Page 43 of What She Saw
“I’m doing my best, ladies. I’m doing my best.”
I shut off the recording, letting the silence give my mother space to talk to me, to whisper a secret in my ear. But I heard only the winds and the hoot of an owl in a distant tree.
Lowering to the ground, I lay back on the dry grass. I shifted until the bristles flattened into a cushion. The sky was clear and the stars bright as the last of the sun vanished behind the mountains. My eyes drifted closed as I tried to be in my mother’s shoes. How desperate had she been in those days? Her boyfriend had ditched her, and though he worked in a garage near Dawson, he never gave her money or bothered to visit us.
When Larry was convicted of murder and sent to prison, my grandmother never took me to visit him. And I was fine with that. He’d ignored Patty and me, so I wasn’t going out of my way to see him. No one mentioned Larry unless I got into trouble in school. When I landed in the principal’s office and my grandmother was called, she took her time getting to the school. I guessed she thought making me stew was its own form of punishment.
When my grandmother finally picked me up from school, she said,“You look like her, but you’re not her. You’re him. He could never control himself, either.”
“I can control myself,” I said.
“You hit that boy today with that rock on purpose.”
Billy Johnson had been teasing another girl. So I’d slammed a rock into the center of his back, tipping him forward onto his knees. He’d screamed like I’d done something drastic, like cut off a finger or toe. “He was being mean to another kid. I told him to leave her alone, but he laughed.”
“His knees required fifteen stitches to close the gash, Sloane. You hurt him.”
I felt no shame or guilt. He was a bully and had gotten a taste of his own medicine. “He deserved it.”
My grandmother had sunk into a sullen silence. When we’d arrived home, she’d cracked a beer and sat in front of the afternoon game shows. She’d ignored me for the rest of the day. I’d grabbed a bag of chips and a cola and gone to my room. We were happiest when we weren’t pretending that we loved each other.
In the distance a car engine rumbled, and the headlights turned down the long driveway. I sat up and watched as a car pulled up behind mine. A large man got out, his flashlight cutting into the darkness.
I sat up, brushed the grass from my pants, and crossed the field to the hole in the hedge. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I didn’t need the flashlight to show the way as I walked toward the car’s burning headlights. Spatial awareness in the dark was kind of a superpower for me.
As the man circled my car, I approached him, knowing he’d not heard me. “Can I help you?”
His hand dropped to a holstered gun on his belt as he whirled and shined the light onto my face. I shielded my dilated eyes.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
Tension rippled through his wide shoulders. “Grant.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Better question for you.”
“I asked first,” I said.
“I own this property.”
The light made it harder to see his face. “Since when?”
“Since my grandmother died fifteen years ago.”
I knew he’d been a cop. I’d always sensed the easy smile hid a steel determination. I’d witnessed his excellent memory in action. But I really didn’t know Grant. And I sure didn’t work with anyone. Irritation scratched under my skin. “The grandson in the DC area. Is that why you were so interested in this case?”
“The case has always been on my radar. And then I heard you were investigating the case now.”
“You could have told me,” I said.
He lowered his hand from the gun’s grip. “We’re still in the get-to-know-you stage. I don’t want to be a part of any article you write.”
“I’d have honored any off-the-record request.” I thought back to the hotel room, when he was dressing. Several times I’d sensed he wanted to say something. I could have pressed but didn’t care enough to ask.
His shrug and grin likely deflected most challenges. “Once a cop, always a cop.”
I wasn’t distracted. “Do you live in Dawson?”
