Dead Right (Stillwater Trilogy #3)(15)
Author: Brenda Novak

“Let’s not make her come,” Irene said, gripping Madeline’s arm.

Chief Pontiff glanced up again, and Madeline knew, without his having to say a word that he’d insist on it. He required Grace to confirm what Madeline had, after several shocked minutes, told him. “I’m afraid it’s important.”

“Then I need Clay,” her stepmother said. “Grace will need him, too.”

“I’d rather save him this,” Madeline argued, but it was too late. Irene had hurried over to one of the empty desks and helped herself to a phone.

Madeline considered asking her to hang up but was actually relieved that Clay would be joining them. At the very least, maybe he’d take care of Irene until Madeline could come to grips with all of this.

The door opened and Grace’s husband, Kennedy Archer, walked in, holding her hand. He had on one of the tailored suits he wore to work, while Grace was dressed more casually in jeans, Ugg boots and an attractive sweater. A pair of sunglasses hid her eyes despite the season and the inclement weather.

She’s marshalling her defenses. She knows something’s up. Suddenly, Madeline was very reluctant to see what would happen next.

Kennedy said a brief hello, although his cautious manner with Grace revealed his concern. Grace nodded in their direction but said nothing.

“Kennedy, Grace. Thanks for coming down.” Pontiff had walked over the second he saw them and was now shaking hands with Kennedy. He offered Grace his hand as well, but she’d caught sight of the articles on the paper-lined table and didn’t respond.

“What’s the problem?” Kennedy asked, his voice low and guarded.

Pontiff explained that these items had been found in the Cadillac as he motioned them closer. Grace allowed her husband to lead her, but her skin looked taut across her elegant bones.

After a moment, she swayed as if she might pass out, and Madeline stepped up to take her hand. Irene remained near the door, muttering something about Clay.

“Do you recognize any of these objects?” Chief Pontiff asked.

Kennedy went rigid. “Grace?” he murmured, and there was a world of intimacy and love in the way he said her name.

She shook her head as Pontiff pointed at the suitcase. She did the same when he indicated the dildo, the rope and the panties. But when he reached the ones with the monkey, she finally spoke. “Those were mine.”

Panic crowded so close Grace could hardly breathe. She’d known this would be agonizing. But she’d had no idea how much worse it’d be with Madeline looking on. Chief Pontiff watched, too, his expression shuttered. Even Officer Radcliffe, who stood off to the side pretending to file, was taking careful note.

Their future depended on the next few minutes—and her ability to be convincing even though she was drowning in a sea of painful memories.

“Do you know how your panties came to be in the trunk of the Cadillac?” Pontiff asked.

“No.” She wished she had the strength to remove her sunglasses and meet his gaze directly. She’d coached enough witnesses to know how to enhance credibility. But she couldn’t do it. Kennedy’s hand, holding hers tightly, reminded her that what she saw on the table was her life then, and he and their children were her life now. It was the only thing that kept her from falling apart. He was determined to get her through this. She could feel him willing her to endure and to triumph. For everyone’s sake.

Don’t let your stepfather win. Don’t let him. He said that whenever the past began to encroach on her happiness. And, so far, it had worked.

Silently, she promised she wouldn’t disappoint him and ignored the terrible stabbing sensation she remembered so clearly, along with the stench of her stepfather’s breath, his eager grunts and groans, the flash of the camera when she was in the most vulnerable positions a girl could be in.

Pontiff spoke again. “No one ever used the rope or, um, the—any of these items to hurt you in any way?”

A bead of sweat rolled between her shoulder blades.

Madeline squeezed her arm as if to say it didn’t matter, that nothing would change if she answered in the affirmative. But Grace knew that wasn’t true. Summoning more strength—from where, she had no idea—she managed to add a scoffing tone to her voice. “Of course not.”

“No one…touched you inappropriately when you were a girl?” Pontiff repeated.

She lifted her chin. “Who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” he replied.

Suddenly, the door burst open and Clay charged in, his thick black hair standing up in front as if he’d shoved his hand through it so many times it would no longer lie flat.

Grace was mortified to think her brother would see what was on the table. He knew, of course, but knowing and actually seeing some of the implements of Barker’s torture were two completely different things. Clay already felt guilty for the fact that he hadn’t realized sooner, hadn’t protected her. This would make his guilt even more intense.

He looked at each person. Then, when his gaze landed on the items arranged on the table, his jaw tightened and his blue eyes glittered with dark emotion. “What’s going on?”

While Kennedy explained, Grace was afraid that Clay wouldn’t be able to control his reaction. The graying pallor of his skin told her how tortured he was by the mere thought of what she’d been through, and worry for him somehow made it easier for her to cope with her own pain.

“Someone must’ve stolen my underwear,” she said when Kennedy was through. “But I have no idea when or how. Or who might’ve owned these other pairs.” That last part was true. As far as she knew, she’d been her stepfather’s only victim. So what did this underwear signify? That there were more?

The possibility of others having suffered as she’d suffered sent a chill down her spine. But she steeled herself against it. She’d think about that later. She couldn’t add anything else to what she was feeling right now.

“I used to hang all our laundry on the clothesline,” her mother volunteered from the periphery. Considering Irene’s present state of mind, it was a worthy attempt at an explanation. They’d been so poor they hadn’t had a dryer. But worthy or not, her mother seemed dangerously close to losing her composure. Grace feared that if Clay didn’t give them away, Irene would.

Throwing back her shoulders, she pulled off her sunglasses. “Right. Which meant they were available to just about anyone. I’m guessing whoever collected these—” she motioned toward the table and fought to assume her professional persona, hoping no one could tell how badly she was quaking inside “—was in the fantasy stage.”