by Loree Lough
“Don’t give me that. You can’t pretend forever that he didn’t… That none of it happened.”
“None of what?”
“The beatings.” There—he’d said it. Now let her try to deny that Ernest hadn’t abused her.
“I never wanted anyone to—”
“…let not the foot of pride come against me…”
She blew a puff of air through her lips. “Wasn’t pride that made me want to keep it a secret,” she said dully, “it was shame.”
He had to look away, long enough, at least, to ask for the wisdom to know which words would comfort and reassure her. “Shame? But why?”
“Because I chose poorly.”
Despite his prayer, her words didn’t make sense.
“I ran off with the first good-looking boy who paid any attention to me. I never asked the good Lord what He intended for me.” Her lovely mouth formed a thin, taut smile. “I figured those years were penance of a sort. Until I grew up, and realized that isn’t how God works.”
“Glad to hear you came to your senses, but where did you get a cockeyed notion like that in the first place, you gorgeous, brave, amazing, bighearted, nutty woman, you?”
“Why, Lamont London,” she whispered, “are you trying to sweep me off my feet with poetic praise?”
“Harrumph. I forgot to add funny to the list.”
“To answer your question, I got the cockeyed notion from my mother. She popped in for an unexpected visit once, about an hour after, a…you know…and when she saw the cuts and bruises, she reminded me that chastisements are a form of love. And discipline, she said, can’t be achieved without first instilling fear.”
“Your mom sounds like a real gem.”
“Oh, don’t be too hard on her. She lived a tough life. And if you want my honest opinion, I think that was her way of rationalizing why she tolerated the same thing from my dad.”
“Makes me sick, just sick, to know that bigger, stronger people are willing to use people as punching bags, all in the name of love.”
She tucked in one corner of her mouth and lifted a shoulder. “Well, the main thing is, we survived. And stopped the cycle.”
“Ah, darlin’,” he said, brushing a bent forefinger across her cheek, “if I could erase it all, I would.”
She looked at him for a long time, making Lamont wish he had the power to read minds, at least for those few moments. Because he would have given anything to assure himself that glitter in her eyes and the downturn of her mouth didn’t mean she thought he was capable of such brutality.
And then she sighed. “You know, I think I believe you.”
He made note of the fact that she’d tacked a qualifier onto the statement. It told him that while she didn’t quite believe him now, she might someday. At least, he hoped she would.
She met his eyes to say, “You’re a good and decent man, Lamont. Have I told you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for us?”
“Only about ten thousand times.”
Smiling, she said, “But have I told you lately?”
Eyes narrowed, he scratched his chin. “I believe you said something along those lines yesterday at breakfast. In plain English.” He pressed a palm to her cheek. “But you say it every minute of every day, in a thousand different ways, when you’re tossing my favorite foods into the grocery cart and folding my bandanas just so, and—”
“I have to get out of here—the sooner, the better.”
Now, why’d she have to go and spoil the moment with a crack like that? “No. You don’t.”
“Yes, I do, because I’m…” She bit her lower lip.
Falling in love with me? he hoped. He knew that look. If he didn’t come up with some logical, practical reason for her to stay—and do it quick—she might just make good on her threat. “You gave your word that with Peggy gone, you’d help me out around here. Besides, if you leave, your kids will, too. And where would they go?”
He watched her brows inch closer together as she processed that thought. Lamont scooted closer. “Give it time, Nadine, okay? And patience. Before you know it, you’ll have the insurance check and you can interview contractors and talk to an architect and—”
“Can’t do any of that from a jail cell.”
It broke his heart to hear the wooden tone in her voice. “That’ll never happen.”
“Oh? You have some pull down at City Hall, do you?” And then she kissed Rosie’s forehead.
He considered all the things he might say, and since not one of them would ease her mind, Lamont decided to pick up the conversation later. Maybe Frank would come up with something that would clear Nadine’s name.
The baby stirred slightly, and because he’d positioned himself so near, one chubby hand plopped against his cheek. “Will you please put that baby to bed, before our jabbering wakes her?”
Surprisingly, she did as he’d asked.
In the hall, Nadine said, “You know what?”
“What?”
“I believe you.”
And then she hurried toward her room and left him standing outside Rosie’s door, alone and lonely and confused, trying to remember what he’d said to inspire her parting comment.
Adam sat on the couch, a single sheet of notepaper dangling from his trembling fingertips. “I don’t get it,” he said, driving a hand through his hair. “Has she lost her ever-lovin’ mind?”
Lamont sat on the coffee table facing the boy. “Mind if I have a look?” he asked as Nadine sat beside him.
Dear God, she prayed, let it be a mistake. A silly, misunderstanding…
“Dear Adam,” Lamont began, “I can’t live this way anymore, knowing how much you despise and mistrust me. You’re a wonderful father, so there isn’t a doubt in my mind that you’ll take good care of Amy. And just think, without me in the picture, you’ll never have to worry that she’ll pick up any of my bad habits and grow up to disappoint you, the way I have.
“Please tell your mom how much I appreciate all she’s done for me over the years, and tell her that I’m sorry for everything she’s going through because of me. Thank Lamont, too, for welcoming me into his home. I don’t deserve the kindness and patience you’ve all shown, but I’m grateful for it, just the same. Believe it or not, I’m doing this because I love you all so very much.”
Now it was Lamont who ran a hand through his hair. “It isn’t signed,” he said, handing the note to Nadine.
She nearly wept, herself, when she saw the childlike script, and the tears Julie had drawn on the smiley-faced heart at the bottom of the page. There had been dozens of times when she’d noticed the girl, huddled on the sofa, looking alone and afraid, though the rest of them were in the room with her. She’d ignored every maternal instinct that told her that a hug or a kind word might comfort Julie, because she didn’t want Adam thinking she’d taken sides. Why hadn’t she done the right thing, even if it meant upsetting her son? He’d always been a resilient boy and would have recovered quickly. “Did she pack a suitcase?”
“Don’t know” was Adam’s glum reply. “Found the note sitting on top of Amy’s coloring book, like a little white tent with stupid, ugly news inside it.”
He was hurting and confused, but there’d be plenty of time to comfort him later on. Right now, it was far more important to find Amy and try to talk some sense into her. “I’ll check,” Nadine said.
She raced up the steps, praying the whole way that when she reached the kids’ room, Julie would be sprawled out on the bed, reading or sleeping or even crying into her pillow was better than not finding her!
But the bedcovers were tidy and smooth, and Julie’s favorite red backpack wasn’t on the hook behind the door, where she’d kept it since they’d moved into Lamont’s house. Almost-full dresser drawers meant she’d taken only what would fit into the bag. Not much. Certainly not enough to last more than a few days.
“Good news,” she said upon entering the family room, “she probably hasn’t gone far, and I doubt she’ll be go
ne long, either.”
Adam met her eyes. “What makes you say that?”
“She only packed a few things.” She sat beside him, gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “What do you bet she’ll be home before dark?”
Her son nodded. “Is Amy in her room?”
“Coloring,” Nadine said, “and listening to her nursery rhymes CD.”
Another nod. “Good. That’ll give me time to think.”
“About…?”
“About what to tell her when she asks why her mother won’t be here to tuck her in tonight.”
Frank arrived at the coffee shop ten minutes late. Red-faced and panting, he slid into the booth seat across from Lamont’s and slapped a thick file folder onto the table. “One of these days, somebody’s gonna figure out how to eliminate traffic jams.”
“The guy who does that,” Lamont said, “will get rich quick.”
Frank waved the waitress over. “Roads are under the control of local government. When have you ever known anything to happen ‘quick’ when bureaucrats are involved?” He ordered eggs and bacon, hash browns, tomato juice and coffee. “What’s your pleasure,” he asked, “since it’s your tab?”
Laughing, Lamont asked for a refill on his coffee. “Nadine whipped up a rib-stickin’ breakfast. Couldn’t eat another bite if I tried.”
“Harrumph,” Frank said, smirking.
“What?”
“You never struck me as the ‘playing house’ type, is all.”
Playing house? As if his mood wasn’t already foul enough after finding out this morning that she’d given her bug-loving buddy Jim permission to hole up in her barn all this time, and the Julie-gone-missing episode adding to the mess. “As I told you, it’s a temporary arrangement. Couldn’t be avoided, ’cause after the fire, she had no place else to go. And neither did her kids.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he said around a mouthful of coffee.
“She’s upstairs, clear at one end of the house, I’m downstairs at the other end.”
“Methinks thou doth protest too much.”
Lamont frowned. Frank had a point. A good one. Why had he felt so compelled to defend himself?
“So you really don’t care what folks are saying?”
Did that mean Frank had heard things? Lamont harrumphed. “I’ve never been one to put much stock in what people think. There’s only one opinion that matters to me.” Using his thumb, he pointed Heavenward. Though, in truth, what Nadine thought and felt mattered almost as much.
The waitress approached, and Frank slid his cup and the file aside to make room for the piled-high plate she carried. He waited until she moved to the next table, then tapped the file folder. “Dug up some pretty interesting stuff.” Peeling a butter tab, he added, “And along the way, got some insights into this li’l gal’s mother-in-law.”
Insights? Double-talk wasn’t Frank’s style. Which either meant he hadn’t found anything worth discussing, or he was trying to avoid telling Lamont some awful truth.
Frank bit the point from a slice of toast. “People talk,” he said around it, “and sometimes what they say ain’t all that flattering.”
Now he wished he’d asked for a refill on his coffee, because sipping it would give him something to do besides gawk at the detective. “Anything negative you heard about Nadine is bunk. I’d bet the ranch on it.”
“Okay, so you’re nuts about her. Point made and taken.” He shrugged. “But in my business, you see a lot of proof that when love talks, it doesn’t always tell the truth. So all right, fall in love, get married, refill that mansion of yours with more babies, even, if that flips your Stetson.” He rested an elbow on the table, used his fork as a pointer. “Just don’t be one of those guys who’s stupid in love. You didn’t work a lifetime to throw it all away for a pretty face.”
Frank picked up a strip of bacon and was about to snap off a bite when Lamont said, “You still a prayin’ man, Frank?”
“Bum knee, remember?”
“It’s been my experience that a man can pray standing, sitting or flat on his face.”
He speared a potato and popped it into his mouth. “We go too far back to spar over religion, m’friend. How I pray, if I pray, is my business, and let’s just leave it at that.”
Lamont nodded. “Fair enough. But by the same token, how I live my life—and who I share it with—is my business.”
Frank downed his glass of tomato juice, blotted his lips on a paper napkin then shoved the file to Lamont’s side of the table. “I don’t think you’re gonna like paying me for the dirt I dug up.”
“On Nadine?”
Shaking his head, Frank said, “On that daughter-in-law of hers. Seems she’s gone missing before. Couple of times, matter of fact.”
“Where’d you get this information?”
“It’s better for you if you don’t know the details. Let’s just say I have friends in high places, friends who helped me turn over a rock or two, and helped me unlock a few top-secret file drawers.” He leaned back, stretched both arms across the back of his seat. “Remember when I asked you if you thought sweet little Julie might have had anything to do with your girlfriend’s house burning down?”
Lamont nodded, and let the “girlfriend” reference slide.
“Well, if she isn’t responsible, I’ll eat my hat.”
Not good news, for anybody involved. “You’re not wearing a hat.”
“So I’ll buy one.” He winked. “And add it to your bill.”
Lamont had only locked his office door on one other occasion—the night Rose died. He’d come home from the hospital feeling lost and spent and heartbroken and, after making sure his motherless girls were sound asleep in their rooms, sequestered himself behind the soundproof walls, because the last thing they needed was to hear his anguished sobs.
This time, he’d entered the room feeling angry, agitated and confused. He snapped the blinds shut and flipped the bolt, then flicked on his desk lamp and sat down to study Julie’s file.
For starters, her name wasn’t Julie Greene.
Born Carla Cassidy in Detroit, she’d entered the Michigan foster care system when her parents were killed in a head-on crash. By the time the girl turned twelve, she’d lived with seven families. At thirteen, her counselors finally found a good match, and Carla settled in with a mom and dad who, in addition to three other kids, raised carrier pigeons. She loved tending the birds, Carla told one therapist, especially the hatchlings. Enjoyed it so much, in fact, that she didn’t even mind the odious chore of cleaning the coop floors.
The girl’s happy life ended abruptly when illness put her in the hospital. Diagnosed with cryptococcal meningitis, she spiked a fever of 106.5, and it took days for doctors to get the infection under control. Upon returning home, Carla could no longer perform routine tasks. Over the next months, she withdrew from friends and family. One day might find her huddled in a corner, barely able to utter two words. And the next, verbal outbursts and physical attacks on her siblings were her norm.
Pushed to the limits of their parenting skills, her foster parents sought out a child specialist who blamed the high fever for Carla’s paranoid schizophrenia. Thorazine was prescribed, but when her behavior turned violent, institutionalization was required. Through the haze of medication, she overheard the escape plans of fellow patients and, determined to join them, Carla hid her meds in the heating vent. Then late one night, she slid aside a manhole cover on the hospital grounds and followed the storm drain to the city streets.
Her photo made the evening news, inspiring 911 reports of a young girl stealing clothes from a sidewalk sale. Before long, she found herself on the wrong side of wire-and-glass windows, telling her story to a white-coated therapist who administered tried-and-true therapies, and a few that were brand new. The scenario repeated itself in Chicago and Buffalo, New York and Baltimore, yet no matter which drug or confinement methods the so-called experts tried, the innovative young woman managed to escape.
La
mont closed the file, remembering what Frank had said in the diner that morning. “She must’ve gone into remission. Happens sometimes with schizophrenics. I expect that’s why Nadine’s boy didn’t realize anything was wrong with her when they met. Can’t imagine any other reason the kid would’ve married a nutjob like that.”
At the time, Frank’s choice of words had made him cringe. Now—though still uncomfortable with the term nutjob—he had to admit that the detective’s theory made about as much sense as anything else.
Something nagged at him, though—something worrisome and terrifying. While most schizophrenics prefer being alone and rarely act out in aggressive or violent ways, the psychiatrist’s last entry made it clear that Julie’s particular brand of paranoia could manifest itself in suicidal or homicidal behaviors.
Shaking his head, Lamont tucked the file between two volumes of the encyclopedia and prayed that no one would find it there, because he needed time and Heavenly guidance to figure out when to share the information with Adam and Nadine.
Lamont pitied Julie—no question about it. And he’d do everything he could to help her…if only he could. But as the psychiatrist had written at least three times in Julie’s file, “…there is no known cure for paranoid schizophrenia.”
He didn’t know whether or not Julie—or Carla or whatever her name was—had slipped from remission. Didn’t know what she might be capable of, either. But he did know this: If she aimed to hurt Nadine or her son and granddaughter, he’d do whatever it took to stop her.
“Marcy Miller, with KAMR-TV 4,” the familiar voice on the phone said, “calling to speak with Mr. London about Julie Greene.”
When Julie didn’t come home the night he’d found the note, Adam called the police. Following a cursory investigation, they apologized for the lack of information and leads, and said that they’d exhausted their resources. Desperate to find his troubled young wife, he decided to get the media involved, hoping an alert TV viewer would call in a “Julie sighting.” So why had the pretty reporter asked for Lamont, and not Adam?
“I’m Julie’s mother-in-law. Do you have information about her?”
