“Are you warm enough, you two?” her grandmother’s call carried over the grass. “Don’t answer that—I don’t even know why I’m asking. You’ll say you’re fine when you’re a breath away from freezing. I’m bringing out a blanket.”
Her mammaw, standing in the strong porch light, traveled carefully across the lawn. Stiff, she stepped on flagstones, her body rocking with off-center weight from the thick quilt she carried. When she reached the swing she unfurled the blanket, tucking it snugly beneath Cameryn’s chin.
“Lyric called and I told her you’d call back. She and Adam are going out, celebrating, but I took the liberty of telling her you’d be staying home tonight. You’ve had enough excitement. What is it, girl?” She felt her grandmother’s strong hand on the top of her head. “What’s wrong? Patrick?”
“You’ve got my letter,” Cameryn whispered hoarsely. “From Hannah.”
The smile slowly drained from her grandmother’s face. “I do,” she said.
“How did you get it?”
“The deputy came by. He gave me two things. A letter and a package.”
“I want them.”
“Patrick?” Mammaw asked, but he didn’t answer. That seemed to be answer enough, because Mammaw said, “I’ll go get them.”
Time stopped. Her grandmother was gone only moments, or was it hours? Cameryn couldn’t tell. Patrick stared straight ahead, unmoving, his eyes wide and blank. When her grandmother returned she pressed two objects into Patrick’s hand. “The child’s right,” she said softly. “Tell her.”
But her father shook his head. “No. Not yet. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Son, if you’ve learned anything from today, it’s that we don’t always have our tomorrows.”
“I need more time,” he said. His mouth had been the only thing to move. He did not meet his mother’s gaze or his daughter’s, but stared into the darkness.
“No, Patrick,” she said softly. “I’ve heard every argument you’ve come up with as well as a few out of my own mouth, and the both of us have been wrong. It is time. You’ve got to tell her the truth.”
Then her mammaw caressed Cameryn’s cheek with her hand, pulling her chin up so that their eyes met. “What we’ve done—it’s been from love. We’ve always tried to protect you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.” Mammaw turned and made her way back to the house, her fuzzy slippers padding on the stone. The screen door screeched open, then went silent.
Suddenly Cameryn’s blood began to race. She stared at the package, wrapped in iris blue paper, then at the letter, encased in a plain blue envelope. Her father made no motion to give them to her.
“Dad?”
“It’s strange, the way we’ve been sitting here, talking about death.” His voice was oddly flat, and when his eyes met hers, he didn’t seem to really see. “About death, and dying, and ghosts.” He swallowed. “There are different kinds of ghosts. When we moved here, Cammie, I wanted to forget. They were things about Hannah, about our life before, that I’ve never wanted you to know. I thought it was better to bury the secrets. To forget the past.”
“Dad, what is it?”
Her father took a deep, wavering breath. “Cammie, you don’t remember everything. About who you are, I mean. It was too long ago. But…there’s another person….”
For some inexplicable reason her father had begun to cry, yet, strangely, he made no sound. His face contorted while quiet sobs shook his body, rocking the swing with spasms. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry….” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I can’t do this.” He stood. With a final, wavering breath, he let the package, then the letter, slide from his fingertips into her lap.
“Do what you need to do,” he told her. Then he walked, unsteady, following Mammaw’s footsteps along the flag-stone that made a path toward home.
Cameryn was left alone. Rocking, feeling the breeze, she tried to steel herself for this new reality. Because the porch light was so bright she could no longer see the stars, but she could see the pines, waving their arms as she stared into the heavens. Turning over the package, once, twice, she let it drop back into the blanket, then picked it up again. She hesitated only a moment before she ripped off the paper. Inside was a picture. Two girls, maybe only three years old, had been painted in soft watercolor. Two dark-haired little girls in pink dresses with smocking, laughing, their mouths wide. Cameryn saw herself in the face of them both. It made no sense. Hesitant, she picked up the letter. It felt light in her hand, as fragile, as inconsequential, as a leaf. The envelope was made of pale blue paper; when she looked closer, she saw the watermark of an iris.
Somewhere, an owl hooted and she heard a rustle in the grass behind her. It was probably a mouse about to get caught by the owl, an animal that could find its prey in the dark. A part of her was like the mouse, running and hiding, but a bigger part was like the owl. She’d been searching for something all her life and she sensed it was right here, in the blue envelope.
She didn’t give herself another chance to think, afraid she’d change her mind. Trembling, she tore open the envelope and removed a single page.
Cameryn unfolded the letter she’d waited all her life to read. It was written in black ink that swirled across the paper like bits of lace.
My darling Cameryn,
I love you. I want to say that in case you don’t read another line of this letter. But I love you more completely than I have ever loved anyone before or since you came into the world.
I realize that you must have always had questions about me—why I left, why I chose to disappear from your life. But death can make a person walk a path she never thought herself capable of. In my grief, I ran away from you. Now, I realize what a mistake that was, and worse, that it might now be too late.
Cammie, when your sister died, a piece of me died, too. Jayne’s death sent me to places that were not safe for you. But now I’m well again.
Stunned, Cameryn looked at the picture. Jayne? She had a sister? It was impossible. Cameryn would have remembered, would have known…wouldn’t she? The smiling face of twins stared back, mocking her with their silence.
I’m asking you, begging you, to contact me. If you call me I’ll know you’re ready. There’s so much to say, Cameryn, so many years to fill. Please, I won’t care about the hour. Day or night, you can always find me.
Beneath the scrolling signature she saw a phone number and a New York address. Above her, the owl glided, his wings spread wide to embrace the evening. She read the letter again and again. Then, hesitating, she pulled her cell phone from her back pocket but didn’t open it. At that moment the owl swooped in on its prey and flew up into the night. The mouse’s tail hung from its talons like a velvet cord. It was already dead.
Death. She had wanted to serve the dead, wanted to learn their language so that she could be their translator. She remembered thinking how much of her life had been buried with Hannah’s memory and how cordoning off her past had stolen her own voice. But for the first time Cameryn understood it was the secrets themselves that had silenced her. And they’d silenced Hannah as well.
Once again the pines trees danced overhead. Rousing herself, Cameryn flipped open her phone and dialed the number written on the bottom of her letter.
The letter from her mother.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank the many people who helped me explore the forensic field. You have unselfishly shared your knowledge and passion—the glimpse into your world rocked mine! I’m especially grateful to: Thomas M. Canfield, MD, Fellow at the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, Chief Medical Examiner, Office of Medical Investigations; Kristina Maxfield, Coroner; Robert C. Bux, MD, Associate Coroner, Medical Examiner; Dawn Miller, Deputy Coroner; Werner Jenkins, Chief Forensic Toxicologist; Chris Clarke, Forensic Toxicologist; Sandy Way, County Coroner’s Office; and a special thanks to Scott Short, D-ABMDI Deputy Coroner—without whose help this book would not have been possible.
The Christopher Killer Page 20
