“I had this home before you came here, and if you took off tomorrow, I’d still have it. You just happen to live in it.”
“I take care of it. I take care of you.”
Hard footsteps thumped. “I take care of me. Not to mention the entire town.”
Melissa’s muscles tensed. She drew her arms around herself.
“Now you listen to me, Linda. You’re going to have that dinner party this Saturday. I don’t care what else you were planning. You’ll invite who I tell you to invite, and they’ll sit where I want them to sit. And before you start whining, remember you live in this house because I pay for it.”
“This isn’t about being thankful! I just wanted to do it next weekend so I could take Mel—”
Melissa heard a muffled smack. “My clients are more important than that girl.”
Melissa’s fingers curled into her pajama top. No way. He’d hit her.
That girl.
Silence.
“I’m sorry.” Linda’s voice shook.
“Go make me breakfast. You’re making me late for work.”
The voices stopped. Melissa craned her neck to one side, concentrating on hearing more.
Nothing.
Shaking, she climbed down from the chair. She slumped into it and leaned forward, staring at her bare feet digging into thick carpet. Wishing like anything she could erase the last sixty seconds.
Baxter had slapped Linda. As much as Melissa didn’t want to believe that, she knew the sound. She’d heard it enough against her own cheek.
Maybe it was just a one-time thing. After all, she’d never heard their voices through the vent before. Besides, nice church-going men like Baxter didn’t hit their wives. Trailer trash did that, like the kind who’d lived near her and her mom. Melissa could count off ten neighbor men in a heartbeat who’d shoved their wives around.
Yeah, and men who hit their wives didn’t do it just once. They lived it.
Melissa raised her head and focused across the room, feeling sick. She’d had such plans for living here. Suddenly they were crumbling. What kind of home had she gotten herself into?
People were no good. No matter where you went, they were all just liars.
Melissa ran a hand across her forehead. She should just go back to sleep. Forget she heard anything. Whatever had happened, it was over. It didn’t pose her any threat, none at all.
She pushed to her feet, headed for bed, then found herself veering for the closet. Even as she headed for the walk-in she told herself not to do it. Just pull a pillow over your head and sleep, Melissa. Just tell yourself everything’s going to be okay.
Melissa crossed the threshold of the closet, trying to think nothing, nothing at all. She pulled a silky summer robe from a hanger and thrust her arms into it. Tied it around her waist. She stepped out of the closet and gazed at her bed, bottom lip sucked between her teeth. This was her last chance to turn away from this.
Her eyes closed in disgust. What a wimp she was. After all she’d handled in her past? After her own mother’s death?
Head up, determination pulling back her shoulders, Melissa strode toward her bedroom door.
SEVENTEEN
FEBRUARY 2010
At 7:00 a.m. on Sunday I sat at Dineen’s kitchen table, sipping coffee and feeling like the walking dead. A thick lump of tiredness sat in my chest, blood sluggish through my veins. Worse, my brain felt like mush. I had to wake up. Today of all days I needed my wits about me.
No sign of Dineen. I hoped she was sleeping soundly. I’d rummaged in her computer desk drawer and found a flash drive, copied my file onto it. My pages of handwritten notes were in my purse. One more cup of coffee and I was out of here, back to my house. I needed to shower, prepare for the tasks that lay ahead.
I needed electricity.
Wandering into the den, I flipped on Dineen’s TV to low volume and searched out local news. The meteorologist was the man of the hour, prognosticating that although the storm of the decade had run its course, more rain could hit as early as this afternoon. A reporter stood in a Vonita neighborhood, indicating downed small trees, a broken mailbox. “A tree on a power line cut electricity to over a hundred homes last night. Repairmen worked into the early hours of the morning to fix the problem. Those Vonita citizens will surely be happy to wake up to restored power this morning.”
Thank you, God.
The news sent a spark of energy through me. I drained my coffee and returned to the kitchen. I cleaned up after myself and left a note for Dineen: Thanks so much. Looks like energy is back on at my house. Will call you later.
As I pulled away from Dineen’s, a dull ache thrummed in my head. Another full-blown headache was on its way. I detoured to stop at the convenience store for some high-powered aspirin.
The sky hung swollen and bruised. Runoff funneled down the side of the curb, the drains unable to keep up. In some places the water swirled into the street. My tires hit the puddles, sending hissing sprays at the gloomy sky. People were in their yards, picking up branches and other debris. A few glanced my way. No one waved. Before the newspaper article, that wouldn’t have been the case.
Maybe they hadn’t noticed who I was. Maybe I was just being paranoid.
I thought of all my friends at Vonita True Life Church, attending services in a few hours. Would they breathe a sigh of relief when I didn’t show up? How many would offer their condolences to Baxter for my harshness?
My headache was quickly growing worse. I pulled into Perry’s Corner Store and lugged myself inside.
“Hey, Joanne,” Perry Bracowski called from the cash register area. He put the paperback he was reading facedown on the counter and shot me a smile. Perry was never without a detective novel. They filled the long hours at work, he’d once told me. After his wife died a year ago—following a protracted battle with cancer—he admitted to reading all the more. The books didn’t fill the empty spaces at home, he said, but at least they were something.
Other than the two of us the store was empty. “What’re you doing here on a Sunday morning?” I asked. Hired help usually opened the store. Perry worked the later shift and closed. Plus I knew he typically attended the Baptist church in town.
“Ah.” He waved a hand in the air. “Lost my employee. Again. Doggone kids, think they have to go to college.”
We smiled at each other.
“Nice night we had, huh?” He raised his bushy eyebrows.
“Stellar.” I headed for the first aid section, close to the checkout counter, my rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the floor.
“A CSN night.”
CSN—Crosby, Stills and Nash. Perry was playing our name-that-song game. I slowed, trying to think through the pain in my head. “ ‘Cold Rain.’”
“You got it. The CSN album, 1977.”
I managed a smile.
“You one of those without electricity?”
“Yup. Went to my sister’s for the night. You?”
Perry grunted. “I got lucky.”
He folded his arms and watched me pluck a bottle of extrastrength pain reliever from the shelf. Perry is around my age, with an average build but strong, his hair pepper and salt. Dark brown eyes. A bit of a dreamer in a feisty sort of way. Not content, like my Tom. Not nearly as laid back. But I’ve always liked Perry. Solid—that’s the word for him, in body and soul.
Silence descended. Perry’s gaze slid to the nearby rack of Vonita’s weekly paper, then bounced away. He cleared his throat.
I walked to the checkout and set down the plastic bottle. Perry focused on it, then raised his eyes to mine. “Headache?” His tone revealed more than the question.