," Shanna said, holding out her hand palm up, her voice excited, as if she'd just been cracked by Lena's tough interrogation and was now giddy to tell them all they needed to know. "She was a whore."

"Shanna," Heather gawked.

"You know it's true," Shanna countered. "She slept around, and not just with Mark."

Brad stirred in his seat, looking as uncomfortable as Lena had ever seen him, which was saying a lot.

"Who did she sleep with?" Lena asked, looking at the boys. None of them would meet her eye.

"I don't know for sure, other than Mark," Shanna said, as if she were talking with one of her girlfriends over the lunch table. "But there were all kinds of rumors that she'd blow guys-"

"Jeesh," Heather interrupted. "She's dead, okay? Why do you have to say all this?"

"Because it's the truth!" Shanna countered, her voice high and excited.

Heather seemed angry. "It was just rumors. Nobody knows if they were true or not."

Lena asked, "What were the rumors?"

Shanna was more than happy to supply this. "She was having sex with some of the guys behind the gym after fifth period."

"Intercourse or blow jobs?" Lena asked, still watching the guys.

Shanna shrugged, giving Heather a sideways glance. "I wasn't there."

"Heather was?"

"Heather doesn't like boys," Shanna provided.

"Shut up!" Heather ordered, alarmed.

Lena wondered if she looked just as shocked as Brad. It was like having their very own Jerry Springer show right here in the school library.

"Okay," Lena said, holding up her hands, trying to rein this in. "What proof do you have that Jenny was sleeping around?"

The girls were silent, looking back and forth at each other.

"Nothing, right?" Lena asked. "You can't tell me any of the boys she was with?"

Carson stirred in his chair, but he didn't volunteer anything.

"Mark," Shanna said, shrugging. "But Mark was with, like, everybody."

"No kidding," Brittany muttered, with something like regret in her tone.

Lena sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She was getting the kind of headache that would probably last for the rest of the day. "Okay, then who started the rumor?"

They all shrugged. This seemed to be the universal teenage response to any question. Lena wondered if they would later have rotator cuff problems.

"Pansy Davis told me," said Shanna.

"She told me she slept with Ron Wilson Thursday night," Brittany countered. "And you know Ron was at Frank's house that night."

"Frank said he sneaked out!" Shanna squealed.

"Stop, stop," Lena said, holding up her hands. It was like being nibbled to death by ducks. "None of y'all remembers where you heard the rumor?"

"It was just a known thing," Heather told Lena. "I mean, I don't remember who told me, but Jenny just acted weird, okay? She would go off with boys she didn't know. Boys, like, in twelfth grade."

"And you don't know their names?"

Heather shook her head. "They're seniors."

"Not popular seniors?" Lena asked.

"Some of them were skanky," Brittany provided. "Not seniors I would know. Not popular, okay? Sort of like Jenny."

"Did she ride the bus home with them?"

"They had cars," Heather said. "Seniors are allowed to drive."

"Do you remember any of the cars?"

Heather shook her head no, but Brittany snapped her fingers. "There's one I remember." She turned to Shanna. "Do you remember that cool black Thunderbird?"

"A new one or an old one?" Lena asked.

"The older kind that's really big in the back," Shanna said. "It was really loud, like something was wrong with the engine or something."

"Did the driver go to this school?"

They exchanged glances again. "Maybe," Brittany said.

"I don't think so," Shanna added.

Heather shrugged. "I don't pay attention to cars. It doesn't sound familiar."

Lena looked at the boys. "Do any of y'all recognize the car?"

They all shrugged or shook their heads.

Lena tried another line of questioning. "Do y'all have any idea why Jenny wanted to kill Mark?"

The girls were silent, then Brittany finally said, "We've all wanted to at least once."

Lena sat back, crossing her arms. She stared at the boys, guessing why they were being silent. "Okay," she said, and they all started to stand, but she stopped them. "Carson, Cory, Roper-"

"Rory and Cooper," Brad corrected.

"Right," Lena said. "Whatever. You guys stay. The girls can leave." She turned to Brad. "Why don't you get their phone numbers and addresses?"

Brad nodded. He knew she was getting rid of him, but didn't seem to mind.

Lena sat at the table across from the boys, silent until they started to squirm in their chairs.

"Well?" she said.

Carson spoke first. "Yeah, she was doing it."

The other boys nodded.

"All of you slept with her?"

They did not answer.

"Blow jobs? Hand jobs?" Lena asked.

"Sex," Carson clarified.

Lena felt her cheeks flush, but not from embarrassment. "When was this?"

"Mark brought her over to my house one time. We were all partying."

"I thought you said Jenny didn't party."

"No, she didn't," Carson said. "Not usually, but Mark told her to have something to take the edge off." He snorted a laugh. "She did whatever Mark told her to do."

"So," Lena said, trying to get all of this straight, "it was Mark, Jenny, and you three?"

They all nodded.

Carson said, "She got a little drunk and started coming on to us."

Lena pressed her lips together so she would not say anything.

"Mark said she'd do anything we wanted."

One of the boys smiled. "She sure did."

"You all had sex with her?" Lena asked.

Carson shrugged, smirking. "She was pretty drunk."

Lena looked down at the table, trying to compose her-self. "So, she got drunk and you all had sex with her, Mark included?"

"Mark just watched," one of the boys said. "She let us do anything we wanted." His anger sparked like a brush fire. "She was a whore, okay? Why do you even care?"

Lena was startled by the hatred in his voice, as if it was Jenny's fault entirely that they had done this. She asked, "What was your name?"

He looked down, mumbling, "Rory."

"All right, Rory," Lena said. "Did she have sex with any of you on the retreat?"

"Fuck no." Carson crossed his arms angrily. "That was the thing. Why the fuck else would we go on that stupid retreat?"

"You were having sex with her then?" Lena asked.

"No," he said, still angry. "She wouldn't go near us. She was fine at the party. Couldn't get enough of it." He grabbed himself, as if Lena needed the visual aid. "But over Christmas she was tight as a drum. Wouldn't even talk to us." His lip curled. "The bitch."

Lena bit her tongue.

"She was a cock tease," Carson said. "She would've fucked a dog if Mark asked her to, but on the retreat it was like she was better than us."

"What do you think changed this?" Lena asked.

He shrugged. "Who the fuck cares?"

"Did you approach her on the retreat, or did she just ignore you?"

His lip curled. "It was this way, all right? We offered her a little something to help her relax, told her we all wanted to party, and she froze up."

"Exactly," Rory said. "It was like we weren't good enough for her all the sudden."

"Hell, yeah," Carson agreed. "She was pretending like it didn't happen, and I said to her, 'Hey, you know what you did, you whore.'"

"Should've offered her money for it," Rory suggested. "Should've offered Mark money for it."

"Right," Lena mumbled, trying to remember the third boy's name. He had been very quiet during all of this, not hostile like the others. "Cooper?" she guessed. He looked up, and she asked, "Did you ever wonder why a thirteen-year-old girl would do something like that in the first place?"

"She liked it," Cooper suggested, shrugging like they all shrugged. "I mean, why else would she do it?" He looked up at his friends and his whole demeanor changed. He was more adamant and just as hateful as his friends when he insisted, "She was a whore and she liked it."

"Yeah," Rory said, his tone filled with spite. "I mean, you could tell she liked it."

Lena suggested, "Even though she was drunk?"

They didn't answer her.

"How could you tell she liked it?"

"Hell, man," Rory said, "who knows? Her face was buried in the couch the whole time."

"Dude," Carson laughed, holding up his hand for a high-five.

Lightning fast, Lena reached out and grabbed his hand. She was holding on to his wrist tight enough to feel the bones, and he grimaced from the pain.

She said, "You think she enjoyed it, huh?"

"Hey," Carson said, looking around the room for help. "Come on, we were just having fun."

"Fun?" Lena asked, jerking his arm like she might rip it out of the socket. "Where I come from, we call that rape, you little shit." She let go of him because there was nothing else she could do short of taking out her gun and pistol-whipping him, which was tempting in light of the smirk that returned to his face when he sat back in his chair.

The bell rang for class changes, and Lena had to force herself not to jump at the loud sound. The boys had a Pavlovian response, gathering their bookbags, not waiting for Lena to release them.

She told them, "Give Officer Stephens your phone numbers and addresses in case we have any questions." She made sure she had their attention. "I'm going to make sure every cop at the station knows your name."

"Yeah," Rory said. "Whatever."

They started to shuffle away, but Carson stayed, asking, "You gonna tell Dr. Clay to search me or what?"

"I'm going to do every possible thing I can to make sure you're in jail before you're old enough to vote."

"Shit," he groaned, shuffling off.

Lena stood, wanting to get away from the table where she had heard their vile talk. She walked over to the computer area and rested her hand on the top of a monitor, feeling a cold sweat break out all over her body. It sickened her to know that boys this young were already learning to think this way about women. Lena could imagine him feeling the same way at that age, like girls were expendable. They all liked it. They were all whores.

" Lena?" Brad said, pulling her out of her thoughts. She looked back at the table and saw a couple of older women and one man taking their seats. "Jenny's teachers," Brad told her.

Lena put her hand to her chest, feeling claustrophobic. Brad was standing too close, and the room felt like it was getting smaller. "Why don't you start?" Lena suggested, thinking she needed to get out of here to catch her breath. She walked toward the doors, but he stopped her.

"By myself?" he asked, standing too close to her again.

She could smell his aftershave, and something that smelled like a strong breath mint. She could not lose it here. Lena knew if she got sick in front of Brad she wouldn't be able to go back to work again.

She indicated her cell phone as she took another step back. "I'll call back to the station and check on things there, maybe see if we can find out who owns a black Thunderbird in the area."

"I bet the principal would know," Brad suggested, stepping forward. "They keep logs on that, right? You can't park here unless you've got a parking pass."

"Good thinking," Lena said, taking another step back, aware that if she didn't get her breathing under control she would hyperventilate. "I'll check that out while you interview them. Be sure to ask about what the girls said."

He gave her a funny look. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she said. Suddenly, the room felt hot and unbearable, and she could feel her shirt starting to cling to her back. "Just get preliminary stuff, an impression of what she was like. I'll be back as soon as I make some calls."

He gave her a quick nod, his jaw tightening. "All right," he said, and she could tell he wanted to ask her again if she was okay.

She walked quickly into the hall, taking a deep breath to calm herself. She was still sweating, and took off her jacket. A kid jogged by. He slowed when he saw Lena 's gun in her shoulder holster.

Lena slipped the jacket back on and leaned her head against the wall. She closed her eyes until the nausea passed. After a few deep breaths she felt better, if not a hundred percent.

Lena flipped open her cell phone to give herself something to do. She dialed the station and talked to Maria about the car, glad that Frank wasn't in. It was still hard for Lena to talk to Frank, and part of her felt that he blamed Lena for what had happened. That same part of her agreed with him. She had been so stupid.

Even though she was standing less than a hundred yards from the front office, Lena called the principal and asked him about the black car. He went through his records while she waited on the phone and gave her the answer she had assumed all along: No one in the school had registered a car fitting that description. Lena thanked the principal, then hung up, thinking it felt good to get some things done instead of just treading water. The more time that passed on this case, the more they seemed to be moving away from solving it. She should talk to Mark again and see what his reaction was to this latest information. Jeffrey probably wouldn't let her near Mark again after what happened last time.

Lena opened the phone again and dialed her voice mail at home. The first message was from the video store in town, telling her that her tapes were late. The second was from Nan Thomas, Sibyl's lover.

"Lena," Nan said, her low voice an irritated grumble. "I've still got this stuff, Sibby's stuff. If you want it, let me know. I don't…" She stopped, then, "It's just…"

Lena looked at her watch, wondering how much Nan 's stuttering was costing her.

"I'll be at Suddy's tonight around eight," Nan said. "I'll have the boxes in my car if you want them. Meet me there if you… Otherwise, well…" Again, she stopped.

Lena fast forwarded, skipping the rest of the message. Suddy's was a gay bar on the outskirts of Heartsdale. There was no way in hell she was going to meet her sister's lover in a gay bar.

Lena 's heart dropped into her stomach when she heard the next message. Hank said, "Lee, Barry's sick. I gotta cover here tonight, maybe tomorrow."

She closed her eyes, leaning her back against the wall as Hank explained that it would be easier for him to stay in Reece because there was a beer delivery tomorrow morning. She felt panicked again, then angry, because he had taken the coward's way out, leaving the message instead of calling her cell phone to explain.

Lena walked over to the other side of the hallway, looking out the window. There was an atrium in the middle of the school, and across the way she could see the cafeteria staff setting up the tables. She was so absorbed in their movements that she missed part of the last message. She rewound it and listened again.

"This is Pastor Fine, Lena," the message began. "I apologize, but I'll have to cancel our appointment this evening. One of our parishioners has taken ill. I need to be with the family right now."

Lena snapped the phone closed as he asked for her to return his call so they could reschedule. She would let Jeffrey deal with that. She was not in the habit of letting herself think too far ahead, but the meeting with Fine had been something she had settled her mind on as something to do tonight. In a flash, she saw herself going back to her empty house, being alone. Panic enveloped her.

She put her hand to her chest, feeling her heart pounding against her rib cage. She was sweating, she noticed, and the back of her knees felt hot and sticky. She wanted to hear Hank's message again, to see if there was a nuance in his voice she had missed. Maybe he had left an opening. Maybe he was playing some kind of game to make her say that she wanted him there.

The final bell rang, a loud, piercing tone that vibrated in Lena 's ears. She looked around the empty hallway, forgetting for a moment exactly where she was and why. As if out of a dream, she saw the image of a woman walking toward her. Lena 's eyes felt like they blurred for a moment, then with a start she realized that she was in Jenny Weaver's school, and that Dottie Weaver was walking down the hall toward her.

"Shit," Lena mumbled, looking down at her cell phone, willing it to ring. She flipped it open like she might make a call, but it was too late. Dottie Weaver was less than ten feet away holding a heavy-looking textbook in her hands.

Weaver stopped in the hallway, her mouth an angry straight line. Her eyes were bloodshot, like she had been crying for the last year. Red splotches were all over her face.

"Mrs. Weaver," Lena said, flipping her phone closed.

Dottie shook her head, like she was too angry to say anything.

"We're just talking to some classmates and teachers to see if they can shed any light on-"

"Why can't you just leave her alone?" Dottie begged. "Why can't you just let her rest in peace?"

"I'm sorry," Lena told the woman, and she meant it.

"She was my baby."

"I know that," Lena answered, looking down at her phone.

"You're here raking her name over the coals, trying to make her out to be a bad person."

"That's not my goal."

"Liar!" Dottie screamed, throwing the book at Lena. Lena dropped her phone to catch it, but missed. The spine slammed into her stomach and she winced as it dropped to the floor.

"Mrs. Weaver," Lena began, stooping to retrieve the textbook.

"The school wanted her book back," Dottie said, her bottom lip trembling. "Take it. Take it and tell them all they can go to hell."

Lena tried to close the book without damaging the pages. She picked up her phone, which didn't seem to be broken.

Dottie dabbed her eyes with some tissue, then blew her nose. She did not leave, though, which Lena could not understand until she spoke again.

"Jenny loved this school," the mother said, wrapping her arms around her stomach as if it brought her pain to speak. "She loved being here."

Lena thought now was as good a time as any to get this out of the way. "Was she seeing anybody, Mrs. Weaver?"

Dottie shook her head. "A psychiatrist?" she asked.

"A boy," Lena clarified. "Was she seeing any boys?"

"No," Dottie snapped. "Of course not. She was just a child."

Lena nodded, feeling an encroaching dread. "Some of the girls said she was."

"Which girls?" Dottie asked, looking around as if they might be there.

"Just girls," Lena answered. "Friends from school."

"She didn't have friends," Dottie told her, narrowing her eyes, sensing some kind of trick. "What are they saying about my daughter?"

Lena tried to think of a way to say it. "That she…"

"That she what?" Dottie demanded.

Lena said, "That she saw a lot of boys. That she was with a lot of boys."

The slap came suddenly, and stung so much that after a few seconds the right side of Lena 's face went numb. Before Lena could think to respond, let alone react, she was looking at the back of Dottie Weaver as the woman left the school.

The library door bumped open, and Brad stood there, holding the door for the group of teachers he had been interviewing. They looked tired, and a bit irritated, but this was pretty normal from Lena 's recollection of teachers around lunchtime. One of them looked at Lena, and she could tell from the way the woman assessed her that she sensed something was wrong. The teacher raised an eyebrow as if to invite conversation, but Lena was too shocked to speak.

" Lena?" Brad prompted. She nodded that she was okay, wondering if her face was red where Dottie had slapped her.

Brad introduced all of the teachers, whose names Lena promptly forgot. He said, "They know about the rumor."

Lena blinked, not understanding.

"The rumor about Jenny," Brad clarified. "They said they had heard it."

"None of us believed it," one of the teachers said, her voice indicating that she had resigned herself a long time ago to the fact that there were things that went on in the school that no teacher would ever know about.

"She was a good student," another teacher said. "Very quiet, turned her work in on time. Her mother was involved."

The other teachers nodded, and Lena duplicated the gesture, still too shocked to offer anything of consequence.

"Thank you for your time," Brad said, moving things along. He shook hands with each of them in turn, and to the last one they gave him an encouraging look.

"I'm sorry we couldn't help more," one said.

Another told him, "If we think of anything, we'll call you."

The woman who had looked at Lena was last, and she told Brad, "You did an excellent job, Bradley. I'm very impressed."

Brad beamed. "Thank you, ma'am," he said, tucking his head down like a happy puppy. He waited until the teachers were gone before asking Lena, "Whose book?"

"Jenny Weaver's," Lena provided, thumbing through the pages to see if any notes were tucked in. It was empty, just like the others.

"How'd you get it?"

Lena could not answer him. "Here," she said, handing him the book. "Take it to the front office, then meet me in the car."

The parking lot of Suddy's was pretty empty, even at eight o'clock. If Sibyl and Nan 's life had been any indication, probably most of the lesbians in town were at home, watching sitcoms. Not that Sibyl could watch them, she was blind, but she liked to listen sometimes, and Nan would narrate what was happening.

Lena crossed her arms, thinking about Sibyl, and how she had looked the last time Lena had seen her; not the time in the morgue, but the day before she had died. As usual, Sibyl had been full of energy, and laughing at something that had happened in one of her classes. Above everything, Sibyl loved teaching, and she had taken great joy from being in front of a classroom. Maybe that was why Lena had had such a negative reaction to being at the school today.

Before she could stop herself, Lena got out of the car. Suddy's was nice by most bar standards. Compared to the Hut, Hank's bar over in Reece, it was a palace. Outside, the decor was spare, probably because a place like this would not want to draw attention to itself. Other than a Budweiser sign with a neon rainbow flag incorporated into the logo, the building was pretty nondescript.

The interior was more festive, but the lights were down low, making the room a little too intimate for Lena. Something soft played on the jukebox, and a spinning mirrored ball did a slow turn over what looked like the dance floor. Lena had always been uncomfortable with this side of Sibyl, and never understood how someone who was so pretty, who was so outgoing and energetic, could choose this kind of life for herself. Sibyl had always wanted children, always wanted to be taken care of and loved. Lena would not have predicted this kind of life for her sister in a million years.

When Sibyl had first come out to Lena fifteen years ago, Lena 's response had been an emphatic, "No, you're not." Even after Sibyl moved in with Nan, Lena had still let herself believe that Sibyl was not gay. It sounded trite to say, but Lena could not help thinking in the back of her mind that it was just a phase, and that one day Sibyl would laugh about her confusion and settle down and have children. Being Sibyl's twin complicated matters, because Lena had always felt that a piece of herself was in Sibyl, and a piece of Sibyl was in Lena. It was unsettling to think that Lena might somewhere in her psyche share Sibyl's sexual leanings.

Lena dismissed this as she walked across the room. Two women at a corner table ignored her completely, seeming more intent upon pushing their tongues down each other's throat than seeing who had walked through the door. The bartender was reading a newspaper when Lena approached her, and she looked up, doing a startled double take.

The woman said, "You must be her sister."

Lena sat a couple of stools down from her. "I'm meeting someone here."

The woman closed the paper. She walked over and offered Lena her hand. "I'm Judy," she said.

Lena stared at the hand, then reluctantly shook it. The woman was tall, with long dark hair and a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were an intense hazel, which Lena noticed because the woman would not stop staring at her.

"Beer, please," Lena said, then, "make it a Jim Beam instead."

Judy paused, then walked over to the liquor display behind the bar. "Sibyl never drank," she said, as if by extension this meant that Lena, her twin, would not drink.

Lena pointed out, "She didn't fuck men, either."

Judy conceded the point. "Jim Beam?"

"Yeah," Lena answered, trying to sound bored as she took some money out of her front pocket. She had changed into jeans and a T-shirt at home before coming here, a decision she now regretted. She probably looked gayer than the women in the corner to these people.

Judy said, "She liked cranberry juice, though."

"Could you make that a double?" Lena asked, tossing a twenty-dollar bill onto the bar.

Judy glanced at her before filling the order. "We all really miss her."

"I'm sure you do," Lena told her, aware that she sounded glib. She stared at the dark liquid in her glass, remembering that the last time she had anything to drink was the night Sibyl had died. Lena did not like alcohol, because she hated the feeling of being out of control. Not that she had control of anything lately, anyway.

Lena looked at the clock over the bar. It was five till eight.

Judy asked, "Who you meeting here?"

Lena knocked the drink back in one swallow. "Jim Beam," she said, tapping the glass.

Judy gave her another look, but retrieved the bottle from the shelf.

To discourage conversation, Lena turned on the stool, looking out on the dance floor. A lone woman stood there, her eyes closed as she swayed to the beat. There was something familiar about her, but the light was bad, and Lena 's memory did not want to work. Still, Lena watched her, wondering at the self-absorbed way the woman danced, as if no one else were in the room. As if nothing else mattered.

The song changed, and Lena recognized the tune before the lyrics to Beck's "Debra" came from the speakers. Mark Patterson popped into her mind again. There was something sensual and disturbing about the way the dancer moved that reminded her of the young man. She watched the dancer, wondering again what the hell had been going on with Jenny Weaver. What was Mark's hold over her? What was it about him that would make a thirteen-year-old kid prostitute herself? It did not make sense.

Lena wondered if this was the way Mark Patterson would dance, though she could not imagine the kid doing something so audacious as standing in the middle of an empty dance floor. The thought surprised her, because Lena was not aware that she had put herself in a position to make assumptions about Mark's personality. She knew so very little about him, yet somehow, her subconscious had assigned him certain traits.

Lena turned back around to break the spell. Judy was reading her paper, having left Lena 's drink and her change on the bar. Lena was thinking about what to leave for a tip when she noticed her reflection in the mirror. For just a moment, she startled, and Lena imagined she looked much as Judy had when Lena had first walked into the room. In a split second, Sibyl was there, and Lena felt her heart jump at the sight.

Suddenly, shouting came from outside, and a crowd of people walked into the bar. They were laughing and raucous, all dressed in matching softball uniforms. The pants were black with white stripes up the sides, the shirts white with the word bushwhackers across the chest.

"Jesus Christ," Lena groaned, getting the reference. She stood up as she recognized Nan Thomas in the center of the group. The mousy librarian had a neon-pink athletic strap around her glasses and the front of her shirt was streaked with dirt as if she had slid across home plate. Unlike some of the others in the group, Nan showed no sign of mistaking Lena for her sister. As a matter of fact, she frowned.

Someone patted Lena on the back, and she turned around, surprised to see Hare Earashaw standing beside her. He was dressed in jeans and a Bushwhacker T-shirt as well as a hat with a large B on it.

"How's it going, Lena?" Hare asked.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but Lena blurted out a surprised, "You're gay?" to him before she could stop herself. Hare was a doctor in town. Lena had actually seen him a couple of years ago for a cold that would not go away.

Hare laughed at her surprise. "I play on the team," he said, indicating his shirt. Then, he leaned closer, giving her a coy wink. "I'm the catcher."

Lena backed up right into Nan. There were people everywhere, though they seemed to be involved in their own conversations about the game they had just played. Lena pulled at the neck of her shirt, feeling claustrophobic. She moved away from the group, toward the front door.

"Lee?" Nan said, then corrected herself before Lena could, saying, " Lena."

"I told you not to call me that," Lena said, crossing her arms.

"I know," Nan held her hands up, palms out. "I'm sorry. It's just that Sibby always called you that."

Lena stopped her. "Can we get the stuff, please? I need to get home." Her voice went down on the word "home" as she thought about the empty house. Hank had not answered the phone when she called the Hut looking for him. The bastard was obviously ignoring her. It was so typical of him to leave her when she needed him most.

"It's out in the parking lot," Nan said, holding the door open for Lena. Lena stopped, waiting for Nan to go first. It was one thing to let Brad Stephens hold a door open for her; Lena would be damned if she would let some woman do it.

Nan talked as they walked out to the parking lot. "I tried to keep it the same way she had it," she said, a forced lightness to her voice. "You know how Sibby liked to keep things orderly."

"She had to," Lena shot back, thinking it was obvious that a blind person would have a system to things so that they would not be lost.

If Nan noticed Lena 's biting tone, she ignored it.

"Here," Nan said, stopping in front of a white Toyota Camry. The driver's side window was down, and she reached in, popping the trunk.

"You should keep your doors locked," Lena told her.

"Why?" Nan asked, and she really seemed to be puzzled.

"You've got your car parked in front of a gay bar. I would think you might want to be a little more careful."

Nan tucked her hands into her waist. "Sibyl was killed in a diner in broad daylight. Do you really think locking my car door is going to protect me?"

She had a point, but Lena was not going to give it to her. "I wasn't saying you could get killed. Someone might vandalize the car or something."

"Well…" Nan shrugged, and for just a moment, she seemed exactly like Sibyl. Not that Nan was in any way similar to Sibyl in appearance, it was just her "whatever happens will happen" attitude.

"These are some of her tapes," Nan said, handing Lena a box that was about eighteen inches square. "She labeled them in braille, but most of them have their own titles."

Lena took the box, surprised at how heavy it was.

"These are some photographs," Nan said, stacking another box on top of the first. "I don't know why she had them."

"I asked her to keep them for me," Lena provided, remembering the day she had brought the box of pictures to Sibyl. Greg Mitchell, Lena's last boyfriend, had just left her, and Lena did not want the photographs she had of him in the house.

"I'll get this one," Nan offered, picking up the last box. It was bigger than the other two, and she rested it on her knee to close the trunk. "This is just a bunch of stuff she had in the closet. A couple of awards from high school, a track ribbon I guess is yours."

Lena nodded, walking to her Celica.

"I found a picture of you two at the beach," Nan said, laughing. "Sibyl's got a sunburn. She looks miserable."

Because she was in front of Nan, Lena allowed a smile. She remembered the day, how Sibyl had insisted on staying outside even though Hank had warned her it was too hot. Sibyl's black glasses had shaded her eyes, and when she took them off, the only part of her face that was not beet red was where the glasses had been. She looked like a raccoon for days after.

"… stop by Saturday to pick them up," Nan was saying.

"What?" Lena asked.

"I said that you can stop by Saturday to go through the other stuff. I'm donating her computer and equipment to the school for the blind over in Augusta."

"What other stuff?" Lena asked, thinking Nan meant to throw away Sibyl's things.

"Just some papers," Nan told her, setting the box down at her feet. "School stuff, mostly. Her dissertation, a couple of essays. That kind of thing."

"You're just going to throw them away?" Lena demanded.

"Give them away. They're not really valuable," Nan said, as if she were talking to a child.

"They were valuable to Sibyl," Lena countered, aware she was close to yelling. "How can you even think about giving them away?"

Nan looked down at the ground, then back at Lena. The patronizing tone was still there. "I told you that you're more than welcome to have them if you like. They're in braille. It's not like you can read them."

Lena snorted a laugh, setting the boxes on the ground. "Some lover you were."

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Obviously, it meant something to her or she wouldn't have kept it," Lena said. "But go ahead and give it away."

"Excuse me," Nan said, indicating the boxes. "How many times did I have to call you and beg you to take this stuff?"

"That's different," Lena said, digging in her pocket for her keys.

"Why?" Nan shot back. "Because you were in the hospital?"

Lena glanced back at the bar. "Lower your voice."

"Don't tell me what to do," Nan said, her tone louder. "You don't get to question me about whether or not I loved your sister. Do you get that?"

"I wasn't questioning you," Lena answered, wondering how this had escalated so quickly. She could not even remember what had started this, but Nan was obviously pissed.

"The hell you weren't," Nan barked. "You think you're the only one around here who loved Sibyl? I shared my life with her." Nan lowered her voice. "I shared my bed with her."

Lena winced. "I know that."

"Do you?" Nan said. "Because I'll tell you what, Lena, I am sick and tired of the way you treat me, as if I'm some sort of pariah."

"Hey," Lena stopped her. "I'm not the one playing soft-ball for Suddy's."

"I don't know how she put up with this," Nan mumbled, almost to herself.

"Put up with what?"

"Your misogynistic cop bullshit, for one."

"Misogynistic?" Lena repeated. "You're calling me misogynistic?"

"And homophobic," Nan added.

"Homophobic?"

"Are you a parrot now?"

Lena felt her nostrils flare. "Don't fuck with me, Nan. You don't know how."

Nan didn't seem to catch the warning. "Why don't you go back into that bar and meet some of your sister's friends, Lee? Why don't you talk to the people who really knew her and cared about her?"

"You sound like Hank," Lena told her. "Oh, I see," she said, putting the pieces together. "You've been talking to Hank about me."

Nan pressed her lips together. "We're worried about you."

"That so?" Lena laughed. "Great, my speed freak uncle and my dead sister's dyke girlfriend are worried about me."

"Yes," Nan said, standing her ground. "We are."

"This is so fucking stupid," Lena said, trying to laugh it off. She slipped the key into the lock, opening the trunk.

"You wanna know what's stupid?" Nan said. "What's stupid is me giving a crap about what you do. What's stupid is my caring about the fact that you're throwing your life away."

"Nobody asked you to look after me, Nan."

"No," Nan agreed. "But it's what Sibyl would have wanted." Her tone was more moderate now. "If Sibyl were here right now, she would be saying the same thing."

Lena swallowed hard, trying not to let Nan 's words get to her, mostly because they rang true. Sibyl was the only person who had ever really been able to get to Lena.

Nan said, "She would be saying that you need to deal with this. She would be worried about you."

Lena stared at the jack in the trunk of the car because it was the only thing she could focus on.

Nan said, "You're so angry."

Lena laughed again, but the sound was hollow even to her. "I think I have pretty damn good reason to be."

"Why? Because your sister was killed? Because you were raped?"

Lena reached out, holding on to the trunk of her car. If only it were that easy, Lena thought. She was not simply mourning the death of Sibyl, she was also mourning the death of herself. Lena did not know who she was anymore, or why she even got up in the morning. Everything Lena had been before the rape had been taken away from her. She no longer knew herself.

Nan spoke again, and when she did, she said his name. Lena watched Nan 's lips forming the word, saw his name travel through the space between them like an airborne poison.

"Lee," Nan said. "Don't let him ruin your life."

Lena kept her grip on the car, certain her knees would buckle if she let go.

Nan used his name again, then said, "You've got to deal with it, Lena. You've got to deal with it now, or you'll never be able to move on."

Lena hissed, "Fuck off, Nan."

Nan stepped forward, like she might put her hand on Lena 's shoulder.

"Get the fuck away from me," Lena warned.

Nan gave a long sigh, giving up. She turned and walked back to the bar without giving Lena a second glance.

Lena sat in the empty parking lot of the Grant Piggly Wiggly, sipping cheap whiskey straight from the bottle. She was past the harsh taste, and her throat was so numb from the alcohol that she could barely feel it going down. There was another bottle in the seat beside her, and she would probably go through that one, too, before the night was over. All Lena wanted to do was stay in her car in this empty parking lot and try to figure out what was happening in her life. Nan was right to some degree. Lena had to get over this, but that did not mean talking to some idiot like Dave Fine. What Lena needed to do was get her shit together and stop obsessing about stupid things. She just needed to get on with her life. She needed, Lena supposed, a night of self-pity, where she finally went through the motions of grieving and letting things go.

She listened to snippets of Sibyl's tapes, popping them one by one into the cassette player to see what was on them. She should label them, but she could not find a pen. Besides, it seemed wrong to write on Sibyl's things, even though Sibyl would not have minded. There were a few tapes that were already labeled, most of them Atlanta singers: Melanie Hammet, Indigo Girls, a couple more names Lena did not recognize. She ejected the last tape, which had been some kind of compilation of classical mu-sic on one side and old Pretenders tunes on the other, and tossed it in with the others.

Lena reached around to the back seat and pulled at the last box. It was heavier than the others, and when she finally managed to get it to the front, pictures spilled onto the seat beside her. Most of the photos were of Greg Mitchell and Lena at various stages in their relationship. There were some beach pictures, of course, as well as snapshots from the time they went to Chattanooga to see the aquarium. Lena blinked away tears, trying to remember what it had been like that day, standing in line to see the exhibit, the breeze coming off the Tennessee River so strong that Greg had stood behind her to keep her warm. She had loved the way her body felt when he put his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder. It was the only time in her life she could remember ever being truly content. Then, the line had moved, and Greg had stepped back, and said something about the weather, or a story on the news, and Lena had purposefully picked a fight with him for no reason whatsoever.

Lena thumbed through another stack of pictures, sipping the alcohol with deliberate care. She was beyond drunk now, but not beyond caring. Looking at the photos, she wondered how there had ever been a time when she wanted a man's company, or felt like being alone with one, let alone intimate. For all Lena had said when Greg left her, she had still wanted him back.

Lena found the picture Nan had told her about. Sibyl did look miserable, but she was still smiling for the camera. They were both about seven in the photograph. At that age, they had looked almost identical, though one of Sibyl's front teeth was missing because she had tripped and knocked it out on the front porch. The tooth that grew in to replace it was snaggled, but it gave Sibyl's mouth some character. At least, that's what Hank had told her.

Lena smiled as she spotted a stack of pictures bound together with a rubber band. Hank had given her an instant camera for her fifteenth birthday, and Lena had used two boxes of film in one day, taking pictures of everything she could think of. Later, she had done her own editing, splicing some of the images together. There was one picture in particular she remembered, and Lena thumbed through the stack until she found it. Using a razor blade, she had made a kisscut over the image, scoring just the surface of the photograph but not cutting all the way through to the back, and excised Hank from the scene. Bonnie, their golden lab, had been glued in his place.

"Bonnie," Lena breathed, aware that she was crying openly now. This was one of the reasons Lena did not drink alcohol. The dog had been dead for ten years and here she was, crying over him like it was just yesterday.

Lena got out of the car, taking the bottles of liquor with her. She wanted to get them out of the car because she knew she would end up passed out if they stayed there. As she walked, she realized that she was closer to this than she had thought in the car. Her feet felt like they did not belong to her, and she tripped several times over nothing in particular. The store had been closed for hours, but she still checked the windows to make sure no one saw her stumbling across the parking lot. Lena pressed her palm against the side of the building as she walked around it, holding both bottles with her free hand. When she got to the back of the store and let go of the wall, she tumbled, her knees giving out from under her. Somehow, she caught herself with one hand and kept from falling, face first, onto the asphalt.

"Shit," she cursed, seeing rather than feeling the cut on her palm. Lena stood, more determined now than ever to throw away the alcohol. She would sleep some of it off in her car and drive home when she could see straight.

Reeling back, she tossed the near empty bottle into the Dumpster. It made a rewarding crash as it broke against the metal wall inside the steel chamber. Lena picked up the other bottle and tossed it in. A couple of thunks later, and the bottle had not broken. She contemplated for just a moment going into the Dumpster and retrieving the bottle, but stopped herself before she did.

There was a stand of trees behind the building, and Lena walked over, her feet still feeling as if they were asleep. She bent over and made herself vomit. The alcohol was bitter coming up, and the taste made her sicker than she would have thought possible. By the end, she was on her knees, dry heaving, much as she had been in the car with Hank.

Hank, Lena thought, making herself stand. She was so angry with him that she thought just for a moment about driving into Reece, to the Hut, and confronting him. He had said four months ago that he would stay with Lena as long as she needed him. Where the hell was he now? Probably at some damn A. A. meeting talking about how worried he was about his niece, talking about how much he wanted to support her instead of actually being here and supporting her.

The Celica turned over with a rewarding purr, and Lena gassed the car, thinking just for a moment about letting off on the brake and smashing into the front windows of the Piggly Wiggly. The impulse was surprising, but not completely unexpected. A sense of worthlessness was taking over, and Lena was not fighting it. Even after throwing up the alcohol, her brain was still buzzing, and it was as if her barriers had been broken down, and her mind was letting her think about things that she did not really want to think about.

She was thinking about him.

The drive home was dicey, Lena crossing the yellow line more often than not. She nearly ran into the shed behind her house, the brakes squealing on the drive as she slammed them on at the last minute. She sat in the car, looking at the dark house. Hank had not even bothered to turn on the back porch light.

Lena reached over and unlocked the glove box. She pulled out her service revolver and chambered a round. The clicking sound from the bolt action was solid in her ears, and for some reason Lena found herself looking at the gun in a different light. She stared at the black metal casing, even sniffed the grip. Before she knew it, she had put the muzzle in her mouth, her finger resting on the trigger.

Lena had seen a girl do this before. The woman had put the gun right into her mouth and almost without hesitation pulled the trigger because she had seen this as the only way to get the memories out of her brain. The aftershock of the single shot to the head still reverberated to Lena, and what she remembered most of all from that day was that parts of the woman's brain and skull had actually dug into the Sheetrock on the wall behind her.

Lena sat in the car, breathing slowly, feeling the cold metal against her lips. She pressed her tongue against the barrel as she considered the situation. Who would find her? Would Hank come home early? Brad, she thought, because Brad was supposed to pick her up for work in the morning. What would he think, seeing Lena like this? What would that do to Brad to see Lena in her car with the back of her head blown out? Was he strong enough to handle it? Could Brad Stephens go on with his life, with his job, after finding Lena like that?

"No," Lena said. She ejected the clip and kicked out the chambered round, then locked all of it back in the glove box.

She got out of the car quickly, jogging up the stairs to the back porch. Her hands were steady as she unlocked the door and turned on the kitchen light. Lena walked through the house, turning on all the lights as she went. She took the steps upstairs two at a time, turning on more lights. By the time she was finished, the house was completely lit up.

Of course, with the lights on, anyone could look through the windows and see her. Lena reversed her steps, turning off the lights as she ran down the stairs. She could have pulled the curtains and closed the blinds, but there was something rewarding about moving, getting her heart pumping. She had not been to the gym in months, but her muscles remembered the movements.

When she had left the hospital, the doctors had given Lena enough pain medication to kill a horse. It was as if they wanted to give her as much medication as humanly possible to numb her. They had probably thought it would be easier on her to be medicated than to consider what had happened to her. The hospital shrink they had made Lena talk to even offered to give her Xanax.

Lena ran back upstairs and opened the medicine cabinet in her bathroom. Alongside the usual things were a half bottle of Darvocet and a full bottle of Flexeril. The Darvocet was for pain, but the Flexeril was a heavy-duty muscle relaxer that had knocked Lena on her ass the first time she had taken it. She had stopped taking them because at the time it was more important for her to stay alert than not to feel the pain.

Lena read the labels on the bottles, looking past the warnings to take the medications with food and not operate heavy machinery. There were at least twenty Darvocet and twice as many Flexeril. She turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run for a while. Her hand was perfectly steady as she took the cup out of its holder and filled it nearly to the brim.

"So," Lena mumbled, looking at the clear water, thinking she should say something important or poignant about her life. There was no one to hear her words, though, so it seemed silly to be talking to herself at this point. She had never really believed in God, so it wasn't as if Lena expected to meet up with Sibyl in the great hereafter. There would be no streets of gold for her to walk on. Not that Lena was well-versed in religious doctrine, but she was pretty sure that anyone who committed suicide, no matter what the religion, was pretty fucked as far as heaven was concerned.

Lena sat down on the toilet, considering this. For just a brief moment, she wondered whether or not she was still drunk. Certainly, she would not be contemplating such an act if she were sober. Would she?

Lena looked around the bathroom, which had never been her favorite room in the house. The tiles were orange with white grout, a popular color scheme when the house had been built in the seventies, but now was tacky. She had tried to compensate for the color by adding other colors: a dark-blue bathmat by the tub, a dark-green cover for the box of Kleenex on the back of the toilet. The towels tied the colors together, but not in a pleasing way. Nothing had helped the room. It seemed appropriate, then, that she would die here.

Lena opened the bottles and spread the pills out on the vanity. The Darvocet were large, but the Flexeril were more like little breath mints. Moving them around with her index finger, she alternated the big pills with the little pills, then moved them all back into their own separate piles. She sipped some of the water as she did this, and realized that to some degree she was playing.

"Okay," Lena said. "This one is for Sibby." She opened her mouth and popped in one of the Darvocets.

"To Hank," she said, chasing it with a Flexeril. Then, because they were small, she popped two more Flexeril, followed by two Darvocet. She did not swallow yet, though. Lena wanted to take them all at the same time, and there was one more person she felt the need to recognize.

Her mouth was so full that when she said his name, the sound was muffled.

"These are for you," she mumbled, scooping the remaining Flexeril into the palm of her hand. "These are for you, you fucking bastard."

She shoved the handful into her mouth, tilting back her head. She stopped midtilt, staring at Hank in the doorway. They were both quiet, their eyes locked on to each other's. He stood there with his arms crossed, his lips a firm line.

"Do it," he finally said.

Lena sat there on the toilet, holding the pills in her mouth. Some of them had started to break down, and she could taste an acrid, powdery paste forming at the back of her mouth.

"I won't call an ambulance, if that's what you're thinking." He gave a tight shrug. "Go ahead and do it if that's what you want to do."

Lena felt her tongue going numb.

"You scared?" Hank asked. "Too scared to pull the trigger, too scared to swallow the pills?"

Her eyes watered from the taste in her mouth, but she still did not swallow. Lena felt frozen. How long had he been watching her? Was this some kind of test she had failed?

"Go on!" Hank yelled, his voice so loud that it echoed against the tiles.

Lena 's mouth opened, and she started to spit out the pills into her hand but Hank stopped her. He crossed the small bathroom in two steps and clamped his hands around her head, one over her mouth, the other behind her so that she could not pull away. Lena dug her nails into his flesh, trying to pull his hand from her mouth, but he was too strong for her. She fell forward off the toilet, onto her knees, but he moved down with her, keeping her head locked between his hands.

"Swallow them," Hank ordered, his voice gravelly and low. "That's what you want to do, swallow them!"

She started to shake her head back and forth, trying to tell him no, that she did not want to do this, that she could not do this. Some of the pills started to slide down her throat, and she constricted the muscles in her neck to stop them. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it might explode.

"No?" Hank demanded. "No?"

Lena kept shaking her head, digging at his hand to release her. He finally let go, and she fell back against the tub, her head popping against the edge.

Hank threw open the toilet lid and half grabbed, half dragged her toward it. He pushed her head down into the bowl and she finally opened her mouth, gagging, spitting the pills out. Retching sounds echoed back at her until her mouth was empty. She used her fingers to clean around her gums and then used her nails, scraping at her tongue to get the taste out.

Hank stood, and when she looked up at him she could tell that he was pissed as hell.

"You bastard," she hissed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

His foot moved, and she thought he was going to kick her. Lena curled, anticipating the blow, but it did not come.

"Get cleaned up," Hank ordered. With an open palm, he swept the remaining pills off the basin and onto the floor. "Clean up this shit."

Lena moved to do as she was told, walking on her hands and knees, collecting the Darvocet.

Hank leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His voice was softer now, and she looked up at him, surprised to see that there were tears in his eyes. "If you ever do that again…" he began, then looked away. He put his hand over his mouth as if to fight back the words. "You're all I got, baby."

Lena was crying now, too. She said, "I know, Hank."

"Don't…" he began.

Lena asked, "Don't what?"

He slid down the wall, sitting on the floor with his hands to his side. He stared at her openly, his eyes searching hers for something. "Don't leave me," he whispered, his words hanging in the air above them like a dark cloud.

The distance between them was only a few feet, but to Lena it felt like an endless chasm. She could reach out to him. She could thank him. She could promise him that she would never try this again.

She could have done any or all of those things, but what Lena ended up doing was picking up the pills off the floor one by one and throwing them into the toilet.