She looked at me on the bed and her expression was one of surprise. “Oh, Nora. Oh, no, you thought—” She broke off, releasing my arm. “I didn’t come here to blame you, my dear. No, no. I came—because I wanted to see.”
“See?” I finally spoke. “See what?”
Mrs. Weathers peered down at me. “What it looks like to stand up to him.”
Ned showed up the day after that. I was almost ready to be checked out, eating a bowl of the chili macaroni casserole that Mrs. Weathers had brought, when he walked into my room. Ned’s arm was bandaged, and his face was mottled with bruises. In and around the glow of color, his eyes stared at me with incredulity, then filled with relief.
“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re okay.”
“So are you,” I replied.
“I came back the second I could,” he said. Then he laid the front page of the Albany Times Union on my lap.
Police Chief Vernon J. Weathers resigned today, pending an investigation by federal officials into the department’s activities.
Two arrests have been made. Officer Club Mitchell has been charged with one count of murder and one count of manslaughter and will be taken into custody after receiving treatment in a burn unit. Officer Gilbert Landry is being held on charges of kidnapping and assault.
Officer Timothy Lurcquer will serve as acting chief of police until permanent replacement can be found.
Members of the Weathers family have served in the role of chief of police in Wedeskyull for more than eighty years.…
See “Hidden Face of Justice” page A-2.
Ned watched as I finished reading. My gaze flitted to the byline at the top.
By Ned Kramer
I shook my head, disbelief and wonder coursing through me.
I had thought I’d never feel safe again. Yet suddenly I did. “I think you might have that book you always wanted to write.”
Ned gave me a lopsided smile, wincing slightly. “I don’t know. I’ve got the ending. But there’s only bits and pieces from the middle. The beginning took place twenty-five years ago. And that will never be known at all.”
“I have a few things that might help,” I said softly.
I reached for Brendan’s yellow box. Tim had reclaimed it from the inn for me. Its lid sat askew, and would until I could repair it. I took out Dugger’s DVD, and his cassette, as well as the bloody picture with Amber in it. DNA could probably still be recovered from that. The camera I’d used in the woods came next. Then the recording device that had captured the final sequence of events at the inn. Ned took all five items with an air of puzzlement.
I handed him Jean’s Polaroid. And his whole face changed.
A nurse entered the room. “Mrs. Hamilton? You’re all set.”
Ned was still studying the photo.
His head only jerked up when I started to rise.
Our eyes met. And we traded a smile that held many things—everything except what a smile should contain. No humor or levity. Sorrow, and satisfaction, and maybe just a hint of salvation.
“We could wait a little while.” Ned said, indicating the hospital window, which was dashed with snow. “This looks like it might let up.”
“I think we’ll be all right,” I replied. My hip gave a few piercing twinges as I moved toward the hall, but I knew it would soon be numbed by the temperature outside.
I crossed my arms over my stomach to provide an extra layer of warmth.
Ned led the way out to his car, and we drove off into the snow still falling over Wedeskyull.
This one is for my mother and father,
who in their different ways gave me the gift of story.
And for Josh, who gave me everything.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I can hardly believe it’s come down to this: a cool, rainy day in June, when I am writing the acknowledgments for my debut novel. I began composing these words a decade ago.
My deepest thanks go to three women I call the Dream Team. My editor, Linda Marrow, has a visionary view of fiction that made this novel into the book you are holding—and the one I always meant to write. My agent, Julia Kenny, is passionate, dedicated, and unflagging in her enthusiasm—traits every writer needs to rely on. And Nancy Pickard started out as one of my favorite authors, and became the reason I got published at all.
The people at Ballantine have dazzled me from the minute I was lucky enough to land there. I look forward to meeting many more, but for now want to single out Junessa Viloria, for her constant contact and attention to details; Dana Isaacson, for his sage advice on the tiniest turn of plot; Sharon Propson, Sonya Safro, and Quinne Rogers, for taking one look and knowing just how to introduce it to the world; Kim Houey, for steering and charting courses; Rachel Kind, and the whole team for the magic of overseas sales; the awe-inspiring art department, who took a story and crafted it into a single image; and Jennifer Rodriguez and the entire eagle-eyed crew in production, who went way beyond usage to make suggestions I never would’ve thought of on my own, and still managed to catch the fact that granola bars don’t melt.
To Julie Schoerke, Marissa Curnutte, Sami Lien, Grace Wright, and everyone at JKS Communications, thank you for believing.
There are authors who became literary angels along the way. I hesitate to write this list because it will be incomplete the moment I send it off. A few mentions include John Searles—author of the “literary angel” phrase—and Jacquelyn Mitchard, Louise Penny, Sophie Hannah, Timothy Hallinan, Leighton Gage, Lisa Tucker, Craig Holden, Karen McQuestion, Stefanie Pintoff, Debra Galant, David Harris Ebenbach, and Colleen Thompson, who went out on many different limbs for me. Laura Lippman, Chris Bohjalian, Harlan Coben, Linwood Barclay, and Jodi Picoult offered inspiration, in part by telling me to come find them when my book sold—which I did. And Lee Child, Hank Phillipi Ryan, Julia Spencer-Fleming, and William Kent Krueger all made me proud to enter this world which contains such greats.
If you want to be a writer, join a writers organization. Three of the best I’ve found are International Thriller Writers—thank you, Carla Buckley, for your book and the invitation—Mystery Writers of America, and New York Writers Workshop.
After you join an organization, become part of a listserv. Without the good hearts and avid mystery lovers of DorothyL and Murder-MustAdvertise, I would’ve had a much harder time not giving up.
I have mixed feelings about writers groups, but three have been essential on my road. To Dorothy from the Little Professor writing group—if you hadn’t talked about The Deep End of the Ocean almost fifteen years ago, it literally wouldn’t have occurred to me to try to get published. Stumps Sprouts lasted an idyllic five days and resulted in friends I’ll never forget: Karina, Colin, Sandy, Jessica, Teeta, Bridget, Nina, Becky, and Barbara. If the only thing to come out of the Somerset Hills Writers Salon was meeting Lauren Sweet and her mother, it would’ve been worth attending a thousand meetings.
Some writers hone their craft at the knees of teachers; I was lucky enough to have literary agents poke and prod me into learning how to put a novel together. If Barney Karpfinger hadn’t written a single-spaced rejection letter back in 1999, my work would still be laden with unnecessary interior monologue. Anne Hawkins and Anna Stein believed in me enough to put their very capable skills to work, and I am always excited to see the books they usher into the world.
The community of bookstores is a grand and noble one. There are far too many to name, but Margot Sage-El, Marina Cramer, and the crew at Watchung Booksellers deserve credit for giving life to a certain literary series; and Greg and Mary Bruss of Mysteries and More in Nashville helped kick off Take Your Child to a Bookstore Day back in 2010. Thank you, booksellers across the world, and to paraphrase Neil Young, long may you thrive.
Libraries were my place of respite and salvation from the childhood woes to which writers seem especially prone. My hat is off to librarians worldwide.
The world of bloggers is made up of writers, readers, reviewers, thinkers, e
ssayists, and at least one former bookseller. Thank you, Lelia Taylor, Kaye Barley, Lesa Holstine, and many, many others for the creative work you put out there for people to be inspired by.
I’m not a writer who does a lot of research, but I found it necessary to call upon the husband of a dear friend for one certain detail in the book you’ve read. Thank you, Greg Fox, for the consult on concrete.
When it takes a long time to get published, it’s easy to start believing it will never happen. That’s when you need your writing kindred spirits, not to mention a little chocolate. Judy Walters, Karyne Corum, Maryann McFadden, Johanna Garth, Savannah Thorne, Sara Backer, and everyone at the Cozy Café; they deserve great success.
Thanks to friends who’ve been interested and invested along the way: Lynda Wolf, Tracy Fox, Susan Ezell, Jen Grigsby, Deborah McKinley, Tulasi and Eric Jordan-Freedman, Denise Wendorff, Becky Rubenstein, Tara Munn, Leah Hatley, Kimberly Kirstein, Jana Karam, Annaliese Silivanch, Anne Nedelka, and the members of the Tuesday night book club!
Last because they’re not least, thank you to my family.
You already know about my husband: support when things looked bleakest, cook when I got hungry, and a mean editor to boot. To truly thank him would take a novel of its own.
Thanks to my daughter and son, Sophie and Caleb, for carrying a flag—a literal one, in this case, for a parade around the house—imploring Mommy to “gat publisht.”
I feel extremely lucky to call not one but two women mother-in-law. My thanks goes to Amy Small, for her unflagging support, and for providing a meal or a party just when we needed one, and for knowing almost everyone. And to Shirley Frank, thank you for coming out to every panel, for reading manuscripts in a way that made me feel like a real writer, and your especial flair with pitches.
Thank you, Eddie, for your creative thinking and generosity. Thanks, Bob, for lending a hand, and for lending your wife. And thanks, Frank, for making a bookstore visit seem like the best way to spend a weekend. (Which it is, of course.)
My father knew when I was ready for Jane Eyre, and my mother began many a childhood bedtime story with, “Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Benjy.” Thank you.
Thank you to my brother, Ezra, for being my number one fan (an intentionally weird, freaky one who hides behind beds), and to my brother-in-law, James, for sending me news of interest, and for always asking about details.
To my sister, Kari, who comes first in so many ways: Thank you for seeing the dream.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JENNY MILCHMAN lives in New Jersey with her family. Cover of Snow is her first novel.
Cover of Snow Page 30
