Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [120]
On the porch I gently squeezed his forearm and said, “Detective, you have to let this one go.”
“No,” he said, his voice still hard, though I thought I caught a tinge of agony.
“Amanda’s right. There is no proof. And the Browns are too powerful. No one will ever believe us.”
“So you’re saying we should just walk away? That she’ll never have to pay for killing Giles Norton? That her mother should never have to account for those dead babies?”
I flinched at his words. “She’ll pay. And so will her mother. The babies and Giles will be given justice. Just not by us. Not in this lifetime.”
His face contorted with disgust. “You believe that crap? You really believe they will stand before some almighty God when they die and answer for this?”
“Yes,”
He slammed his fist against a wooden post. “Why? Give me one good reason why you believe that.”
I thought for a moment, knowing that nothing I would say would satisfy him right now, but gave him the only answer I had. “Because the alternative—that this is all there is, that they will get away with it—is too awful to comprehend.”
He shook his head, his face pale in the bright porch light. “That’s some fantasy world you’re living in, Benni Harper. Some pie-in-the-sky fantasy world for kids and dreamers.” He ran a hand over his face. “But I swear, there are times I wish I could join you.”
I touched his shoulder. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”
He turned back to contemplate the fancy, carved front door. “That is the only thing you’ve said in the last ten minutes I do believe.”
As we were pulling out of the driveway, the front door opened, and Cappy stepped out on the front porch. At first her face was hidden in the shadows. She moved, and for a moment I could see her full face in the hazy evening light. Her hand reached up and touched her throat. Was that despair in her expression? Sadness? Regret? I still wanted to think so. I truly wanted to believe it was. In the truck’s side mirror, I watched her standing alone, still as a granite sculpture, until we turned the corner and she disappeared.
On the way back, we were both quiet. When I opened my purse for some tissue, I spotted the small tape recorder I had bought to fool Detective Hudson. It hadn’t even occurred to me to turn it on. Then again, maybe it was illegal, maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. Things happened in the way they were supposed to happen. She has had to and will have to live with what she’d seen and done her entire life and, if I truly believed what I told the detective, for all eternity. I closed my purse and stared out the window.
When we hit the city limits, the detective started to say something, stopped, cleared his throat and tried again. “What I said to Mrs. Brown, I meant. I’m not giving up on this case.” His knuckles were white on the truck’s steering wheel.
“I didn’t think you would.”
He cleared his throat again, keeping his eyes on the road. “So, if I needed, say, someone to help me. Research and stuff. I mean, since no one else knows about this but you and me . . .”
“Yes, Detective, I’ll help you.”
He smiled to himself. “Good.”
“I’ve been thinking,” I said. “If I were to get a bunch of people together like the folk art museum board, the Historical Society, the Cattlewomen’s Association, maybe some children’s rights groups, and all the wineries in San Celina County, and we organize a yearly benefit ball to help abused children, would you get the Sheriff’s Department involved?”
He laughed