by Karen Rose
Her breath came faster. Harder. So hard it hurt her chest. Mama’s high-heeled shoe.
And it was still on Mama’s foot.
Horrified, she kept looking, because she couldn’t stop. Mama’s skirt. The good suit she wore to weddings and award ceremonies at the school. She’d dressed up.
She was going to come today, Jazzie realized. Mama hadn’t forgotten. But she was lying on the floor. So still. She’s hurt. She’s hurt and I have to help her.
He hurt her. Again. Rage exploded inside her and she wanted to hurt him back. Wanted to hit him and kick him until he left them alone. But he was bigger and stronger. And meaner. So she stayed where she was. Just wait. Wait till he leaves. Then you can help her. You can call 911. Then Aunt Lilah. Aunt Lilah always knew what to do. Just wait. Wait till he’s gone.
She chanted the words silently, in her own mind. Her mother was so still. Let her be okay. Please let her be okay. She’d fallen between the sofa and the coffee table, and Jazzie couldn’t see her face from where she was hiding. Couldn’t see her mama’s chest to see if she was breathing. Say something, Mama. Anything. Please. Hoping to see a twitch or hear a moan, Jazzie kept staring at the skirt of her mother’s good suit.
Which . . . was dark. It wasn’t supposed to be dark. Mama’s good suit was white. It was supposed to be white. But it wasn’t. It was almost black. Big spots of black.
Stains. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. No. No. Bloodstains. Mama was covered in blood. Jazzie covered her mouth with her hand because she could feel the scream clawing up her throat. And he’ll find me. He’ll hurt me too.
Don’t look. Don’t look. She closed her eyes tight, not wanting to see any more of her mother there on the floor. But she heard another loud crash and the smashing of glass.
Mama’s things. Her keepsakes. Their Christmas ornaments. He was breaking them. Coats were flung from the closet, landing on the floor in a heap. He was looking for something. What? Why?
‘Fucking bitch!’ he snarled. ‘Where is it? Where did you put the fucking money?’ A big box was thrown out of the closet, landing in another clatter of glass, and Jazzie scooted further behind the chair, her mind racing, thinking about all the things in her backpack. The pot. The clay pot she’d made for Mama. She could hit him with it.
But that was stupid. He was tall. She couldn’t hurt him. She couldn’t get away.
It got suddenly quiet. Maybe he was gone. She risked a peek around the chair as a new round of cursing came from the closet. No. He was still here. Just a little while longer. Hold on, Mama. I’ll call for help soon. From here she could see past the coffee table. She squinted into the darkness to see if her mother’s eyes were open, and—
No. Nononononono.
That . . . thing on the floor. It couldn’t be her mama. It couldn’t be . . . a person. But it was. She knew it was. Mama. A sob filled her chest and she pressed her hand harder to her mouth. Oh God, Mama. My mama.
The closet door flew open all the way, slamming against the wall, and he burst into the room.
Jazzie froze. He was tall, just like she remembered. But skinnier. He looked wilder. Even meaner. He kicked the pile of things he’d thrown on the floor, then bent down and stared at the . . . the thing on the floor. Her mama.
‘What did you do with the goddamned money?’ he thundered, then kicked at the . . . the thing. At Mama. ‘Tell me!’
Do not make a sound. Jazzie held her breath, trying so hard not to whimper.
‘Holy shit,’ he muttered. He stood up and backed away, his eyes wide and suddenly scared. ‘She’s dead.’ He swore again, this time sounding more confused than angry. He was coming back to himself. Jazzie remembered him doing that whenever he’d yell at her mama. Whenever he’d slap Mama hard and make her cry.
He backed up a few more steps, stumbling over the pile of coats on the floor. ‘Oh my God. I killed her,’ he whispered, and looked at his hands. ‘Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.’
He drew a deep breath, then let it out. ‘Stay calm. Just stay calm. You can fix this. You got this.’ He took another few breaths, then swore again, more quietly this time. ‘Wash your hands. Clean the drain. Get your jacket. And get the fuck out of here.’
Jazzie rocked herself behind the chair. Her face was wet. Her teeth sank into her palm and her body shook like she was sick. But she didn’t make a sound. Not a single sound.
She knew what would happen if he found her.
She heard water running and then smelled something harsh. It made her nose tickle and she scrunched up her face so that she wouldn’t sneeze. Bleach. That was the smell. Grandma kept it under the sink. She was always cleaning with it.
He reappeared, his hands now clean. He grabbed a hoodie, while she watched, utterly numb. Using a towel from the sink, he wiped down the tables and the lock and the door handle and the door itself before shoving the towel down the front of his hoodie. Then he was gone, the door shut tightly behind him.
Jazzie didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. She just sat and rocked and stared and told herself that it was just a dream. A bad, bad dream.
One
Hunt Valley, Maryland,
Saturday 22 August, 12.50 P.M.
‘Heels down, Janie.’ Taylor Dawson stood in the middle of the training ring, focused on the five-year-old girl sitting astride what was the most gentle, patient horse Taylor had ever known. Janie’s back, already too stiff and rigid, tightened further, her little hands clenching the reins as a frown thinned her lips.
Taylor knew the child’s frown was not directed at her, but almost wished it were. A perfectionist in little zebra cowboy boots, Janie was angry with herself. Angry that she’d had to be corrected by anyone. That she wasn’t already perfect.
Taylor swallowed a sigh. Been there, done that. Looking quickly to her right, she met the worried eyes of Janie’s big sister, who stood on the other side of the fence, watching Janie with an eagle eye. Taylor gave the girl an encouraging smile. Jazzie did not smile back, her expression a mix of poorly hidden desperation and stoic determination. At eleven years old, she’d become her little sister’s keeper. Her protector. Her staunchly silent protector.
Because Jazzie Jarvis had not spoken a single word, not in the two weeks Taylor had been interning for Healing Hearts with Horses. According to Maggie VanDorn, Taylor’s boss, Jazzie hadn’t spoken in the two weeks before that either – not since finding her mother’s broken body in a pool of her own blood, her face nearly unrecognizable.
It’ll be okay, Taylor wanted to promise. For both of you. But she couldn’t promise that. Nobody could. Janie and Jazzie had been through a hell no child should ever endure.
Taylor suppressed a shudder. How did anyone come back from that? Adults didn’t come back from that kind of trauma. How could two little motherless girls begin to cope? To heal?
But if it could happen anywhere, it was here. Healing Hearts with Horses had been providing therapy to traumatized children for over a year now, and already had a slew of success stories. Taylor knew this because she’d very thoroughly researched the program, including its founder/president Daphne Montgomery-Carter and her staff, before submitting her application.
In addition to her philanthropy, Daphne was a full-time prosecutor for the city of Baltimore. Somehow she managed to raise money for the program in her ‘spare time’, lending a hand to the therapy sessions whenever she could. All the day-to-day details were left to Maggie VanDorn, an accomplished horsewoman and licensed therapist, who had years of experience working with child victims of violent crime.
Janie and Jazzie had a good chance for recovery here – if they’d let themselves relax and have a little fun. Getting Janie to actually breathe while on her horse would be a good start, but telling a new rider to remember to breathe often made them even more stressed.
Getting Janie to sing woul
d get her to breathe without her knowing she was doing it.
‘Hey, Janie!’ Taylor called. ‘Did you know that Ginger likes music?’
Janie turned her head to stare at Taylor suspiciously. ‘Horses don’t like music.’
‘Ginger does. She loves it when I sing to her. Especially when I’m riding her. She just chills out like you’re giving her a massage.’ It wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t necessarily a lie either.
Taylor was good at telling not-exactly-truths that also weren’t lies. She’d perfected the skill at the feet of the master of lies and deceit. Thanks for that, Mom.
Pushing her own bitterness aside, she smiled at Janie. ‘Do you know any songs?’
A wary nod, but no reply, which was no surprise. Unlike Jazzie, who’d remained mute, Janie did speak sometimes. Their files said that Jazzie had been shy before their mother’s murder because she had a painful stutter, but Janie had been a champion talker, never meeting a silence she couldn’t fill. Now Janie was withdrawn, her communication reduced to sentences of four or five words. Well, duh. Who wouldn’t be withdrawn?
‘Do you know “The Wheels on the Bus”?’ Taylor asked, and grinned when Janie rolled her eyes. It was a beautifully normal gesture from a kid who’d forgotten how to behave like a child.
‘That’s for babies,’ Janie said sullenly.
And you’re oh-so-old, Taylor thought sadly, but forced her lips to remain curved. ‘Fair enough. How about “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”, then? Do you know that one?’
‘Yeah,’ Janie muttered. ‘Everybody does.’
‘Good. Help me out, then. Let’s make Ginger happy.’
Taylor began singing the song loudly and off-key, because the universe had not gifted her with any musical ability. She made it through the song once solo while Ginger patiently plodded around the training ring, Janie still rigid as a board. The second time, though, Janie began to sing as well.
Taylor didn’t ask any more questions, immediately launching into ‘You Are My Sunshine’, hoping Janie knew that one too, gratified when the little girl followed her lead. After the second time through that song, Taylor began to see the desired effect. Janie’s shoulders softened, her posture relaxing a fraction. She was singing with a studied focus, like she did everything else, so she wasn’t enjoying it, but she was breathing and that was a good start.
Taylor searched her mind for the songs she’d sung with the kids at the campus day care where she’d volunteered as an undergrad, quickly eliminating all those that were either violent – like the old woman who swallowed a fly and eventually died – or those that mentioned a mommy, and came up with . . . nada. Shit.
But Janie solved the problem herself, filling the silence with a gritty, muttered, angry version of ‘Let It Go’. Thank you, Disney, Taylor thought.
She heard the gate open and close, the footsteps behind her too heavy to belong to Jazzie, who was too afraid of the horses to approach them anyway. It was Maggie VanDorn, then. The manager of the program was an efficient older woman with a big heart and years of experience in social work. Maggie pressed a cold bottle of water into Taylor’s hand.
‘Good thinking, getting her to sing,’ Maggie murmured.
Taylor’s lips curved at the praise. She’d learned that Maggie never said anything she didn’t mean. ‘She’s still not enjoying herself, but she’s breathing.’
‘Joy takes time.’ Maggie sighed. ‘Lots of time. And speaking of time, Janie’s session is over and you need to take a break. You’ve done four sessions back-to-back and it’s time to get out of the sun for a while.’
‘I’m fine,’ Taylor said dryly. ‘I’m from California, remember? I grew up in the sun.’
‘Be that as it may, take a break,’ Maggie insisted. ‘I don’t want to have to replace you because you got heat stroke. Your face is redder than my heirloom tomatoes.’
Taylor put up her hands in surrender. ‘Okay, okay.’ She drank most of the bottle of water, then splashed the rest in her face. It was hot here, she had to admit, a lot hotter than back home in Northern California, where the temps rarely climbed above eighty year-round and the humidity was non-existent. This suburb of Baltimore had been eighty degrees by breakfast and the high was supposed to be ninety-nine. The air was so muggy, she was beginning to wish she had gills.
‘Let me get Janie down and cleaned up,’ Taylor said. ‘Then I’ll take her and Jazzie back to their aunt.’ The aunt whose eyes were a constant mix of grief and fear and fury.
Lilah Cornell had lost her sister and gained responsibility for her two nieces all in the same day. A former prosecutor who’d worked with Daphne, she was now on the fast track in the attorney general’s office, which meant she worked long hours, nearly seven days a week.
All that had abruptly changed when her sister was murdered, but no one on the farm had heard her complain. Lilah did have help at least. The girls’ father was no longer in the picture, but his mother, their grandmother, had been living with Janie and Jazzie at the time of the murder. Grandma Eunice had watched the girls while her daughter-in-law was at work. After the murder, she’d moved with them to Aunt Lilah’s posh but very small apartment, which had been a major adjustment for all of them. Maggie had mentioned that Lilah was looking for a bigger place, which only added to the little family’s general stress.
But both Lilah and Eunice seemed to be good women who loved the girls. Lilah accompanied them for their Saturday therapy sessions, while Grandma Eunice brought them during the week.
Taylor pointed at the farmhouse, to the large window that provided a view of the training ring – complete with audio courtesy of discreetly placed microphones. ‘Lilah’s waiting in the lounge.’
Daphne and Maggie had converted the dining room of the farmhouse to a sitting area where parents and guardians could monitor their kids. Healing Hearts was all about transparency. The program prided itself on making the children and the adults feel safe.
Maggie’s nod was briskly approving. ‘I’ll take care of Ginger. She’s done for the day. We’ll use Gracie for lessons this afternoon.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Taylor approached Ginger and Janie, smiling when she heard the little girl still singing softly. Janie had released her iron hold on the reins and was stroking Ginger’s neck.
No smile bent Janie’s lips, but the little stress lines around her mouth had disappeared. No child should have stress lines. But kids like Janie did. So did I. I still do.
Taylor cleared her throat. ‘Ginger likes you.’
A solemn nod. No words of reply, just a look of bruised exhaustion in Janie’s eyes, like she was so tired of being scared but had resigned herself to it. Taylor recognized that look too. She’d seen it in the mirror often enough.
‘Time to dismount and get a cold drink, okay?’ Taylor held her hands out, ready to catch the child if she fell, but Janie executed a flawless dismount, then stood motionless for a few hard heartbeats, staring up at Ginger. Then she stunned Taylor by throwing her arms around the horse’s neck and leaning up to Ginger’s ear.
‘I like you too,’ Janie whispered.
Taylor quickly looked over her shoulder to Maggie, whose eyes held a satisfaction that was tender and fierce all at once, underscoring that Janie had made a breakthrough. And I got to be here for it, Taylor thought, her eyes stinging.
Taylor didn’t delude herself into thinking that she’d made the breakthrough with Janie. Maggie VanDorn had done all the work, really. But it didn’t stop her from feeling a little of Maggie’s satisfaction. This could get addictive. Except that I’m not going to stay.
She hadn’t come to Maryland intending to actually work the full internship or even to stay more than a few days, but the Healing Hearts clientele had sucked her in more quickly and completely than she’d anticipated. It was going to be hard to walk away once she’d gotten wha
t she’d come for.
Baltimore, Maryland,
Saturday 22 August, 1.05 P.M.
Gage Jarvis snugged the tie against the collar of his crisp new shirt, nearly sighing at the feel of quality linen against his skin, of the silk tie between his fingers, all slippery smooth.
How long had it been since he’d worn a tie? Hell, since he’d worn a dress shirt?
His hands faltered on the Windsor knot. He knew exactly how long. Two years, nine months and fourteen days. The day he was fired from his job at Stegner, Hall, and Kramer. Of course they’d told everyone he’d resigned to ‘pursue other interests’, but he’d been fired, for doing the same damn thing every other lawyer in the firm did. Pretentious, sanctimonious, holier-than-thou assholes. Judging me. Me. He’d been the top junior partner, had brought in more business than all the others. Almost put together. Which the partners had lauded, until Valerie made her little phone call to the cops. Domestic violence. The fucking bitch.
Hell, he hadn’t even hurt her that bad that time, either. And he wasn’t sorry. She’d had it coming, like she always did. He could have hurt her a lot worse.
He could have done what he had done a month ago. Beaten her until she didn’t get up. Ever again. Shoulda killed her two years, nine months, and fourteen days ago. Would have saved everyone a whole lot of trouble.
She’d recanted back then. Withdrawn her complaint. But it was too little, too late. The partners had ordered his office searched, had found his stash in his desk drawer. Hidden, of course, but they’d found it easily enough because they hid their stashes in exactly the same place in their desk drawers.
So he’d done a little coke. So what? So had everyone else. They needed it just to wake up, because the hours were grueling, the competition fierce. Too many partner wannabes and too few positions. Fucking asshole senior partners had to retire or die before any of the slave-labor junior partners were given the proverbial key to the executive washroom. Because Stegner, Hall, and Kramer still had those keys, and Gage had wanted one.
