Page 86 of Never Flinch

She wishes she… he… they… could throw those thoughts, thatapostasy, in an incinerator and burn them. God isn’t cruel, God is love. Her unhappiness… his… theirs… is nothing but sin-sickness, like a whiskey hangover. Their fault, not God’s.

She opens the bathroom door and slips the fingers of her right hand into the opening on the hinged side. Slowly she pulls the door toward her.

“I repent my rebellious thoughts,” she says.

The pain, first a pinch, becomes excruciating, but she continues to pull the door.

“I repent my fantasies.”

The skin splits on the backs of her fingers. Blood begins to run down the paint-peeling wood.

“I will complete my mission. I will not suffer the witch to live.”

She pulls tighter, and while she feels pain, she also feels the peace of expiation. She finally lets go of the door and pulls her throbbing fingers free. They will swell, but they’re not broken, and that’s good. She needs her good right hand, which she shares with her brother, to do the Lord’s work.

Chapter 13

1

Holly sleeps badly, haunted by dreams of the big man with the bat. She doesn’t kick the chair in these dreams, only freezes in place while the big man swats Kate’s head off. She awakes with dawn just an orangey-pink line on the eastern horizon, pulls her iPad off the charger, and writes an email to Jerome.

I hope you are busy with your book, and I hate to ask you to go back to work for me, especially after you got in touch with John Ackerly, but I have to. (Besides, I think you said you were looking for a distraction.) I believe the woman who is stalking Kate may be—is almost certainly—a religious zealot. Kate got a note in Spokane that said she who speaks lies shall perish, which is from the book of Proverbs. When the stalker dumped roadkill on Kate’s luggage, she wrote Exodus 22 on the door. This is a long shot, J, but would you look online for churches that have been in trouble with the law for crimes having to do with abortion protests, women’s rights, or LGBTQ+ rights or rallies. Start with Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, and follow the breadcrumbs from there. I’m only interested in church protests that resulted in charges for gross trespassing, assault, criminal threatening, things like that.

If you do this for me, not only will you be paid, you will also geta free pass to call me “Hollyberry” three (3) times. Thank you, and if you are too busy, I understand.

Holly

She sends it off with a swoosh, then finds John Ackerly in her contacts and writes to him.

Dear John: If it will not violate your NA “anonymity clause,” I wonder if you would ask around, not for Program people named BRIGGS but for someone named TRIG. I think that might be the killer’s real name, or nickname. Thank you.

Holly

With that done, she goes back to bed, and manages to sleep for another two hours. This time there are no dreams.

2

Izzy Jaynes and Tom Atta arrive at the Grinsted home at quarter of nine on Sunday morning. A thin-faced woman in a quilted housecoat answers the door and looks at their badges. She doesn’t ask why they’ve come, only tells them her husband is in the gazebo. She pronounces itgaze-bo. “Go through the kitchen,” she says, and cocks with her thumb like a hitchhiker.

“Tell me something, Mrs. Grinsted,” Izzy says. “Does Russell have a younger brother or sister?”

She doesn’t ask why Izzy wants to know. “Only child. Raised to think of himself as the little prince.” And rolls her eyes.

They go through the kitchen. Tom speaks low to Izzy. “I think there might be trouble in this particular valley.” Izzy nods. Mrs. Grinsted struck her as a woman suffering a serious case of detachment.

Across a patio and in the middle of a good-sized patch of back lawn, a balding man in a red bathrobe and pajamas is sitting at a table inthe gazebo, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He sees them coming and stands up, re-belting his robe. He doesn’t ask to see their badges. He doesn’t need to.

To both: “Cheezit, the cops.” And to Izzy: “Atta I know from court. You I’ve never had the pleasure of deposing or cross-examining.”

“Isabelle Jaynes,” she says, and gives a brief shake to Grinsted’s outstretched hand.

“What are you doing here bright and early on a Sunday morning? Don’t tell me, let me guess. It concerns whoever is killing people and leaving the names of the Duffrey jurors in his victim’s hands.”

“That wouldn’t be you, would it?” Tom asks pleasantly.

Russell Grinsted looks blank for a moment, then laughs. “Good one! Now what can this humble esquire help you with?”

Izzy and Tom don’t reply. Grinsted looks from one to the other. “You’re not joking.”

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