Falling Grace. Melissa Shirley
shut-eye.
I padded out to the kitchen, started a pot of coffee, and opened the file I’d retrieved from the police station.
With a sigh, I pulled out the crime scene photos. An eight by ten black and white showed an overall view of the bedroom. A white twin canopy bed sat in the middle of one wall, a closet to the left, and a dresser with a mirror on the right. Long gauzy curtains shielded a window behind the bed. The body, blankets, and sheets had all been removed before the camera captured the image.
I put it aside and moved to the next. At the following photo, I sucked in a breath, turned it on to its face, then closed my eyes. Holy God. I could only imagine what she’d gone through, the pain, the suffering. Flipping the picture up, I recited a prayer under my breath. It took a full minute to breathe through my nausea. After one last calming inhale, I lowered my gaze to take in as much detail of the image as I could.
Her almost transparent skin contrasted heavily with the blood pooled at various incisions on her body. Dark eyelashes rested against her paled cheeks. Long, blond hair matted against her head, and her body lay tucked on its side, one arm against her hip the other bent toward her face. She could have fallen asleep peacefully if not for the blood and cuts. Dots and stains of red colored the blanket pushed down to her feet.
Bile worked its way up my throat, and I stood, leaned over the sink, and pulled in deep drafts of air. The splash of water against my face cooled my heated cheeks and, after a moment, my dizziness subsided. “Shit.” If I couldn’t get through a single photo without the urge to throw up, the odds of making it through court slimmed.
I sat back down and pushed the pictures to the side in favor of the autopsy and police reports. The photos could wait.
Deputy Wesley, the first officer on the scene, documented every detail, and his report stretched on for nineteen neatly typed pages. For a socially inept human being, he’d proven his attention to fact and supposition.
I scanned for the high points, ignored his opinions, and jotted notes on a tablet of Post-its.
Date night. Babysitter--Jenny Walker. Home by eleven. Checked on kids. Emily covered completely, only hair showing. Male child asleep on sofa. Back gate open. No forced entry. House in reasonable state of cleanliness. Heavy odor of bleach. Four people in the home. Two adults, two children. Body found in bed. Empty trash can.
By the time I finished, notes covered the entire surface of my kitchen table and ran up the wall separating the kitchen from the rest of the apartment.
A while after the first rays of sunlight streaked through the blinds and left swirling patterns of dust in the air, Hope hobbled into the kitchen rubbing her eyes, her mouth open in a big yawn. “You redecorating already?”
She picked up a Post-it, read it, and smoothed it onto the front of her shirt.
“Put it back, Hope. I need these in the order I wrote them.”
She rolled her eyes and slapped the yellow sticky note back into place. “You got coffee?”
I nodded to the counter and handed her my cup.
“It’s empty.” She picked up the glass pot and stared at it as though she could telepathically make more appear.
I pushed back from the table, snatched it out of her hand, and began the process I’d already repeated twice. As the water ran into the carafe, I turned away from the sink. “Hope, do you know if the girls have anything going on at home right now?”
She pulled out a chair and plopped down before pulling her knees to her chest. “No. Why?”
I sighed and finished making the coffee before I turned to answer. “I might need Charity”--a forensic investigator--“or Joy”--a criminal psychologist--“to help me out a little with my case.”
I stared at my notes, a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach churning with the gallons of coffee I’d consumed. My gaze ventured from one yellow paper to another, but always strayed back to one hanging on the wall. Emily completely covered--only hair showing.
I snatched the page off the wall. Didn’t mothers worry about suffocation? With the note still clutched in my hand, I looked from Hope to the door and back again. “I need a mom.”
She scoffed and rested her head on her knees. “Don’t we all?”
I shook my head. “No. Not for me. I need to ask a mom a question.” The gnawing in my belly burned for an answer.
“Doesn’t Rory have a kid?”
“Yes.” But the last thing I wanted to do was drag her into this. We’d reached a tenuous truce, and the question I wanted an answer to held the potential to start a world war between us.
“Go ask her.”
I shook my head and tapped a finger against my lips. Who else could I bother with this? I took a mental inventory of the people I knew in this town--the hot prosecutor, Tyler, his wife, Rory’s parents, an angry deputy, Jack, and Rory. Because my question involved the pertinent details of a case, and I was bound by attorney-client privilege, I didn’t see another choice. “I guess I’m gonna have to.”
Chapter 6
Because I’d been raised to bring gifts when visiting, and not because I needed to butter her up, I stood outside Rory’s door with a box of donuts and a bundle of flowers I’d picked up on a whim from a stand outside the bakery. With the file stuffed in my bag and a practiced smile on my lips, I knocked and held out the bouquet in front of me when she opened the door.
“Grace? What are you doing here?”
I held up the pastries and stepped past her. “I brought food.”
“Jack makes breakfast on Sundays.”
I shrugged. “Okay, I brought me some food.” Thrusting the flowers under her nose, I added, “And daisies.”
She smiled and closed the door. “Is your new place a little lonely, Grace?”
I shook my head and followed her into the kitchen. “Actually, Hope showed up last night.” I didn’t mention the bad timing, but went with the headline. “She quit school.”
“So your new place is crowded, and you came here seeking the peace and quiet of a house with a four-year-old?” She tilted her head, and her eyebrows formed a single line across her forehead.
“No.” I hedged around the table. “I came here looking for the experience of a mother of a four-year-old.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Jack who stared daggers at me. “Experience?”
I blew out a breath. Might as well go all in. “Not the experience of losing a child.” I held up a hand and shook my head. “Not experience at all, I don’t think. Maybe instinct is the better word.”
“In that case, Grace,”--Jack whirled back to the stove--“can I make you some pancakes to go with your murder and mayhem?” He held up a spatula and a bowl of batter.
Rory roller her eyes at me, her back to him. “We’re just going to go in the office for a few minutes.”
He looked over his shoulder and frowned. “It’s Sunday, Ror.”
“We’ll only be a few minutes, honey.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
She ignored the bite to his tone and motioned for me to follow her down the hallway. At the end, she popped open the door to a room decorated in every shade of blue she could have possibly located. Electric blue throw pillows leaned in the corners of the navy colored couch and a pale blue wingback sat behind a dusty blue painted desk.
“Don’t mind Jack. Sunday is family day.” She air-quoted family day. “He doesn’t work, I’m not supposed to work.” She curled up on one end of the sofa. “Sit.” She waited a beat while I stood chewing my bottom