Evidence of Life - By Barbara Taylor Sissel Page 0,84

in that moment seemed so defeated.

Abby saw his shoulders heave. She heard a small sound of distress, but that might have come from her. She was still holding Nick’s jacket and she lifted it to her face to stifle the noise.

Hank said something about Caitlin and the light she put on for Sondra in the window at home every night. “How can a mother do this to a kid who loves her like that?”

Abby thought he was addressing her, that he wanted an answer, but when she looked, Hank’s back was still turned, his forehead still pressed to the window. She wondered if he was crying, if she should go to him, if she could, but then suddenly he wheeled on her.

“What kind of—?” he began, but then his voice broke and before Abby could register his intention, he spun back to the window and drove his fist through the glass, shouting, “That fucking whore!”

The noise as the window shattered seemed to go on forever. As if in slow motion, Abby saw Hank pull his hand to his chest; she saw herself rise and cross the room to him. And then he was going down, folding, buckling, an injured animal run to ground, driven to its knees. She tried, but she couldn’t help him. She staggered in her attempt to brace him with her body. But she was too light. He collapsed to his side, drawing himself into a knot, good hand cradling the injured hand. She knelt and spoke his name. His gaze locked with hers, and she saw the anguish in his eyes and something else. Something manic and furious, a rage so profound that it shook her worse than the sight of his blood.

“Hold on,” she told him. She straightened, and using what mental strength she could muster, she went into the kitchen and found dish towels folded in a drawer. As she dampened the top one, she saw that it was hand-appliquéd with the patchwork figure of an old-fashioned girl in a bonnet hanging out the wash. Under her tiny feet, a lilting row of embroidery spelled: Laundry on Monday. It had probably belonged to Sondra’s grandmother, Abby thought. And then she thought: what a shame it will be ruined now, as if the loss of a vintage dish towel could matter.

She found tweezers in the bathroom, and back in the dining alcove, she knelt beside Hank again and grasped his elbow. “Can you sit up?”

He obeyed docilely, like a child. She set the damp towel to one side and draped a dry towel, Visit on Friday, over her forearm, waiter-style. He balanced his palm on it. Delicately, she picked out the slivers of glass she could see. Then, with the damp towel, she began dabbing at the wounds, applying gentle pressure. A jagged gash running roughly perpendicular to his knuckles was especially deep and continued to bleed each time she drew the cloth away. “I think you need stitches.”

He didn’t answer.

She began wrapping his hand in a fresh towel, leaving his fingers free, tucking the loose end near his wrist. Then, keeping his hand in both of hers, she squatted in front of him. His eyes were unfocused. His face was gray and beaded with sweat. What if he was going into shock? She felt pulled toward that edge herself, and she fought it. “Hank?” she said.

No response.

“We have to get you to a doctor. Can you stand up?” She slid her hand under his forearm.

He jerked his elbow as if her touch offended him. “I’m all right,” he said, and rising unsteadily to his feet, he went into the kitchen, leaving her to watch in disbelief as he unwrapped the bandage she’d made, turned on the tap, thrust his injured hand under the water and groaned.

* * *

Hank wouldn’t let Abby drive. He’d rewrapped his injured hand himself in a clean towel, Mending on Wednesday, and he used his left hand to steer. They were headed down the winding road. Toward Bandera, Abby guessed, although they hadn’t discussed where they were going. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse.

“I doubt you can get a signal this far out,” Hank said.

Abby punched in the Bandera County sheriff’s office number and hit send, but as Hank predicted, there was no reception.

“The local cops won’t find them anyway, if that’s who you’re calling, not if they’ve left the country.”

Abby looked at Hank. He was pale and haggard, but he seemed calmer now; he seemed all