Protector - Laurel Dewey [120]
“I know you’re not mad,” Emily said, spinning her tortilla chip slowly through the salsa. “I’m mad at myself. What’s happening to me?”
Jane looked at Emily and felt as though she were looking in the mirror. “Your mind is holding on to the memory of whatever you witnessed that night. But it’s like a curtain comes down to protect you when you start to see certain things.”
Emily thought for a second. “Did you see my mommy and daddy?”
Jane popped open a can of cola. “I didn’t go to the house that night when it happened.”
“So, you don’t know what they looked like?”
“I saw photographs,” Jane reluctantly offered, taking a sip of cola.
“They took pictures!” Emily was outraged.
“They have to take pictures. It’s, unfortunately, part of the procedure.”
“Where are the pictures?”
Jane hadn’t yet looked inside the Lawrence case envelope that Weyler gave her but she hoped the crime scene photos were not included. “The pictures are in a file cabinet at Denver Police Headquarters.”
“People just look at them?” Emily was incensed by the thought.
“They look at them so they can try and solve the case,” Jane said in a gentle tone.
“You saw them?” Jane nodded. “Did Mommy look frightened?” Emily’s throat caught.
Jane’s memory flashed on the brutality of Patricia Lawrence’s murder, with part of her eye cut out of her head. “Your mom looked peaceful. Like she was sleeping.”
Emily relaxed. She bought the lie and felt a bit more at ease. Jane removed her jacket to reveal her shoulder holster and Glock handgun.
“Do you have to wear that all the time?” Emily asked.
“Yeah,” Jane replied, laying the gun on the counter.
“You should hide it in another place. It’s summer. People are gonna wonder why you’re always wearing jackets.”
Jane knew the kid was right. These smalltown folks were sure to question her penchant for bulky jackets on a hot day. “Maybe I could tuck it in my jeans.”
“Or put it in your purse,” Emily added.
“I don’t own a purse.”
“How about a fanny pack?”
“Don’t have one of those either.”
“I bet they sell them in town.”
Jane agreed and passed a small notepad to Emily. “Make a note of it.” Jane looked down at her bandaged hand. “I probably should lose this. Between your bandage and mine, we look like the walking wounded.” Jane unwrapped her bandage.
“Shouldn’t you go to the doctor for that?” Emily asked.
“I can’t go to the doctor. And neither can you.”
Emily looked astonished. “But Kathy gave you that card—”
“I know,” Jane said. “But we can’t do it. It’s too risky. There’d be questions and I’m sure he’d ask for your medical records.”
“Who’s gonna take out my stitches?”
“You’re looking at her.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “Do you know how to do it?”
“Sure.”
Emily eyed Jane, full of skepticism. “Have you done it before?”
“No.”
“So, how do you know you can do it?”
“It can’t be that difficult. It’s gotta be like sewing, just in reverse.”
“Do you sew?”
“No. But I’ve seen people sew.”
“You’ve seen people cook, too.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “You have ten more days before they have to come out. It’ll be fine. Trust me.” With that, Jane unwound the last layer of her bandage and revealed her hand. It was slightly pale, but aside from a few small blisters, it was in fairly good shape. “I can take care of my hand and I can take care of your head.”
“Yeah,” Emily said, full of doubt. “You didn’t have any stitches in your hand.”
Jane and Emily divided the large chicken pot pie that the kid chose for dinner. By 9:30, Emily was tired and ready for sleep. After tucking her into her bed, Jane checked the lock on the front and back door, and walked down the hall to her bedroom. She slipped into a cotton nightshirt and propped some pillows on the bed. Dragging her leather satchel onto the bedspread, she lit a cigarette, pulled an ashtray onto the side table and lifted out the Lawrence case envelope from the satchel. Amidst