by V. K. Powell
She’d even told her about sketching nudes. What she hadn’t said was how connected she felt when her two passions were combined—the beauty of women and her love of the artistic process. It was the only time she felt truly still alive and vibrant. She indulged her deepest feelings in art without having to expose them to anyone else. Leigh would’ve thought her pathetic. Moving to the kitchen table, she dropped the file and slumped into a chair. What about Leigh compelled her to talk about her life and desires—compelled her to talk at all?
She hadn’t been as forthcoming with her lover of two years. She’d tried to rationalize the distance between her and Julia, blaming work pressures, family responsibilities, and general ennui, none of which went over well with Julia. A year later, it made perfect sense. She hadn’t been in love with Julia. She cared for her but never experienced the link that tugs on the heart when the other is joyful or in pain. She’d drifted on the wave of Julia’s infatuation until stagnation set in. Now, she was ashamed to admit, she thought about their relationship only when she felt guilty about the breakup or found herself emotionally lacking again.
She wasn’t in a relationship because she couldn’t handle one. The give-and-take, constant togetherness, and analyzing every comment simply made her feel inept. Maybe she didn’t process like coupled people seemed to. How did one explain feelings anyway? You either felt them or you didn’t, and once you said so, what else was needed? Perhaps she had the emotional genes of a man—shit happens, don’t dwell on it, carry on. Her failure had to be in the genes or hormones, something she couldn’t control, because she’d tried everything within her power to overcome the deficit. Would she ever know that all-encompassing love that romance novels and best-selling movies depicted?
Jesse. The name floated to the surface as easily as color dyed the faces of flowers. They’d shared the joys and pains of each other’s lives from the time she was old enough to recognize feelings. They were best friends, confidantes, and never seemed to tire of talking. Could they have been more if circumstances hadn’t intervened? Their friendship had been the most genuine relationship of her life. When it ended, she’d never let another woman close and never explained why. How could she describe something she’d spent sixteen years trying to understand? Work had become her savior and her oppressor until the memories and pain became unbearable and she left the job as well. She hadn’t consciously chosen to isolate herself from future involvements, but it had probably worked out for the best.
She pushed the thick envelope back and forth on the table. Maybe Leigh was right. What was the harm in looking at the case? Before she could second-guess herself, she ripped open the tab and emptied the contents. A copy of the witness’s statement detailing the discovery of the skeletal remains lay on top of a stack of old missing-person reports. She was amazed and saddened by the sheer number of people still unaccounted for in the area.
As she shuffled through the reports, an envelope fell on the table. She recognized the handwriting of Trudy James, forensic anthropologist. Macy always read Trudy’s notes first because they provided the preliminary information she’d need if she decided to take the case.
She scanned the pages looking for specific details she desperately wanted but dreaded finding. The remains contained no soft tissue at the time of discovery, making it more likely identification would come from forensic anthropological results and her reconstruction rather than from the pathologist or medical examiner. Trudy determined the age of the victim to be between fourteen and nineteen, based on bone length and fusion. The victim was female, based on differences in the pelvis, skull, and femur. She was small-boned and of Caucasian ancestry, concluded by teeth and skull measurements.
All the elements were there. This could be the one she’d waited for. Macy looked away from the reports and registered the tightening in her gut that always accompanied the conclusions segment of the document. She took a deep breath and read the last few lines of Trudy’s report.
Possible cause of death, massive antemortem blunt-force trauma to the posterior right parietal segment of the skull. No indication of perimortem or postmortem trauma. No identifiable surgical procedures or healed bone fractures. Small portion of denim fabric and dark leather boots recovered with remains and sent for material analysis. Possible time of death 15–20 years ago.
The timeline fit. Denim fabric. Boots. No surgical procedures. No bone fractures. Oh, God. She picked up the phone and dialed Trudy’s home number. When she answered, Macy didn’t wait for pleasantries. “Trudy?”
“I know what you want to hear, Macy, but I’m not sure. All I can say is it’s possible. But listen to me—”
Trudy had never offered the slightest hope that Macy’s nightmare could be reaching an end. She dropped the phone in the cradle with a shaky hand and sat down on the sofa. She didn’t pick up when Trudy called back.
Chapter Five
A sheer turquoise blouse, top two buttons open. Dark-blue straight-legged jeans tucked into scuffed brown cowboy boots. Jesse was gangly, sixteen-year-old thin, long blond hair, and silvery blue eyes that danced with mischief.
They walked the ragged path along the railroad tracks, Jesse’s coconut shampoo scenting the air. A full moon gilded the night sky. Music from the club vibrated her insides as they neared the entrance. Gray concrete building. Flashing neon lights. Lines of people. Perfume and cologne mingled with cigarette and marijuana smoke. A T-shirt-and-jeans-clad bouncer waved them in.
Black lights swirled awkward shapes across a crowded dance floor. White shirts shimmered like beacons in a sea of color. Jesse swallowed by a mob. Teenagers indulged in alcohol and sex urged on by blaring music. Hours passed.
“Going out for a smoke,” Jesse said.
“You don’t smoke.”
“Duh, I’m just outside the door. You’ll be okay, right? Be back in five.”
“Jesse, don’t…”
Five minutes, ten, and then thirty. No Jesse. Not inside the club, not in the toilets, not outside. The full moon was like a lamp guiding her path to nowhere. The night air reeked of stale cigarettes, and the alleys stank of urine and vomit. She gagged as she searched again. Jesse had disappeared.
As morning dawned, she ran home, along the tracks they’d followed. “Jesse.” She yelled, but no Jesse. “Jesse, please!”
Macy woke to the sound of her own screams. Her cheeks stung from tears and her clothes were matted to her body with sweat. Why? Sixteen years later the sights, sounds, and smells of that night were still painfully vivid, as were the last words she and Jesse had spoken to each other. No matter how precise her recall, she still didn’t understand what had happened. The only true thing was that she was responsible. She was older and should’ve taken care of Jesse. It was a familiar mantra, and like a flagellant, she let the penance sink in. Through the years, the pain had dulled, but the guilt had grown inside like a malignancy devouring any hope of real happiness.
She rose from the uncomfortable sofa and stretched the kinks out of her back on the way to the shower. Hot water and hot coffee—then the studio. If this new case could help her find Jesse, she’d take it, but she had to start in the studio. Searching the file last night, she prayed she’d find parallels between this case and the circumstances of Jesse’s disappearance while praying she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to believe her friend was dead. After so long, it seemed the most logical conclusion, but the thought brought only a renewed wave of guilt with no comfort.
As she downed her last sip of coffee, the phone rang. “Hello.”
“Macy, are you all right? You didn’t answer when I called back last night.”
“I’m fine, Trudy. I just needed some time.”
“You read the file, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you more, but every detail I could make out is in the report. Are you taking the case?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Let me know if I can help.”
“I will.�
� The sadness in Trudy’s voice made her wince. She hadn’t been fair to her colleagues, friends, or family since her self-imposed exile, but she needed time to make decisions about her future. Everyone had been patient, but they were also anxious for her to resume their idea of a normal life. “Thank you.”
Macy hung up, collected the file from the table, and turned toward the studio. If she opened the door without over-thinking, she might have a chance of facing what was on the other side. She pulled on the dingy-white lab coat hanging beside the door and wiped at stains that never brushed or washed away. The extra layer of clothing made her feel more protected as she turned the knob and pushed the door wide.
The age-progression sketches she’d attempted were everywhere: hanging on easels, tacked to a giant corkboard, and taped to the walls. She hadn’t completed a drawing yet. The only element she was certain about was the look around the eyes, which changed little through a lifetime. Everything else was a guess. If she’d only had more pictures of Jesse and her family, the results would’ve been different. The single faded photograph of the two of them on the hood of her mother’s car didn’t provide enough detail for a computer application, and her memories had faded. Jesse deserved more.
Macy recalled the day she’d asked Sergeant Kevin Rickard to reopen Jesse’s case. They’d stood in this very room as he collected the results of her last reconstruction.
“Please, Kevin, just have a detective review the case file and let me look at the photos of her. It won’t take long.”
“We don’t have time to dredge up old cases. We’ve got enough fresh ones to work.”
“Can you let me look at it then? I’ve seen plenty of police files before. You know I’m trustworthy.”
He squirmed as if she’d caught him in a lie. “There is no file, Macy.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s been purged. We don’t keep sixteen-year-old missing-persons files anymore. There’s no point. If they haven’t turned up, they’re probably not going to.”
“Your sensitivity is touching. Surely, there’s something on the computer about the case. Everything can’t be gone. I’d like to try anyway. She was my best friend.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got other cases we need your help on. Cases that have a better chance of being solved.”
She stared at his back as he headed toward the door. “If you don’t do this, I’ll quit. I’ve never asked you for anything before.”
“Then I guess you’re quitting.”
She’d worked for three months trying to reconstruct Jesse’s face from memory and then avoided the studio completely for three more because she couldn’t cope with Jesse’s faceless eyes asking for help. Now Jesse stared at her in every conceivable gradation of morning light. Her heart pounded in her throat. She failed Jesse every day that passed without answers. Was she alive or dead? Either way, Macy needed details so she could move on with her life. Jesse would want her to be happy, not shuffling through her days like a barely functioning zombie.
She collected all the incomplete sketches one at a time, careful not to rip the delicate paper or smudge the drawing. She stacked them neatly in a box, placed them on the corner of her drafting table, and put the new file beside them. Thirty sets of silvery blue eyes begged for answers. This new case would be her last, no matter what the outcome. She’d either find Jesse or find a way to forgive herself.
Pushing up the bangle bracelet on her left wrist, she stroked the noticeable scar and flinched. Was she really just taking a break as she’d told everyone, or was she skirting another bout of depression? Her renewed obsession with solving Jesse’s case could be a precursor to a relapse.
She thought about what Leigh had said about being bored. Boredom wasn’t the problem. Failure and lack of confidence were her issues. Maybe it was time to get her hands dirty again. In life, as in art, little was accomplished painting inside the lines.
*
Leigh had tossed and turned all night, replaying Macy’s curt refusal of her dinner invitation and listening to the droning hum and click of cicadas. The rhythmic sound should’ve lulled her to sleep, but it seemed to echo a single word, no-o, no-o. What had she done to deserve the personification of her mother in other women? She and Hedy had fended for themselves as children, her past relationships had failed for various reasons, and Gayle had been mostly absent. The experiences left her searching for someone who shared her priorities and actually wanted a commitment. But she kept stumbling into women who wanted only a one-night stand or a continuous fling.
Macy’s rejection stung longer than she imagined it could, obviously striking that old unhealed wound. They’d just met, but she already cared what Macy thought of her and how they got along. Unable to rest, Leigh got out of bed, stretched, and started up the driveway for a predawn run. She was still a bit stiff from yesterday, but if she wanted her endurance back, she had to keep at it. The small cottage was dark as she passed, and she turned onto the street at a quick jog, trying to ignore the pang of disappointment.
House lights flickered on along Egret Lane as residents began to stir, and her stomach growled at the smell of cooking bacon. A rooster crowed, but otherwise the pounding of her feet on the deserted road was the only sound. She checked her watch and settled into a comfortable pace, enjoying surroundings much simpler than she’d been accustomed to. She’d almost forgotten how uncomplicated life could be. The city was never this quiet, even in the twilight hours. It was one of the things she loved and hated about urban life and her work.
Her job and the month-long suspension were never far from her mind, even in this tranquil setting. She was basically lying in her professional and personal lives: not being totally candid with the investigators about Lily Miller’s case and not telling Macy she was a slightly tarnished, temporarily unemployed cop. She hated lying. Dishonesty, no matter what the magnanimous reason, took too much effort and brought everything she did into question. She wasn’t one of those cops who believed the end always justified the means. Fortunately, she’d never lied before, but it felt right this time…or the lesser of two evils. When had her life become so convoluted? About the time Gayle Braxton showed up.
She’d isolated herself by throwing money at round-trip tickets to Canada, being at her lover’s beck and call, and serving as the caboose on Gayle’s long train of priorities. She’d dreamed of devoting her time and energy to the woman she loved, but in her dream her lover reciprocated. Hedy and Pam had tried to keep her grounded, but she’d become a cliché, blinded by love. Hopefully, that trend would end when her suspension was over and she found a place to live. She might even start dating again.
The image of Macy kneeling in the flowerbed digging with her hands surfaced. She’d been so engrossed in her plantings, reverently kneading the soil barehanded, that she hadn’t noticed Leigh’s blatant staring for several minutes. Leigh had seen her share of attractive women, but never one who tried so hard to appear otherwise.
Macy didn’t seem to take special interest in her physical appearance, preferring to blend into the background in baggy clothes and humble surroundings. But underneath Macy’s roadblocks and modesty she detected a woman of complexity and challenge whose feelings wouldn’t be easy to mine, a woman of passion. Was she willing to risk more rejection to uncover the real Macy Sheridan?
The question brought her up short and she doubled over to catch her breath. She’d been daydreaming and was almost back home at a full run, her pace shot to hell. She gasped for air and steadied her heart rate. The idea of opening herself to another woman who seemed uninterested had the appeal of stepping in front of an oncoming train. She’d been run over too many times to take another careless leap. But something told her she’d make the leap regardless of the outcome.
The sun was just breaking through the trees as she walked up to the cottage, and a dim light shone from the windows. She started to knock but didn’t know what to say. Just seeing Macy or talking to h
er wasn’t a good-enough reason to intrude on her first thing in the morning. Still feeling antsy, she walked around the side of the cottage to the woodpile. Maybe a little manual labor would calm her or exhaust her enough to let her nap.
As she passed the small window at the back of the house, she heard what sounded like crying from inside. She started toward the back door to make sure Macy was okay but stopped just shy of the threshold. Would Macy misinterpret her concern as meddling and give her another sermon about privacy? If Macy was hurt or upset, would she even accept comfort from her?
She crept to the side of the window and peeked in. Macy was slouched over a stack of papers on a drafting table, rubbing her left wrist as if it ached. She clutched a stained grayish-white lab coat around her like a shroud. Her face was splotchy and her tearful wails echoed through the room. She appeared fixated on the papers, upset by their contents but unable to look away.
Leigh traced a path down the windowpane with her fingers. She could almost feel Macy’s grief seeping through the glass, but what could she do? She had no idea what had caused so much pain and had no right to ask. Maybe Macy had lost someone close to her, possibly a lover. That would account for her need for privacy and distance. She turned reluctantly from the window, feeling like a cross between a Peeping Tom and a stalker.
She should leave Macy to grieve in her own way. Whatever was going on in her life wasn’t Leigh’s concern. Macy hadn’t gone overboard to make her feel welcome since she arrived, and she’d been adamant that she wanted space. Still, Leigh thought it cruel to turn her back on someone who was hurting. She wanted to be nearby, just in case.
The woodpile provided a legitimate reason to continue lurking. Placing a piece of wood on the stump that served as a chopping block, she reached for the ax. Splitting wood would exercise her arms, and since she hated weight training, this seemed a good substitute. She eyeballed the log, repositioned it on the stump, and hefted the ax over her head. She took a deep breath and swung. Her strike skimmed the side of the log, which went flying through the air. The ax stuck in the ground between her legs.
