32

Lying in bed staring at the white ceiling, Cary measured her vision against the landmarks, a small water stain in the shape of a star and the light fixture. She closed one eye, then the other. Her tunnel of sight was shrinking and she had nobody to talk with.

Despite her resolve to be matter-of-fact, tears came. Angrily, she rubbed them away. This is just the way it is, so deal with it. It could be worse. You could be homeless and blind. It could be raining. So don’t sink into depression. Count your blessings. You’re not being used as a punching bag, you have a job, a place to live, food to eat, and you’re learning to use a seeing-eye horse. She smiled at what her sister might say to that. Thinking of her sister brought images of her niece and nephew. Would she ever see them again? Rolling onto her side, she reached for a tissue and blew her nose.

Whenever she wasn’t with Elizabeth, she was at Ronny’s farm learning to work with a guide horse, getting more confident and less scared in trusting the animal. Despite her worries and longings and not daring to hope, she did get paired up with Cinnamon Ginger, the sweetest, most intelligent, most beautiful little horse in the world.

All the time now, she had the panicky sense of being followed. She never saw anybody and—okay, joke. She wouldn’t see anybody unless they were wrapped around and around with running arrow lights. How long before Mitch grabbed her? Because he was coming, she knew it. He was out there somewhere, watching her and following, waiting for whatever he had in mind. All the struggle and running and Arlette dying, would all be for nothing. Mitch would get her anyway. Why not just roll over and die?

A few more minutes of wallowing in fear and sorrow and she got disgusted with herself. So, it might happen. He might be out there hiding behind a bush, waiting for the right moment to leap out at her, but until that happened, she was still alive. For God’s sake, go with what you’ve got! She showered and dressed, then went downstairs and stepped out on the kitchen porch. Wind slapped at her face, the hot air heavy with the odor of death. Much stronger this morning.

Somewhere in the acres of corn, something had died. Horror, deep in the pit of her stomach, said Kelby was out there somewhere. Cary bobbed and weaved, trying to determine the focus of the birds. Could it be the barn they circled and not the cornfield? She’d only glanced around inside. Had Kelby gone up to the loft and fallen behind the hay bales? Been laying there this whole time? Oh God, why hadn’t she searched every inch? Do it now! She peered in all directions before setting out. She didn’t see anything like Mitch carrying a big sign that read “I’m coming to get you.”

She rolled the wide barn door aside and stepped in, then waited for light to penetrate the dimness. It was cooler inside. The old stone kept the sun from baking it. Kelby’s Honda sat gathering dust. Creeping closer, she peered at the windshield. Smiley face. In the dust. Mitch? To taunt her?

Ignoring the urge to rush back to the house and lock herself in, she went into each of the stalls along one side of the center aisle. Two were empty. The third had straw on the floor. She tromped around on it, thinking it would be perfect for Ginger. Across the aisle was a room she knew—after learning a few things about horses and barns—was a tack room. Desk in the corner covered with dust, pegs on one wall, shelving on another, with three cardboard cartons on the bottom shelf. She pulled one out and removed the lid.

Newspaper clippings. All about the Lily Farmer murder and trial. Mitch hadn’t worked that case, but he’d talked about it. Everybody talked about it. It had been all over the news and in the papers for weeks. She’d watched news and read articles and was horrified, along with everyone else, at the viciousness of the crime. Why did Kelby have these? Cary glanced at pictures of Lily with her dazzling smile, and saw a shot of the young woman’s father with an anguished face.

After the trial, the press had talked with any juror who agreed to be interviewed. Some appeared on Good Morning America and 60 Minutes. Holding a clipping almost to her nose, she read one juror quoted as saying the crime scene photos were very hard to take. One of them, Kelby Oliver, almost couldn’t look. Kelby had been on the jury in the Lily Farmer trial.

The other two cartons had more clippings. She put the boxes back on the shelf. A heart-stopping vision of Mitch storming in while she was in the loft filled her mind as she climbed one rung at a time. When her head was just above the floor level, she tilted it this way and that, peering into dim corners.

Bales of hay. And dust. As far as she could tell, the dust hadn’t been disturbed in a long time. A small animal streaked across the top of a bale and disappeared behind. Only clamped teeth kept her from screaming. Mouse. Clambering over the last rung, she crept toward the stacked bales and looked over, around, behind, on all sides. Nothing. She drew a deep breath and nearly choked on the dust. There was nothing in the barn. Back out to the hot sunshine, she shaded her eyes as she looked up. No birds.

Veering around behind the barn, she followed a trail to a small, squat building that looked as though only the cracked and peeling paint held it together. The door sagged on its hinges and she had to tug and jerk to open it. All she could see inside was nests of straw. Chicken house, maybe?

Farther along the path, an arched wooden bridge spanned a creek, water rippled along about ten feet below, swirling past large rocks. Tentatively, she took a step onto the bridge, then another. There was no railing to hold onto, but she proceeded carefully up the arch. The wind swirled the shadows cast by the trees, until she could see only movement of light and dark. Inching slowly, she put a foot forward, and then another. Then … suddenly there was nothing to step on. Heart hammering in her throat, she knelt for a closer look. Gaping hole. One section of wood had rotted away on the right side of the bridge. She went back to the path. A tall, octagonal building sat at the end, so tall the top was lost in the trees, the crumbling wood had a few flakes of green paint. The sickly sweet smell was almost like a fog she could taste. Silo? For storing grain? There was a small door near the ground. A panel that slid up. Should she open it?