Hard Silence (3 page)

He did that a lot—observed, or at least it felt like he did, because he was always looking at
her
. And he was always talking to her. The residents of Fiddler saw her every day, so they knew to expect the silence. Visitors generally avoided her altogether. But Jeff had become a hybrid of resident and visitor.

Rather than making Abby nervous, it made her feel normal. He never finished her sentences, and he didn’t treat her like she was stupid. He just stood beside her and talked in his silky drawl and exuded the warmth she’d come to associate with only him.

And just when she got used to seeing him, actually looked forward to it, he left—went back to his life in Chicago. Just like he was going to do again. Just like he should.

She turned and kicked a piece of gravel into the grass, only to retrieve it and toss it back into the driveway. The wind rustled through the trees, the chickens clucked, and Jane’s bell clanged as she munched on the sweet grass near the barn. Farther away, up the hill, Jeff’s door squeaked before banging closed.

Toby lifted his head toward the noise, and Abby followed his gaze.

“He’s going to be our neighbor, Toby,” she whispered. “But not for long. We’ll stay on our side of the river and he’ll stay off the List.” She brushed her hands on her jeans. “You help me remember that, all right?”

* * *

At the end of the day full of neighbors, animal rescue, and working on clients’ websites, Abby dropped into her favorite, worn chair on her back porch. Evening descended as bird songs melted into the thrum of frogs and the chirping of crickets. A whip-poor-will called for its mate and finally, when all seemed lost, got a far-off reply.

Despite her reluctance this morning, she’d been proud to have Jeff here, proud he could see the things she’d built over the years. Like this porch, which was now weathered and creaky but still solid. It looked like it had been original to the house. Beau would be pleased with her carpentry skills.

The sun turned tangerine, and night air took its first sharp bite. Beau’s ghost had stayed with her all day and now it brought a nostalgic mood with it. Abby let her memories free. She’d built all sorts of things on his workbench, standing on a stepstool he’d made just for her. Was it still there, used by whoever now owned the house in Virginia? Or had they chopped it into kindling?

She’d wanted to take it with her, but Wallis had hauled her from bed in the middle of the night and told her to pack. Then they’d gone outside and... Abby slammed the door on that closet in her brain, but other memories, later memories, seeped through.

After Kentucky, after four deaths in six years, they’d headed south to avoid suspicion. South. Mosquitoes, sand, sticky air and fishing.

A great little lake for fishing.
Isn’t that what Jeff had said this morning? Fishing. She’d been ten when Wallis had married Ron, and Abby’s new stepfather had taught her how to fish in the lake adjoining his property. They’d spent hours on the bank under the shade of large trees. He’d told her wild stories until her cheeks had ached from giggling.

She picked up her food and held the door for Toby, following him into the house. He curled onto his pillow with a sigh while she put everything in the refrigerator. The half-empty jar of jam reminded her that she’d have to trade eggs to Jean Miles for more.

In her office, Abby sent an email to Jean, checked her inbox, and made a list of new projects. Somewhere between appointments, chores, clients, therapy sessions, and photography jobs, she needed to design the calendar for the animal therapy program and finish her donations and the preparations for the Humane Society fundraiser.

It would leave her with time for a hike later in the week and maybe a few hours to work with the shelter dogs. She needed to see which could be trained as service dogs for use in the veterans’ outreach program.

Her gaze roamed across the calendar. Almost every hour was filled in for the week. It was going to be another row of long, busy days. Her eyes drooped as she rubbed her aching feet. What it would be like to have a day off, a lighter load?

No. It did her no good to think about it. She hadn’t chosen that life. She had a job only she could do.

Abandoning her calendar, she climbed into the attic and pulled the box from the corner. Keeping her back to the wall and one eye on the crawl space door, she searched for the correct notebook and the right page. Once she’d found it, she carried the records downstairs.

Over the years, it had become more difficult to write the letters. Forensic developments dictated changes in her process and, after mailing so many, she’d begun to believe no one would ever listen.

Until Beau.

She had to keep trying.

One part of her process had remained simple. The actual text never changed.

The first, to the Franklin County, Alabama, sheriff was completed from memory.
Ron Thomas’s body is buried in The Dismals, under the large tree next to Temple Cave
.

The second, to the Tunica, Mississippi, postmaster was brief.
Please post this for mailing
.

Wallis had met Ron, Abby’s third stepfather, in Tunica, Mississippi, so his letter needed to be postmarked there. She kept hoping someone would put it together. Ron gambled in Tunica, the letter came from Tunica—maybe they’d read the letter and search harder. Maybe they’d find Wallis and Ron’s marriage license at the county records office.

Last summer, the printer repairman had given Abby a lesson on humidity and protecting her paper. He’d also given her a large sealed bag to keep it dry. Now it protected paper from fibers, hair, and trace evidence. She laid out her latex gloves, hairnet, distilled water, and a sponge. No DNA, no fingerprints, no minerals from the water. The letter to the sheriff was addressed and stamped, then slid inside the envelope to the postmaster, which was also addressed and stamped.

Finished, she sealed the package in a sandwich bag. She’d drive to Baxter early in the morning and mail it.

Someone would pay attention.

Chapter Two

Jeff woke and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, disoriented by the silence and by the large bed with the squishy mattress, mountains of pillows, and colorful quilt. Idaho. He was in Idaho.

He struggled from his down-filled nest and walked into the bathroom, the floorboards squeaking with every step until he reached cool tile and bright lights. Thankfully the shower was easy to operate, the water was hot, and the spray was just this side of painful. By the time he was done, dripping a puddle onto the bath mat, he was awake enough to rummage through his toiletry kit for a comb and scissors. He looked in the mirror and a droopy-eyed reflection stared back. He wasn’t awake enough to
use
the scissors.

Coffee. He needed coffee.

After mopping the water from the floor and hanging his towels to dry, he put on sweats and a T-shirt and padded down the hall. The house was a warren of hallways and small rooms that kept the interior dark and cool. It reminded him of his grandparents’ home, where he’d played hide-and-seek with his sisters.

The pictures in the hallway caught his attention. The Simons looked like a nice family. A large, multi-generational clan who loved to spend time together. Much like his own.
That one’s Christmas. Maybe the grandchild’s first one, given her lack of hair. Is it a she? Hard to tell in those clothes. Oh yeah. See that one. Birthday cake. Candle. She had curls now, and icing was smeared through them. First birthday. Granddaughter’s first birthday. Not that long ago, given the mother’s haircut and clothing.

Jeff shook his head. They weren’t crime scene photos, but he was treating them like a case. Profiling his hosts.

“Get a grip, Crandall.” Jeff’s admonition echoed through the empty house. He abandoned the photos and went into the kitchen.

The house was in mid-remodel and the kitchen had been updated and expanded so that it, the dining room, and the den were one large space. A wide expanse of windows provided a view of the valley. Jeff admired it while his coffee brewed.

Past the wide porch with Cape Cod blue newel posts was a yard like the one he’d played in growing up in Tennessee. The house was surrounded by foundation plants, which gave way to the lawn, which stopped at the shrubs and the fence line, and beyond that was a sea of fescue.

The tall grass glinted in the pink sunrise and rippled in the early morning breeze, sweeping over the hill toward the river. His gaze followed the waves to Abby’s ranch, dark except for the security light bathing the front yard in a sterile glow. Another light shone over the stable doorway.

A truck bounced up her driveway, the lights swinging drunkenly. The garage door opened. She was out early for a Sunday. He checked the time. Out late, maybe? There were plenty of times he’d dragged home at dawn after a wild night.

How did that jive with the woman he’d found standing at his fence yesterday? Much like then, he poured his coffee and stared at the mangled shrub, half wishing to find her there with her long ponytail, tight jeans, and the baggy shirt he could see down when she bent over.

He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the basket she’d given him yesterday. Cutting a thick slice of bread, he spread it with butter and jam before taking a healthy bite. Crumbs fell into the sink as he relished the smooth, rich butter and the sweet bite of the strawberries. Did someone who cooked like this, who worried about his groceries, party until daybreak?

She was a study in contrasts, quiet but able to speak volumes with one glance. Shy but funny. Hardworking but worried about getting his handkerchief dirty. Stubborn but softhearted. Imprisoned by bars made out of one-syllable words.

She managed to escape using Toby, or a horse, a cow, or even a cup of coffee. Without them, she floundered.

Could he help her? Should he try? All he ever dealt with were criminals and killers. It might be a nice challenge to work on something that didn’t involve a body.

Jackass.
He would have enough challenges doing what he was paid to do, finishing a job and getting home and back to his caseload. If he wasn’t going to write, he could have stayed in Tennessee where his mother had cooked his favorite food and his aunt had brought him ready-made dates. Small-town girls with their own rules, ones that included marriage and babies and family dinners.

Despite her silence, Abby was just like them. And he avoided girls like that. Too many headaches.

Turning his back on the view, he strode down the hall and past the steep stairs that led to the second floor. The formal living room was almost obsessive in its neatness. The white carpet didn’t even have footprints in the pile. However, the formal dining room had been repurposed for a study. Judging by the color scheme and the photos, it was Hank Simon’s domain. And for a while, it would be Jeff’s.

He sat in the wooden office chair, kicked his feet onto the desk, and looked at shelves full of books that didn’t belong to him, trophy fish he hadn’t caught, and plaid curtains.

After starting his laptop, he lifted his binder full of notes from the nearest chair and found where he’d left off yesterday afternoon. The cursor blinked.

“Dammit all to hell.” He put both feet on the floor and typed the two words that had been lurking in the back of his mind since he’d left Abby yesterday.
Selective mutism
.

Capable of speech but doesn’t speak to certain people or in certain situations.
Bingo.
He flipped to a clean page in his notebook, picked up a pencil, and listed Abby’s symptoms.

OCD. Everything was in order. You could eat off the floor in her stable. And yesterday had been the first time he’d seen her rumpled and out of sorts.
Check.

Intelligent. Her eyes crackled with it.
Check.

It could be tied to shyness, but that didn’t sound right. She was quiet around people she’d known for years. She was more at ease with him, most of the time.

Another possibility was social anxiety. Fear of rejection didn’t ring true. People in Fiddler loved her. But fear of not being good enough? That could be. Her best friend Maggie could buy the state of Idaho, and she did spend most of her time with the Junior League crowd.

He read further. She could have been treated as a child. Why hadn’t her parents insisted? Where were her parents, anyway?

Without treatment, her silence would have become self-fulfilling. The longer she’d gone without speaking, the more difficult it had become. He looked at all the forms of the disorder, and only two fit—symbiotic and reactive.

Symbiotic mutism indicated a controlling parent, usually a mother. Since Abby’s mother wasn’t around, that wasn’t a relationship he could observe. The other indication was a child manipulating their environment and the people in it. Many people used silence strategically, benefitting from the bribes others gave to make them talk, garnering attention. But that didn’t make sense. Abby went out of her way to stay invisible and independent.

However, silence was also an effective method of pushing people away, of isolating yourself. Living out here would reinforce that behavior. She was so busy farming she only had time for friends on her terms.

Reactive mutism made him nauseous. He imagined Abby as a child, with pigtails and serious eyes. Surely no one had hurt her. Maggie would know. Gray would have said something.

He stood and paced the room, stopped and stared out the window. The drive was lined with evergreen trees. Blooming dogwoods sparkled in the sunshine. His mother loved dogwoods. He should call her before she started to worry.

He refilled his coffee and walked outside, inhaling deeply as he slid his earpiece into place. He calculated the time difference and how long it
should
have taken him to get here. If he’d driven exactly the speed limit and only for eight-hour days. Yesterday would have been too early. This morning was possible.

He dialed his mother’s number.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Jeff! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry. I just wanted to let you know I got here.”

“Just now? You made good time.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He cringed at the lie, but if he told her the truth she’d worry.

“You must’ve left Billings early. Did you get enough—”

“Don’t worry,” he repeated. “How’s everything there?”

His mother launched into the rapid-fire gossip delivery she’d developed over years of rushing details between demands on his time. Jeff listened the way he’d learned to do, plucking facts from the stream like fish. Her upcoming retirement, his grandparents, his sisters, their husbands, his nephew. “Jason cries every time Clay leaves the house. He wants to go with his daddy. You were like that. Remember?”

“Yes.” Sometimes he wondered how much he actually remembered and how much he recalled from her repeated stories. And the stories grew more frequent in the spring. God knew his own thoughts grew repetitive and wistful as the anniversary of his father’s death approached. “How’s Cass?”

“Wild as a March hare. I’m not sure what to do with her. None of the rest of you came home from college like that.”

Ruth had met Clayton in college; Janice, the bookworm, had gone straight from undergrad to grad school; and he’d gone right from college to grad school to Quantico. All three of the older Crandall siblings had been eager to make their old man proud of them, even if he’d never see it. As the only one of them without memories of their father, Cass had always been her own person.

“I’ll talk to her.”

“She won’t listen, but you can try. Thank you, dear. Are you sure you’ll be okay? Have you seen your house?”

“I’m standing in the yard now, waiting to unpack. It’s a huge farmhouse, with a great big yard and dogwoods lining the drive. I won’t even need the upstairs. It’s quiet, and there’s a porch where I can write and get some fresh air when I need it.”

“Won’t you get lonely?”

He sighed. If he were eighty and she were a hundred, he’d still be her little boy. “Gray and Maggie are, like, ten minutes away. And I have a neighbor within range if I fall and can’t get up.”

The squeal and slap of Abby’s screen door drew his gaze to her yard. She was already halfway to the stable, down to check on Butcher, no doubt. Toby stayed at her heels. Was her shoulder better today? Did she need help with the horse, or with chores? Should he check?

You aren’t here to be a farmhand. Not even a neighbor, really.

But he was a neighbor, and she needed help. Whether she’d ask for it or not.

“Son, are you conducting surveillance on your neighbor?”

“What?” He looked over his shoulder at his mother’s question, half expecting to see her behind him.

“I’ve asked you the same question twice without an answer.” Her laughter didn’t help his embarrassment.

“No. I’ve just realized the time. I need to get ready for church.”

“Church? Thomas Jefferson! Did you say the c word?”

“I’m not a heathen. I think I can go to church without lightning striking. Besides, it’s sort of a thing here. Church, Sunday lunch, and sleepy afternoons.”

“Before you go,” she said, her glee vanishing, “the district attorney called. Kyle Davis is up for parole. They want me to go to the hearing at the end of the week.”

“Do you want me to come home and go with you?”

“No. I’ve been thinking.” Her voice thinned and shrank. “It’s been over twenty years.”

After years of looking out for her, he recognized the reluctant tone. What was wrong with her? There was no time limit on what Davis and his friends had taken from them. “You have to go. Take Ruthie with you.” He’d text his sister and make sure she had it covered. Kyle Davis should never see the light of day.

“He didn’t even pull the trigger, Jeff. He was just behind the wheel.”

“He was
there
,” he spat.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it. Go to church, and be sure and tell Gray hello. Love you.”

Jeff exhaled a shaky breath. “Love you too, Mama. Talk to you next week.”

* * *

He was still shaky and tense an hour later as he stood at the back of the little Methodist Church. Chatter bounced and echoed from the slate floor and stucco walls, and sunlight was fractured by leaded windows. The kaleidoscope of color and noise made him dizzy.

Glen Roberts, the chief of police, met him at the door. “It’s nice to see you again.” He lowered his voice. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

One of my father’s murderers is up for parole and my mother wants to let him have it just because he didn’t pull the trigger.
Jeff looked over the man’s shoulder and saw several concerned stares. A few of the conversations ended so they could hear his answer. His students didn’t pay this much attention to what he said.

The last time he’d been in Fiddler he’d testified against the woman who had killed a beloved resident and had almost killed Maggie Harper. He might not know all the congregants’ names, but they knew him and they were worried his scowl meant more trouble.

Loosening his jaw, he took a deep breath and faked a smile. “I’m on sabbatical to re-write classroom material,” he said, speaking loud enough to be heard by the back rows. He knew word would travel fast. “Everything is fine. Maybe we could do some fishing while I’m out here.”

“I’d like that, thanks.” Glen clapped him on the shoulder before he moved away.

The group at the front of the church greeted him like the old friend he was becoming. He slid into Gray and Maggie Harper’s pew, taking the seat in the middle and his place in the conversations swirling around him.

Late arrivals claimed his attention. Abby stumbled to a stop and stared down at him before perching on the edge of the pew, nodding even though her mouth was set in a grim line.

“Hello, neighbor.” Jeff didn’t bother hiding his smile. It was perverse, but he enjoyed that look on her face—the color in her cheeks, the snap and crackle in her eyes—like she wanted to tell him off but the words were too big for her to say. It’s what kept him opening doors for her, what had kept him at the farm too long yesterday, and part of what kept him here, sitting in her usual spot. The other reason was something he’d never admit aloud.