I was a minute processing that. “You’ve never mentioned his father before.” She gestured, like she would have taken the words back if they hadn’t already hit air. But they had, so I asked, “Does he know about this?”
She shook her head. “He’s not in the picture.”
“Should he be—I mean, helping with legal costs and all?”
“No. I’m good.” She folded her arms around her middle.
“Maybe—”
“I’m good.”
Words, body language—she was shutting me out. But I was her friend. Needing to get her talking, I asked, “Was Jay a help?”
“Yes.”
“He did this kind of work before he came here. He’s good at it. His name was the one I was given in case I ever needed help.”
She snuffed. “Like you’d ever need help.”
“We all do sometimes. It was a strong recommendation.” When she remained silent, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, I tried, “The town will support you. So will the Spa.”
The dimness didn’t hide her worry.
“Do you remember Ben Zwick being here?” I asked. “Did you ever work with him?”
“Jay said I shouldn’t talk.”
“This is me. I won’t say anything.”
“Not even under oath?”
She had a point. If I was ever subpoenaed—but I couldn’t go there, could not go there. Feeling helpless and angry at that, I said, “I want to help, Grace. What can I do?”
“Leave. You should leave.”
“You need someone here. Did you eat? You need to eat. So does Chris. I can make eggs or soup. I can stay the night and guard the door. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ve done it before.”
“No. Don’t make it worse, Maggie.”
I didn’t imagine how my being there could do that, but I had to respect her wishes. “Did they take your phone?” She gave a short nod. “Did Jay get you another?”
“A burner,” she said with a derisive snort and looked away.
“They’re used for privacy, Gracie,” I said, because I knew what she was thinking. Crooks used burner phones. But so did people who wanted protection from crooks. “I’ve used them.”
“When?” she shot back.
“When I was selling furniture on Craigslist and didn’t want to give out my personal number. Women use them for online dating.” My lawyer hadn’t had to give me one; Edward had done it. That was in the hours immediately after the accident, before the loss of our daughter had set in, before the anger, the resentment, the recrimination.
Grace said nothing.
Hoping that maybe, just maybe, what I said had helped a little, I added, “Are you sure I can’t stay?”
“I’m sure.”
“Will you call if you change your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Please. Even if it’s the middle of the night. I’ll keep my phone with me in bed. I’ll throw clothes on and drive right back here.”
She smiled sadly and, in a moment’s softening, said, “I won’t call, Maggie. I need to work this out myself. There’s nothing you can do.”
“Call. Or text. You have friends here.”
I thought I saw tears in her eyes and might have given her a hug if she hadn’t so quickly flipped the locks, opened the door, and shoved me out. I was wondering if she knew I would have put this off forever, when I was surrounded again, at which point wondering was pointless. Raising my hood against the cameras more than the cold, I kept my head down and rushed to my truck. When the occasional body stepped in the way, I either brushed it aside or went around it myself, and the whole time, the questions came. Does she have any comment—did she know what her son was doing—how long has she lived here—what does she say about the charges—is the boy suspended from school? They overlapped, repeated, and fought for my attention with increasing insistency, until I was in my truck with the door locked. Clutching the wheel for all it was worth, I backed around and, heart in my mouth, slowly, carefully, drove back down the narrow strip until the road opened and I could breathe.
* * *
Since Devon only delivered mail to houses in the center of town, I had to go to the post office for mine. Thanks to the media, I might have skipped it today. Driving under cover of darkness was different from driving around town in the light of day. I chanced it with the pottery studio, because the studio, clay, and Kevin were essential to my sanity. Besides, I went