Falling Grace

by Melissa Shirley

  “Maybe singularly, but if you put all that with the handful of hair the little girl was holding, it’s pretty powerful.”

  “Handful of hair?” A knot in my stomach churned to life. I had examined and studied my Post-it notes. Either I was slipping or there was no mention in any report about a handful of anything.

  “Consistent with Gabrielle Quinn’s.”

  I shrugged. Consistent meant nothing in a world where DNA ruled the day. “This is the twenty-first century and technology is our friend. What did the report say?”

  He looked down at his shoes, toed the carpeting, then smoothed it back into place. “The hair is lost, but we’ll find it. It was mislabeled or packaged incorrectly or something, but don’t worry. We have it somewhere.”

  My eyes widened and my mouth dropped. “You are out of your ever-loving-tobacco-chewing-red-neck-mind if you think that’s getting anywhere near a courtroom.”

  “We have pictures.”

  “Try getting them past me.” There had to be more. Something that definitively pointed to Mrs. rather than Mr. Quinn. “Why not dad? You can’t tell me you’re just relying on his undying love for the little girl to save his skin and put Gabrielle away.”

  “I’ve known him my entire life.”

  “So what? Just because he was your kindergarten BFF doesn’t mean he didn’t grow up bad. If she was driving mom batty, what’s to say dad didn’t jump over the edge?” I walked my index and middle finger over my other palm and “jumped” them off while emitting a low whistle.

  “She went to a counselor, parenting classes, was treated for postpartum depression.” He wiped his hands back and forth against one another as he wiggled his head quickly from one side to the other. His lips twitched from side to side.

  “When?”

  “What?” He narrowed his eyes and moved closer to me.

  “When was she treated for depression?”

  “Right after Emily was born.” The cocky prosecutor, convinced of his own invincibility, disappeared and a slightly confused, less than confident first year lawyer stood in his place.

  “Three years before her daughter’s death she was depressed, which happens to one in four women.” I might have exaggerated my knowledge of that particular statistic, but I would have the correct numbers researched, committed to memory, and testified to if I needed it. “Come on, Blane. You have absolutely nothing.”

  He nodded. “That’s right. I don’t have forced entry. I also don’t have any evidence that anyone except this woman killed the girl.”

  “You don’t have evidence that she did either.” I left him in the bathroom and walked across the hallway to the first door, closest to the parents’ room. Expecting it to be the little girl’s room, my thoughts screeched to a halt when I found it heavy with video games. Sports memorabilia hung on the walls and bright colored paint glared in the green and brown of a baseball diamond. I stepped inside and picked up a photo of the little boy with his arms wrapped around his parents’ waists. The picture, recent because of his size and approximate age, showed three fourths of a happy smiling family. At the bottom, the hand of the fourth member was visible as she clawed up her father’s leg.

  I tucked the picture close to my chest and made my way to a desk where a notebook sat open. Spelling words written over and over. I flipped a few pages and found a drawing. It was easy to pick out mommy and daddy. They towered over the little boy in the picture. I turned another page, then another, and five more. Each picture was the boy with his parents, but the sixth picture included the little girl. The whole family had dark red Xs for eyes. Gone were the sunshine and flowers he had drawn on the others. This one had a scribbled black background.

  “Blane!” I shouted louder than necessary and jumped when I turned to find him leaning against the doorframe. “Is this still a crime scene?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I nodded. “Good. My client asked me to bring her a couple things.” The lie rolled right off my tongue as I tucked the notebook in with the picture and lifted my head. More important than what I decided to take, I could come and go as I pleased. “I want to see the little girl’s room.”

  I backed away from the desk, then shuffled some of the clothes inside an open closet as he walked away. Nothing extraordinary jumped out at me, but something niggled, something I should see that I couldn’t put my finger on.

  “Are you coming?” His voice echoed from the hallway.

  I took a quick glance at the door, whipped out my cell, and snapped a photo of the closet. Something about it…

  A moment later, I stood behind Blane in the little girl’s room--about half a size smaller than her brother’s. Nothing had changed from the crime scene photos, but I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed. Damn. It wasn’t like I expected to find the murder weapon, or a glaring sign flashing the killer’s name in bright red neon, or even dull blue Crayola, but it would have been nice. I looked up at Blane and shrugged as I sat back on my heels. “Is this the only room where they found blood?”

  He nodded. “There wasn’t so much as a drip anywhere else in the house. Not the basement, garage, cars, or anywhere else.”

  “Did you check her shower drain?”

  He nodded. “Nothing.”

  “So again, why her mother?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t have to explain it to you, Grace.”

  “I know.” I stood up and walked to the closet. The door was open, a simple sliding wooden panel on a metal frame, revealing more lacy dresses and shoes than any other little girl’s closet I’d ever seen. I pulled a couple out and examined the price tags still attached. “Wow. For not liking her, they bought her some fancy stuff.”

  “Hello?” Rory’s voice floated up the stairs a couple of seconds before she appeared in the doorway.

  Chapter 11

  Rory frowned, the grim set of her lips betraying the strength in her voice. Being here, in this house, couldn’t be easy for her. “I went to your office, Blane. We had a meeting scheduled for that city council thing. Your secretary said you were here with Grace.”

  He checked his watch. “Damn, Rory. I forgot. Grace wanted to see the crime scene.”

  “And we all know how important it is to give your opponent the guided tour.” Rory didn’t smile, instead her brow creased and she pressed her lips together. “Well, I’m here now. I’m sure the county has more important things for you to concentrate on. I’ll give Grace a ride back.”

  She put her body between ours, and suddenly the room became crowded.

  He nodded once, shot me a squinted look, and left.

  With the click of the front door latch, she wheeled to face me. “Grace, what are you doing?”

  “I just spent the last hour hearing his case, and he doesn’t have one.”

  She shook her head. “He has one, some ace up his sleeve he isn’t going to play until the jury is watching. This”--she waved an arm around the room--“is about illusions and misdirection, smoke and mirrors. Whatever you think he gave you is bullshit. He doesn’t play fair.”

  I shrugged. Neither did I. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “So what are we doing here?”

  “Looking around.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. Something isn’t right. What do you know about Nathan Quinn?”

  She shook her head and walked to lean against the dresser. “Regular guy. Works in a factory. Goes to church on Sundays.” She crossed her arms. “He’s lived here since he was a kid and everybody knows him.”

  “Do people like him? Is he trustworthy?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything to indicate otherwise.”

  Something about the man gave me a bad feeling in my stomach. “I really want to know why her and not him. He has no alibi either, and he found the body, or claimed to. He arrived home at the same time she did.” I gauged Rory’s reaction. “And I found this
.” I opened the boy’s notebook to the page with the drawing that had me take the book, then snapped it shut. I couldn’t decide if it meant anything or not and there was no point in drawing her further in until I knew for sure. “Never mind. Let’s get out of here. I’ve seen enough for now, and I want to go over the crime scene reports.”

  She looked at the picture in my hands. “You taking that to Gabrielle?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I thought she might need a little something. She couldn’t come back here after….” Plus the picture bothered me on some level that had me staring at it as I followed Rory downstairs and out the front door.

  We left the house in the same condition as Blane and I found it, minus the items I’d taken from the boy’s room. On the drive back, Rory kept one eye on the road and one on me. She pulled up in front of the office and gasped. “Holy shit. What the hell?”

  “What?”

  I followed the direction of her gaze to my car. Flat tires. Every window busted. Burn in Hell spray-painted on the side. And right across the street from the police station.

  “For the love of God!” My shriek bounced around the interior of her car and back at me with piercing clarity.

  I bounded out of her SUV and over to my poor Nissan.

  “Grace? You okay?”

  I ignored her, stomped across the street, and flung the door open. It crashed against the brick front and rattled, but the glass stayed intact. The young man behind the information sign pulled his feet off the desk and sat up straight. “Can I help you, miss?”

  “Yeah. You can tell me how my car, sitting on the street right across from you, could be vandalized.” I picked up the community copy of Bikes and Babes and flung it behind me. “Who the frick is the sheriff around here?”

  Jamie walked around the corner, all dressed in black from his T-shirt to his cargo pants, and I sucked in a breath.

  “That would be me.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” He shook his head, and I aimed a serious stink-eye at him. “You’re the sheriff?”

  He raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  “And it didn’t occur to you to mention it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Actually, it does now.” I grabbed his arm and dragged him outside. Three steps toward my car, my equilibrium jolted and I stumbled. He reached out and caught me around the waist. My stomach tingled where his fingertips burned through my shirt. As soon as my breathing leveled out, I jabbed a finger toward the opposite side of the street. “That’s my freaking car. And this morning, someone threw a rock through my apartment window.”

  The vandals in this town had no fear--probably no reason for it, since an arrest wouldn’t likely result from the damage. “What the hell kind of sheriff are you if this can happen right under your nose?” I’d reached my limit for patience.

  “Wait here.” He turned and left me gaping at the broken glass and spray-painted driver’s side. I knew enough not to touch the car, but whipped out my cell and took a couple pictures.

  Rory walked inside the building and came out a second later, tears streaming down her face. “Our office is trashed. They destroyed everything.”

  “Shit.”

  She had her ear pressed against her phone as she sobbed into it.

  I walked with a semi-calm fury to the office, flung the door open, and walked inside. “Oh.”

  No wonder Rory was devastated. Stuffing bits from every piece of furniture we owned lay about the room in piles of what looked like snow dotting the surfaces. Thousands of dollars worth of legal volumes laid in ruins, their spines torn apart, pages littering the floor. Papers and file folders covered every available space inside the office. I shut the door with a quiet click of the latch and walked back outside to stand next to a still sobbing Rory.

  Leaning against the trunk of my car, I waited for Jamie to return and Rory to get off the phone, or someone to pass by and throw a rotten tomato or two in my direction. Instead, passersby merely stopped passing and stood gawking.

  Blane, still in Armani, raced out of the front door of the police station and pulled me into his arms. “I’m sorry, Grace.” When I struggled to break free of his possessive and public grasp, he forced my head against his chest. “Don’t look.”

  “It’s not a dead body, Blane. It’s just a car.” And fortunately not one I loved.

  I’d left that one in a garage back in Illinois. This time, I extracted myself from his arms with more force than necessary at the same moment he loosened his hold and I stumbled backward. My heels hit the curb, and I landed in a cement plant holder. I sat down on the begonias, squashing them completely. Unfortunately, someone had recently watered them and wet mud soaked through my clothes to my ass. “Perfect.”

  I stood and brushed my hand across my backside, coming away with a handful of black potting soil. “Oh, enough already. I’m going home.” I turned and stalked my way through the growing crowd.

  “What about your car?” Blane called after me.

  “You can have it.”

  Ten minutes later, I slammed my apartment door behind me and headed straight for the shower. I wanted to start the entire day over again.

  After I ran the hot water cold, I stepped out and looked into the mirror. “Okay. So, Blane has something. Something big.” Not only did I not like to lose, I often talked to myself to make sure it didn’t happen. So far, so good. “What could it be?” I checked off the possibilities. “Is he hiding the murder weapon?” I shook my head. “No. Not enough shock value, but he’s definitely keeping something from me.” I smiled at my reflection through the fog on the mirror. “Okay, big boy. I do want a happy ending. Just not the one you have planned.”

  By the time the doorbell rang, I’d changed and torn all my Post-its off the wall. Holding the pile in my hand, I opened the door to find Jamie, still in uniform, on the other side. I narrowed my eyes and willed my traitorous heart to slow, my hands not to tremble, and my stomach to calm down. “What do you want?”

  “I came here to take a statement about the broken window and to let you know Blane made arrangements to get your car towed.”

  I left the door open and walked away.

  “I thought you were the save the damsel guy.”

  “He has his moments.”

  I shrugged and plopped down onto the sofa. “Well, there’s the window.” I pointed behind me, then handed him the note I’d left folded on the coffee table. “And here’s what was wrapped around the rock that broke it. I have nothing more to say about it.”

  He stood back. “Are you angry at me?” His eyes darkened and I looked away, concentrating on the peeling of my nail polish.

  “Well, sheriff, you seem a bit like a liar to me.”

  “I didn’t lie to you. I just didn’t tell you. That’s different.”

  Every syllable curved, and my heart pounded in my chest. Stop it. You’re mad at him.

  “To a liar, maybe. To me, it’s the same.” I shook the cobwebs out of my head and hardened my resolve to remain as pissy with him as I could. “Listen, Jamie, you have what you came for. Now shut the door on your way out, okay?”

  He nodded and almost made it to the door when he turned back to face me. “I didn’t lie to you, Grace. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  He walked out, and I sat on the sofa for a full ten minutes before I moved again. Brothers, both on the wrong side of my fence. Not that I would substitute one for the other, but what were the odds? I had a sudden hankering to Google identical twins. I wanted to see if anyone had ever thought to do a study to determine if their attractions to women mirrored one another as much as their looks, or if this thing with me had more to do with the underlying rivalry between these specific brothers. My attraction made perfect sense. They were identical.

  I shook off the thoughts and grabbed my purse. If the inner offices were as destroyed as the reception area, Rory would need help cleaning it up. I couldn’t spy on Blane until later, so I hea
ded down the street to pitch in.

  She sat in the middle of the floor surrounded by file folders and crumpled papers. A thick binder full of untouched papers sat open in her lap. Not a single piece inside had been threatened, shredded, or marked in any way. “What’s that?”

  She shrugged and slapped the lid closed. “A file I put together on Kyle’s case and on the McCaferty case. I was on my game then, and I thought maybe if I read through this, reread it, I’d be able to figure out how I missed all those clues in the beginning, how they pulled such an elaborate scheme on me.”

  “Rory.” I sat beside her and took the binder, then flipped through a couple of pages. Intimidated by her absolute legal prowess, I shut the book and looked over at her.

  “Grace, five years ago, I was a good lawyer. I had faith in what I did and who I was.”

  I nodded, unwilling to break eye contact until she’d gotten this all out. I would wait to tell her that skills like hers didn’t fade or go away. She’d simply lost confidence in them.

  “Today, I wanted on Gabby’s case so bad. I came in here and this binder”--she took back the five inches of legal pleadings and evidence photos, along with details and hand-written notes about the McCafferty case--“sat waiting for me. You know where it was?”

  I shook my head.

  “On my desk. Undisturbed.” She smoothed a hand over the cover. “Just like this.” She stood and paced. “They wanted me to find it, Grace, to remind me nothing good can come from fighting for this woman. And you know what? That pisses me off.”

  “So, what now?” I bit my lip. The Rory spark danced in her eyes as she regained some of what her ex-husband’s case and the one mentioned in the binder had taken from her.

  “I think we go see your client. Something’s going on here that’s bigger than Gabrielle Quinn.” She bent down, picked up a bunch of papers, then tossed them onto the desk. “Let’s figure out what it is.”

  Chapter 12

  When we arrived, Nathan Quinn sat across from his wife at a visitor’s table. His fists were clenched atop the table, and he spoke quietly but through gritted teeth. I couldn’t make out the words, but his anger glowed through his posture and the glare he directed at her. He jerked his gaze toward us when we approached, and I took a seat next to Gabrielle. Rory remained standing at the edge of the table. Gabrielle looked up, her eyes rimmed in red, her nose running.