Lisa Gardner - The killing hour

“Kimberly,” Mac said abruptly as if reading her thoughts, “you know that this won’t bring your mother or sister back, don’t you? That no matter how many murderers you hunt down, none of it changes the fact that your family is still dead, and you still didn’t save them in time?”

“I’ve been to their graves, Mac. I know how dead they are.”

“And you’re just a rookie,” he continued relentlessly. “You know nothing about this guy, you’re not even fully trained. Your efforts probably won’t make one iota of difference. Think about that before you throw away your career.”

“I want to go.”

“Why?”

She finally smiled at him, though she knew the look must appear strained on her face. There was the million-dollar question. And honestly, there were so many answers she could give. That Watson had been right this morning, and nine weeks later she had no friendships or allegiances among her own classmates. In fact, the closest she’d come to feeling any loyalty was for a dead body she’d found in the woods.

Or that she did feel survivor’s guilt, and she was tired of holidays spent in fields of white crosses. Or that she had a morbid need to chase after death, having once felt its fingers brush across the nape of her neck. Or that she was her father’s daughter after all. No good with the living, desperately attached to the dead, particularly when the body bore such a startling resemblance to Mandy.

So many possible answers. She surprised herself then, by going with the one that was closest to the truth. “Because I want to.”

Mac stared at her a heartbeat longer, then suddenly, finally, nodded in the dark. “All right. Six A.M. Meet me in the front of Jefferson. Bring hiking gear.

“And Kimberly,” he added as they both rose. “Don’t forget your Glock.”

Albany, Georgia

1:36 A . M .

Temperature: 85 degrees

NORA RAY’S MOTHER WAS STILL WATCHING TV. She slumped on their old brown sofa, wearing the same faded pink bathrobe she’d worn for the past three years. Her short dark hair stood up around her face, gray showing at the roots, where it would remain until Nora Ray’s grandmother visited again and forcefully took her daughter in hand. Otherwise, Abigail Watts rarely moved from the sofa. She sat perfectly hunched, mouth slightly agape, eyes fixed straight ahead. Some people turned to booze, Nora Ray thought. Her mother had Nick@Nite.

Nora Ray still remembered the days when her mother had been beautiful. Abigail had risen at six every morning, fixing her hair in hot rollers and doing her makeup while her hair set. By the time Nora Ray and Mary Lynn made it downstairs for breakfast, their mother would be bustling around the kitchen in a nice floral dress, pouring coffee for their father, setting out cereal for them, and prattling away cheerfully until seven-oh-five on the dot, at which point she would grab her purse and head to work. She had been a secretary at a law firm back then. Not great money, but she’d enjoyed the job and the two partners who ran the place. Plus, it gave her an aura of prestige in the tiny blue-collar neighborhood where they lived. Working at a law firm… Now, that was respectable work.

Nora Ray’s mother hadn’t been to the office now in years. Nora Ray didn’t even know if she’d ever officially quit. More likely she’d walked out one day after getting a call from the police, and she’d never been back since.

The lawyers had been nice about it. They’d volunteered their services for a trial that never happened in a case where the perpetrator was never caught. They kept Abigail on the payroll for a while. Then they put her on a leave of absence. And now? Nora Ray couldn’t believe her mom still had a job after three years. No one was that nice. No one’s life stayed frozen for that long a period of time.

Except, of course, for Nora Ray’s family. They lived in a time warp. Mary Lynn’s room, painted sunshine yellow and lined with blue ribbons and horse trophies, remained exactly the same day after day. The last pair of dirty jeans she’d tossed in the corner were still waiting for an eighteen-year-old girl to come home and throw them in the wash. Her hairbrush, filled with long strands of brunette hair, sat on top of her dresser. A tube of pink lip gloss was half-opened next to the brush. Ditto the tube of mascara.

And still taped to the mirror above the dresser was the letter from Albany State University. We are proud to inform you that Mary Lynn Watts has been formally accepted into the freshman class of 2000…

Mary Lynn had wanted to study veterinary sciences. Someday she could work full-time saving the horses she loved so much. Nora Ray was going to become a lawyer. Then they would buy farms side by side in the country, where they could ride horses together every morning before reporting to their high-paying and no doubt highly rewarding jobs. That’s what they had talked about that summer. Giggled about, really. Especially that last night, when it had been so friggin’ hot, they had decided to head out for ice cream.

In the beginning, right after Nora Ray came home and Mary Lynn didn’t, things had been different. People stopped by, for one thing. The women brought casseroles and cookies and pies. The men showed up with lawn mowers and hammers, wordlessly attending to small details around the house. Their little home had hummed with activity, everyone trying to be solicitous, everyone wanting to make sure that Nora Ray and her family were all right.

Her mother had still showered and put on clothes in those days. Bereft of a daughter, she at least clung to the skeletal fabric of everyday life. She got up, put her hair in rollers, and started the pot of coffee.

Her father had been the worst back then. Roaming from room to room while constantly flexing his big, work-callused hands, a dazed look in his eyes. He was the man who was supposed to be able to fix anything. He’d built their deck one summer. He did odd jobs around the neighborhood to help pay for Mary Lynn’s horse camp. He painted their house like clockwork every three years and kept it the neatest one on the block.

Big Joe could do anything. Everyone said that. Until that day in July.

Eventually people stopped coming by so much. Food no longer magically appeared in the kitchen. Their lawn was no longer mowed every Sunday. Nora Ray’s mom stopped getting dressed. And her father returned to his job at Home Depot, coming home every night to join her mother on the couch, where they would sit like zombies in front of a score of mindless comedies, the TV spraying their faces with brightly colored images deep into the night.

While weeds took over their lawn. And their front porch sagged with neglect. And Nora Ray learned how to cook her mother’s casseroles while her own dreams of law school drifted further and further away.

People in the neighborhood whispered about them now. That sad family in the sad little house on the corner. Did you hear what happened to their daughter? Well, let me tell you…

Sometimes Nora Ray thought she should walk around with a scarlet letter attached to her clothes, like the woman in that book she’d read her senior year of high school. Yes, we’re the family that lost a daughter. Yes, we’re the ones who actually fell victim to violent crime. Yes, it could happen to you, too, so you’re right, you should turn away when we walk too close and whisper behind our backs. Maybe murder is contagious, you know. It’s found our house. Soon, it’ll find yours.

She never said these things out loud, however. She couldn’t. She was the last functioning member of her family. She had to hold it together. She had to pretend that one daughter could be enough.