FRIDAY
JOSEPHINE
The face staring at me was pale and frightening, the eyes a glassy blue, the whitish hair shaggy and unkempt. I wanted to back away, but I couldn’t make my body move. I tried to open my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. He was ranting about a shooting, a book, forgiveness. Paige was there, too, and I heard the fear in the way she was breathing, and I felt afraid too. We needed to leave, quickly.
I must have flailed my arm because Paige took my hand and whispered in a voice that barely sounded like hers, “It’s all right, Momma. I’m here.”
And the man kept ranting and then I saw the door open and policemen rush in. I didn’t understand what was happening, only that this man was in trouble and Paige was crying and begging the policemen not to shoot. And I could not move, no matter how hard I tried.
I was still hyperventilating when they put the handcuffs on Henry. A nurse was tending to Momma, who jerked and moaned in a ghastly way. Drake was cradling me in his arms and saying, “Bourdy, Bourdy, are you okay?”
But I could not speak. I had floated away again, hovering over Momma as the nurses, three of them now, tried to calm her spastic movements. She gargled pitiful sounds and her eyes were skewed and terror filled, like a prisoner in a death camp. The nurses must have added a sedative to her cocktail of meds, because a few minutes later she calmed and her eyes closed.
I breathed again, and turned to see Henry leaving the room, the policemen pointing their handguns at his back. And he had the same horror-filled anguish on his face as Momma.
A nurse had me sit down right on the floor in the room, and she knelt in front of me. “Breathe, Paige, breathe. Slow, that’s right.” She was shining a light in my eyes and saying, “She’s in shock,” and then, “Paige, are you hurt? Does anything hurt?”
I realized then I was shivering uncontrollably, but I managed to shake my head. “I’m not hurt,” I mumbled.
“Let me take you to a place where you can lie down for a while,” the nurse was saying.
But I shook my head again, my eyes riveted on Henry being escorted from the room. “That man is the one who shot Momma,” I whispered.
From somewhere far away I could hear Libby wailing, “Please don’t take Henry, please!”
I crumpled into Drake’s arms and everything went black.
HENRY
Libby almost lost her mind when she saw me being led away in handcuffs. She was screaming and crying after those policemen to make sure I took my meds—that they’d help level me out. And the cop kept trying to calm her down, telling her it was gonna be okay. But we all knew nothing was okay.
I had been so sure, just a little while ago. If I had only gotten to ask Miz Bourdillon all my questions. She could hear me, I saw it. She’d opened her eyes and was listening to me. She was. And then those cops came in and ruined everything and hauled me away in their patrol car to the police station.
The interrogation room was small and empty of everything except a table—which was bolted down, I noticed right away—and two chairs. There were little cameras, two of them, up in the corners of the room. So I figured maybe someone else was watching us, but I didn’t know for sure. Didn’t scare me, though. Pa’s interrogations were a lot scarier than this, and I had the scars to prove it.
A man called Detective Blaylock sat on the other side of the table and just stared at me for a long time, not talking. He kept pulling at his thick black beard, like he had something stuck in it, but all that was stuck was me.
“Henry, mind if I call you Henry?”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
Just me and that Detective Blaylock sitting alone in the little room. He said, “Before we start, I want to make sure you understand that you have rights, Henry.” He paused, like he wasn’t sure I could understand him, so I nodded. “Since this is a criminal investigation, you know, the lawyers want us to go over this stuff. You watch TV, you’ve heard it before.”
I’d watched a lot more than TV, but wasn’t no use saying anything about Pa.
The detective cleared his throat. He was kinda fidgety, but not mean acting.
“You do have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to have an attorney present with you during questioning, or to consult an attorney prior to questioning. If you don’t have an attorney or can’t afford one, the state will appoint one to you. And at any time during our questioning, you can choose to stop the interview. Do you understand these rights?”
I nodded, but then I saw he wanted me to say it out loud, so I answered, “Yes. I got you,” and he had me sign a waiver.
Then he started asking me a bunch of questions like “What’s your name? What’s your birthday? What’s your wife’s name? Your son’s? Where are you from? What’s your address?”
Went on and on and on, those questions. And I was feeling really tired. Run down. Didn’t seem too important, those questions, but after a while that detective seemed okay, like he was almost on my side. He was recording everything I said with a fancy little machine, and then sometimes he’d jot down something in a notebook, but that didn’t bother me. I knew what I could tell him and what I couldn’t.
“Henry, you admitted that you’re guilty of shooting Mrs. Bourdillon. That’s attempted first-degree murder.” He stared at me with his dark eyes, not exactly threatening. Like he expected me to smile and say, “Yep, that’s right.” But I said nothing.
“And you’re guilty of taking a hostage with a weapon.” He waited again, but I wasn’t paying attention because all of a sudden I was seeing Paige’s eyes all horrified and scared, and I felt real bad about that.
But the detective just kept on talking, real calm like, telling me everything I was guilty of and that I’d have a real long prison sentence. He added, almost kindly, “Henry, you’ll be found guilty, and you’ll never see your family again.”
He waited as if I should agree with him, but I figured I’d better keep my mouth shut. So we sat there in silence for a while.
Then he tried again. “It’s clear that you pulled the trigger, but it’s also clear that you aren’t the one who wanted Mrs. Bourdillon dead. Someone hired you. Who was it that hired you to kill Mrs. Bourdillon?”
I fidgeted for a while with my hands and felt the sweat break out on my brow. “I don’t know—it went through my contact.”
“So you don’t know the name of the person who wanted to have Mrs. Bourdillon assassinated?”
“That’s right. I don’t know.”
“And what is your contact’s name?”
“Detective, sir, I have a sick boy in the hospital. Real sick. Barely hangin’ on. The minute I tell you my contact’s name, my boy is as good as dead. My wife too.”
“We’ll protect them. We’ve got guards at the hospital twenty-four hours a day.”
“If I got into Miz Bourdillon’s room with a gun, I expect my contact could get into Jase’s room too. I’m not gonna tell you, Detective. I’m not.”
He cursed, rubbed his hands over his face, and cursed again. “You’ll go to jail for attempted first-degree murder, Henry. You could be in jail for the rest of your life. But if you can give us any information, then I’ll talk to the DA about waiving the lesser charges and pleading the attempted first-degree down to an aggravated assault.” He started tugging on his beard again.
I could tell he was trying to help me. “And what good would it do me to be out of jail if my wife and son are dead? Sorry, Detective.”
He sat silent and stone-faced. I didn’t think he was gonna say anything else, but then he said, soft, almost pleading, “Don’t you want whoever planned this thing to be behind bars?”
I didn’t say anything. I was trying to figure out if Nick would risk coming to the hospital to harm my boy now that it was overrun again with police.
They took me to a cell, and there were some other men in the cells next to mine, just staring at me with angry, prowling eyes. I lay down on a cot and pulled a blanket over my shoulders and tried to picture Jesus in the jail, right here with all us sinners. And it must’ve worked, because sometime in the night I fell asleep.
PAIGE
No one seemed surprised that the incident went viral. The teenager who was in the waiting room when Henry grabbed me followed the police when they rushed to Momma’s room, and he filmed the whole scene on his phone. Before Drake could even get in touch with Daddy and Hannah and Aunt Kit back at home, Hannah had seen a video on Facebook of me screaming and shielding Henry while police stormed the room and Momma lay trancelike in the background.
It freaked Hannah out completely.
When she and Daddy and Aunt Kit arrived at the hospital, the whole place was swarming with police, and an officer brought them in a back entrance while a whole crew of police stood outside the front entrance.
I sat in the waiting room and couldn’t stop shivering, even though Drake bundled me in his fleece jacket and a big wool blanket provided by the hospital. The nurse attending me suggested very calmly she take me to a bed in the ICU to lie down, but I begged her to let me stay with Drake and my family in the waiting room. She did persuade me to take a sedative, but I didn’t want to sleep.
“How’s Momma?” I’d ask every time I blinked awake, and Hannah would run her hands through my hair and say, “She’s fine, Paige.” But I kept moaning, “I should have refused to take him into her room! It’s all my fault.”
“Oh, Paige, don’t entertain those thoughts, sweetie,” Daddy said. “You did a very courageous thing.”
Hannah begged me, “Let me take you home, Paige. You’ve got to sleep, and you can’t do it here. Please.”
“Bourdy,” Drake added, “you’re going to help your mother the most by getting rest. The police will have plenty of questions for you tomorrow.”
Finally I gave in and let them lead me out of the waiting room, but then I stopped. “Libby,” I whispered.
“Who?” Drake asked.
“I’ve got to find Libby—that man’s wife. She must be out of her mind with worry.”
Drake looked me in the eyes. “Bourdy, you’ve had enough excitement for one night.” That was the understatement of the year—Momma responding to me, a declaration of love, and then being taken hostage.
“Please, let me check on her, just for a sec.”
“Bourdy . . .”
“Please?”
Drake glanced over at Daddy, who frowned and shook his head no.
“Please,” I begged again. “Her son is dying and now her husband is in jail. She doesn’t have any family or anybody at all here with her.”
Daddy shrugged. “Just for a minute, sweetie. You’ve got to get some rest.”
Hannah gave me a hug, and then Drake and a policeman escorted me to the elevator, and we rode down one floor. Another policeman stood outside Jase’s door. He glanced up at us, looked at the other officer, and nodded. When we stepped into Jase’s room, Libby was sitting in the chair by his bed, hunched over, wringing her hands, a shattered expression on her face. I went to her and grabbed her in a hug.
She stiffened a little and looked scared to death. Then she said, “I’m so sorry, Paige! About everything—what Henry did to your mother and then to you. I’m so sorry.”
Then her arms tightened around me, and she cried her heart out.
“They’re going to take me downstairs for questioning. I begged them to do it up here in the waiting room. I don’t want to be far from my boy. They said I can spend the night in here, but I have to be questioned first.” She looked so small and lost. “Look at him now, Paige. So pale and weak. I’m so scared.”
I grabbed her again. “Call your pastor, Libby. Tell him what’s happened. Tell him you need someone from your church to be here.” Then I blurted out, “And I’ll stay with Jase until you get back.” It took a moment for this to register, so I said it again. “I’ll watch over him, Libby. I promise.” She melted in my arms and cried.
Drake and I sat there until Libby returned sometime later. I dozed in and out to the sounds of the machines beeping and breathing for Jase. But Drake stayed wide awake. I could not make anything out of Libby’s expression when she returned, nothing except the anguish and horror I had read on her face earlier. I hugged her tightly again, and then Drake helped me to the elevator, where my knees immediately buckled, and he picked me up in his arms, following the policeman to his patrol car.
I must have fallen asleep in the car because I woke up once again in Drake’s arms. He carried me into the house and tucked me into bed. I remember mumbling, “How is Momma?” and then was out.
SATURDAY
I woke to light streaming through my bedroom window and a feeling of dread. Then I remembered—Henry shoving me with the gun, Momma’s terrified face, the police. . . .
I pulled myself out of bed, stretched, and tried to pry open my eyes, but the effects of the sedative made that nearly impossible. I took a hot shower, and as the water blasted me I let myself sob under its protective stream. Then I wrapped myself in an oversized towel and walked to my window to look out at the mountains beyond. When I glanced down at our driveway, I gasped and backed away. Four police cars were parked there, red lights flashing, and a group of people stood just beyond, cameras poised and waiting for something. I also recognized a few of our neighbors. A policeman was turning away other cars.
I threw on a pair of jeans and a sweat shirt and rushed downstairs. Hannah and Daddy were sitting at the breakfast room table, and when I walked in Daddy rushed over to me and held me tightly. “Paige, sweetie.”
I took in my surroundings. “Who’s with Momma?”
Daddy said, “Ginnie.”
Drake’s mother, Momma’s closest friend.
“She saw everything on the news and came to the hospital at midnight.” This from Hannah. “She persuaded us to go home and sleep. Drake went back to be there with her. And Aunt Kit just left a few minutes ago. She’s heading back to the hospital so Ginnie can take a break.”
“The nursing staff begged us all to rest. As you can see”—Daddy nodded to the bay window in the kitchen—“we had quite the police escort.”
My mind was so fuzzy. “Why are they here?”
Hannah pointed to the news headlines staring back at me from Daddy’s laptop: Josephine Bourdillon’s daughter taken hostage, saves mother and shooter.
The room started spinning, and I collapsed in a chair. “What does it mean?”
“They’re calling you a hero, and there are reporters out there waiting to get a glimpse of you.” Hannah gave me a wink. “Reporters, and some of Momma’s fans.”
“Unbelievable,” I whispered.
“You should hear what people are saying.” Now Hannah led me into the family room. There on the TV screen, a reporter was standing in our front yard—our yard!—holding his microphone in front of an older woman who spoke excitedly.
“I’ve read all of Mrs. Bourdillon’s books. I’m one of her biggest fans. Just had to come up here and see where she lives. And her daughter. What a brave young woman!” Then she wrinkled her brow. “Although I can’t imagine why she had pity on the assassin. That man deserves to die!”
I had barely assimilated this comment when the reporter turned to a middle-aged woman who was saying, “Mighty thankful that they’ve caught that scum. I tell you what—he should be hung!”
Running across the bottom of the screen were the words Author’s devoted fans demanding death penalty for hit man.
The video changed from our yard to a scene in front of the police station where Henry was being held. A policeman was blocking a small crowd of people from advancing to the entrance. They held up handmade signs that read What happened to police protection?, Kill the killer!, and other horrible things.
I collapsed on the leather sofa, thankful that poor Henry had been locked away inside the jail.
JOSEPHINE
“JoJo, it’s me again, JoJo. It’s Kit. Everything just gets crazier and crazier, doesn’t it? Do you understand what’s happening? Listen, I’m sorry I made such a fuss over the money. And what happened with Patrick. Please, please just forget about that whole nasty business.”
Kit’s face was so close, her mouth moving frantically, but what exactly was she saying?
———
2007 . . . Two days after their father’s funeral, the family lawyer called Kit and Josephine, and Patrick as well, to his office. After welcoming them and expressing condolences, he said, “Patrick, as you know, Dick named you executor of the will.”
Patrick nodded. Josephine’s stomach was in knots. This was not a surprise to any of them, but Kit’s eyes still blazed anger.
The lawyer continued, “There is quite a bit of cash in Dick’s main account, and then the IRA and the two Foundations. The property was appraised at two million. . . .” He kept quoting figures, but Josephine could barely hear him. All she saw was the fury on Kit’s face.
“The trust funds have specific instructions . . . sum of money for both Hannah and Paige. The rest of the inheritance is to be split evenly between Kit and Josephine.”
Kit looked relieved.
“With one rather significant stipulation. Kit’s account is to be managed by Patrick.”
Josephine wilted. What had her parents been thinking? Hadn’t she discussed this with them countless times? She and Patrick didn’t want any more responsibility for Kit. It was a noose.
Kit, mad as a hornet, screamed obscenities, accusing Patrick and Josephine and the lawyer of manipulation. But in the end, the will won out. And the noose tightened again. Truly an Awful Year, just as the girls proclaimed.
HENRY
Had that TV blaring at the police station when they brought me out of the holding cell for processing the next morning, and sure enough, there I was on the screen, holding my gun and pointing it at poor Paige and then dropping it on the floor and Paige jumping in front of me. And I don’t know why she did such a thing, because I knew good and well them cops could have shot me dead without endangering Paige or her mother. You could see it clear as the sky on that video they kept replaying.
I must’ve asked that question out loud, because one of the cops said, “You idiot! She saved your skin so you’d tell her who ordered the hit. But once you do that . . .” He grinned at me and drew his finger across his neck. “You’ll be dead meat. You’ve got thousands of people demanding you confess to who was really behind the shooting before they hang you.” He laughed. “You’re safer in here with a bunch of thugs than out there with those people who like Miz Bourdillon’s books. Ain’t that something?”
And he didn’t know the half of it. Because I reckoned the people who liked Miz Bourdillon’s books were the religious sort, and shouldn’t they be the kind of people who’d show forgiveness and compassion instead of pure red-hot hate? Didn’t make sense to me. Then I got to thinking again about how Jesus wasn’t real kind to the Pharisees—I knew about them from Libby’s church. They were the religious experts.
I wondered how many religious folks nowadays acted like those Pharisees. And then I wondered long and hard how Jesus would feel about them.
But mostly I was worrying about my boy and wondering how poor Libby was doing and hoping she’d come to the jail to see me and tell me about Jase. Had a real bad feeling about all of it when just yesterday I’d thought some things were beginning to make sense.
PAIGE
Daddy was the one to find the letters, four of them, filed away, not in the plastic containers in The Chalet, but somewhere in his office. All in pink envelopes, all the notes on pink stationery, all with the same block print as the most recent ones.
When I’d finally remembered to tell him about Detective Blaylock’s request, Daddy had gotten such a look of resignation on his face that I almost said, Never mind.
He brought them up to my bedroom, where I was lying on my bed, with Hannah perched on the twin bed across from me. “I kept these, but I certainly didn’t want your mother to know I still had them. Each one sent her into a fit.”
“Why’d you keep them, Daddy?” I asked.
He got a far-off look in his eyes. “I guess I always knew we’d need them someday.”
“I’m pretty sure if Detective Blaylock examines these, he’ll find they’re from the same person,” I said. “Why didn’t you show the letters to him right away?”
He sat down on the edge of my bed and said, “It was just way too complicated, girls. That’s why.”
I wanted him to say more, but he just leaned over and kissed me on the forehead and said, “You rest, my dear. Hannah, you make sure of it, okay? Stay away from the internet and the TV with all the madness. Aunt Kit will be back home in a little while, and then I’m going back to see Momma.” Then he added, “Paige, Detective Blaylock would like to talk to you about what happened last night. He wanted to give you a chance to rest, but whenever you feel ready, he said he’d be happy to come by the house.”
“He can come this afternoon, Daddy. I think it’d do me good to talk to him.”
A few days ago, I couldn’t imagine ever saying that.
“I’ll let him know. Now rest.”
When Daddy left the room, I said, “Hannie, please don’t go back to France. Not now. Not with everything going on.”
She caught me in her arms. “Shhh. Daddy’s already cancelled my flight. I’m here. I’ll stay with you.”
“Je t’en prie.” And we met eyes, both sets tear-filled, both of us slipping back to France for just a few seconds.
I was thankful for Daddy’s orders—and the nurse’s—which kept us away from the internet and the TV and everything leaking out over Facebook and Twitter. I had never been part of something going viral before. And I was thankful that our home was guarded by a mass of policemen and that Momma’s room and Jase’s room at the hospital were also under “tight surveillance”—Detective Blaylock’s words—and that poor Henry Hughes was safe behind bars.
I said it out loud to Hannah. “Of all the ironies, safe behind bars takes on a whole new meaning now, doesn’t it?”
Hannah made a face. “His poor wife and kid. Saddest thing in the world. But I can’t say I feel very sorry for him. He did shoot Momma in the head!” She was fiddling with her hair, carefully pulling it into a French braid, one section over the other. Then she let go, and her thick mane untwisted slowly, almost elegantly. “Were you scared? Do you want to talk about it, you know, having a gun in your back and all?”
I honestly could not begin to describe the emotions coursing through me. Terror, exhaustion, relief, hope for Momma, and that giddiness bubbling up again in the midst of everything else. Drake liked me! When I explained our conversation to Hannah, including Drake’s declaration, she gave a sigh worthy of a heroine in a Victorian novel. I half expected her to swoon. “What do I do now, Hannie? I’m so confused.”
She tweaked my cheek and laughed. “Drake’s already told you what to do, and what he’s going to do. Just wait.”
Now I sighed, a deep-down moan of happiness and frustration, and Hannah and I met each other’s eyes and burst into laughter and then we doubled over with it and soon we were both laughing hysterically. When we finally quit, we hugged each other again and then we both fell fast asleep on the twin beds in my room.
———
I woke up to someone yelling, high pitched, strident, piercing. “I don’t give a donkey’s hee-haw what any policeman says!” Mrs. Swanson’s voice carried up to the third story. “I am going down to that hospital and planting myself by the door, and I am not budging! I have the biggest bladder in the United States, and you won’t catch me leaving Josy’s room unguarded so that some madman can burst in with precious Paige and threaten to kill them both!”
Hannah and I tiptoed down the stairs, stopping halfway between the second and first floors, hidden from view. But we could see the scene before us—Daddy pulling on his overcoat, Mrs. Swanson already bundled in a ski parka and a bright red scarf covering her starched white hair, and Aunt Kit, dressed in her hot pink exercise outfit, lounging on a barstool at the kitchen island.
“Kit, you’re in charge of Milton.” Mrs. Swanson calmed a little and continued. “You just stay here and take him out—he’s been needing it four times a day. Poor thing, he’s gotten real nervous and that plays on his bladder. And the postman will bring all the letters to the front door; he leaves them in a postal bag so don’t you dare get confused and throw that away, you hear?” She gave Aunt Kit a withering glance. “Won’t come for a little while, but you be sure to stay right by the door. With all the police and the reporters and fans, well, I wouldn’t be surprised if they all try to rush in the house. Heaven help us! I hope those policemen have a little more backbone than that dimwit supposedly guarding Josy’s room last night!”
“I need to get back to Atlanta,” Kit protested. “I have a gym class this afternoon.”
“I don’t want to hear a word of your bellyaching, woman! Your sister’s just woken up from a coma and the assassin tried to kill her again and your niece to boot, and now they know there is someone else after Josy, so you just hush up and do what I say. And leave poor Paige and Hannah alone. Let them rest. You’re needed right here a lot more than at some sissy gym class.” She paused, then added, “All right, Patrick. Let’s be off.”
Hannah and I tiptoed back up the stairs and our giggling fit started again.
———
An hour later, Hannah was downstairs with Aunt Kit when I went into Momma’s chalet to sit in the quiet. Here I could stare out into the back woods with the mountains peeking in the distance over the tall firs just outside her window. I saw no police cars or reporters or crazy fans from here. I wanted to escape for just a little while longer. Momma always closed her door while she worked, but the door to the office had remained open now for a week. When I pushed it shut from the inside, I was greeted with Momma’s Lucidity Lath, hanging on the back of the door. Running my hand over the smooth, clear stain, I got tears in my eyes.
“It’s so pretty, Momma. I want to learn those verses too.”
And I did. Day after day, I sat in Momma’s chalet, a book in my hands, all comfortable on the cushions she’d put in the corner just for Hannah and me. As soon as we learned how to be quiet, we were allowed in The Chalet to read books. And I read her Scripture board. Verses so beautiful, so hope filled, but also verses of anguish and questioning. An abbreviated version of the Bible hanging on the back of her door.
“Just one of the tools I use to keep me focused on the truth,” Momma often said.
Tears began falling down my cheeks, tears of remorse and anger and bitterness.
Drake had questioned and believed. I had questioned and grown aloof and angry.
I decided to take the board to the hospital. Now that Momma had her eyes open, I wanted her to see something more hopeful than white walls or a blond stranger begging for forgiveness with a gun.