JULIA SHOOK HER hard, practically screamed in her face—“Tell what, Angie? Tell what?”—but she couldn’t get any more out of Angie, who fell into a sleep so profound that Julia pulled a chair beside the bed lest sleep change into something more ominous.
But Angie’s chest rose and fell with long, deep breaths, although her eyes twitched wildly beneath her lids and the occasional moan escaped her open lips.
Julia punched a number on her phone and spoke in a near-whisper.
“Beverly? I’m sorry to bother you with so little notice, but could you possibly pick Calvin up at school and take him tonight? I’ve got a … a … situation. Sort of an emergency. No, I’m fine. It’s just … something came up that I have to deal with. Really? Are you sure? Thank you so much. It should just be for the one night. I’ll let you know when things settle down. Yes, Beverly. Yes, I’m safe.”
She hurried on before Beverly could detect the doubt in those last words. “One more thing. Do you have a pair of old shoes that you don’t wear much anymore? Something sturdy? You do? Could you please drop them off here? Just leave them next to the front door. Yes, I know they’re too big for me. What’s going on? I’ll explain later.”
Though no matter how long she waited, she couldn’t imagine an explanation that would make any more sense to Beverly than it did to herself.
Then she called the office, thankful that she had no court appearances today and even more thankful when she got Deb’s voice mail, where she left her lie that Calvin was sick and so she’d be working from home for the rest of the day. It would be another black mark against her, compounding her error of having a child at all. Julia kept waiting for attitudes toward working mothers to change, but so far, the new millennium had brought only profound disappointment in that regard.
To transform her lies into a half-truth, she called Marie and asked her to drop off some files so she could at least work on cases at home.
“Don’t ring the bell or anything—the more sleep she gets, the better. I’ve got a set of spare house keys in my top left drawer. Just open the door and leave them inside. If we’re lucky, the dog won’t hear you. Please be sure and lock the door when you leave. You’re sure it’s all right? Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
But the files sat untouched at her elbow as she doodled on a legal pad, wondering about the secret that Ray was guarding with his life.
Angie slumbered on and on, so long that Julia finally felt safe in leaving her side.
She stuffed Angie’s clothing into the washer, added extra detergent, and set the washer on an extra-long cycle with extra-hot water. True to her word, Beverly had found a pair of brogues that must have dated to her time on the dairy farm, which she’d fled in favor of Duck Creek the moment she was widowed. She’d also tucked in two pairs of wool socks, thick and new, in silent acknowledgment of the unspoken need behind Julia’s request.
Julia busied herself in the kitchen, readying a meal in anticipation of Angie’s eventual waking. Bread, to soak up whatever alcohol was still sloshing around in Angie’s system. Pasta for the same reason. She found a container of Dom’s Sunday sauce in the back of the freezer and nuked it in the microwave. Thick and meaty, it would provide the necessary kick of protein to reactivate Angie’s senses. At least, she hoped it would.
Just in case, she kept the whiskey handy. If Angie had the shakes, it would help. Finally, she brewed another large pot of coffee, as much for herself as for Angie.
Who, when she looked up, was standing in the doorway, the hems of Michael’s too-long sweats bagging around her bare feet.
Angie blinked, dug her knuckles into her eyes, and blinked again.
“Where the fuck am I? And what the fuck are you doing here?”
The whiskey was a good idea.
Angie’s hands stilled after a couple of shots.
“Thanks,” she whispered, wrapping them around a fresh mug of coffee. Julia hoped it wouldn’t meet the others’ fate.
“Don’t know that I’ve ever had a hangover this bad, and that’s saying something. Weird, ’cause I only had a couple of beers yesterday. Smoked a little weed, though. Maybe shit was bad.”
“Mm.” Julia issued a noncommittal response that she hoped Angie would interpret as agreement. Over her years in the Public Defender’s Division, she’d learned that a “couple of beers”—an amount readily volunteered by any number of drunk drivers—usually amounted to several more.
She pushed a plate of spaghetti and sauce across the table, meatballs and ribs piled prominently atop it. Angie took a wary forkful. Her eyes widened.
“You cook this?”
“Mm.” No need to credit the sauce to Dom. It would only confuse things.
“Damn! Next time you come down to the creek, why don’t you bring us food instead of whiskey? Because this right here”—she shoveled in another mouthful and spoke around it—“this is the real deal.”
Her Adam’s apple jerked as she swallowed. The look she cast Julia was tinged with embarrassment. “You got a knife? Because the meat … my teeth … I can’t.”
“Of course.”
Julia waited as Angie clumsily separated the beef from the ribs. Her foot jiggled with impatience. She needed Angie to talk about something other than the damn food. But she also needed her to be relaxed.
She poured a glass of wine, fetched a plate, dished up some pasta and sauce for herself, and sat down across from Angie. Just two friends having dinner together, talking about the weather and whatever else might come up—quickly, she hoped.
But for safety’s sake, she started with the weather. “Looks like it’s finally going to be spring. The Weather Service said we could hit fifties, even sixties by the end of the week. Sunshine too. My daffodils are already starting to come up.” Her daffodils. That was a stretch. She supposed Leslie Harper had planted them, along with all the other mysterious things beginning to make their appearance in the yard.
“The trees are even leafing out.” She nodded toward the window with its view of the fast-darkening yard, wondering how long she could keep up this inane chatter.
“Spring.” Angie offered a final bit of meatball to an ardently grateful Jake, then polished her plate with a piece of bread and held it up for seconds. “Guess I got through another winter. Not like Billy or Miss Mae or Craig.”
Julia’s hand jerked as she ladled sauce onto Angie’s plate, christening the counter with a splash of red. She handed Angie the plate and sponged up the mess, biting her lip to enforce a silence she hoped Angie would fill.
But Angie turned her attention back to her plate, so determinedly that Julia couldn’t help herself.
“Billy and Miss Mae and Craig gone and Ray in jail,” she nudged.
Angie dropped her fork. Now Julia had her full attention.
“But you’re going to get him out, right? Send him off to prison where he’ll be safe.”
“That’s an odd way to look at prison,” Julia began.
But the terror that had sent Angie staggering into Julia’s office that morning was back. “You don’t know. You don’t know,” she gasped. She twisted her shaking hands together, holding them up prayerfully. “Please. How fast can you do it?”
Julia gently pulled Angie’s hands apart. “You said they thought Ray was going to tell. Who thought it? And what was he going to tell?”
Angie’s entire body quaked. She shook her head so vehemently that her newly washed hair lashed her face. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”
“If you want me to be able to help him, I have to know. This goes no further, Angie. Promise.” She dropped Angie’s hands, pinched thumb and forefinger together and zipped them across her closed lips, a child’s symbol of secrecy, feeling silly as she did so. Would Angie take it as an insult?
Angie drew a deep breath, then another.
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
Another breath, her shoulders heaving with the effort of finally divulging her secret.
“Well,” she began.
The doorbell rang.