A Cry in the Dark (Carly Moore #1) - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,32
she and my father had just had a knock-down, drag-out argument that had scared me. It was the first time they’d ever fought so brutally, and I’d hidden in the closet so they wouldn’t be able to find me. Only my mother had come looking. “Oh, Carly,” she’d said, pulling me to her, “don’t you worry. We’ll always have each other. You and me, we’re the heart of this home.”
If only it had been true.
“She sounds like a wise woman,” Ruth said, letting the engine idle. “Do you want to call her? I’ve got a workin’ landline.”
My mouth lifted into a tight smile. “Thanks for the offer, but she died when I was a kid.” That didn’t fit Charlene Moore’s purchased narrative, but my heart was too raw to pretend the mother whose death had destroyed me could be reached by a simple phone call. And I didn’t want to lie to Ruth any more than necessary.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I shrugged. “Water under the bridge.”
“I lost my mother a couple of years ago,” she said, then made a face. “Drugs. She’d lived her entire life clean, so nobody would have guessed she’d surrender herself to meth in her late forties. Men and alcohol had been her vices of choice.”
“I’m so sorry, Ruth.”
She bit her lower lip and studied the metal trailer in front of us. A soft light glowed through the curtain-covered front windows. “Just like you said, water under the bridge.”
She turned off the ignition and opened the car door. Something about the way she did it suggested the water under her bridge hadn’t traveled very far downstream.
I put my all into opening my own door, pleased when it unlatched on the first try. After I shut it, I followed Ruth up the rickety stairs to the front door.
She opened it without using a key and stepped to the side so I could walk in.
The interior furnishings were in better shape than the outside. The tan sofa looked worn but clean, and while the dark brown faux leather recliner was covered in cracks, the afghan draped over it made it look homey.
“It ain’t much,” she said as she shut the door and set her purse on a small oak kitchen table with white legs.
“I haven’t felt so at home in weeks,” I confessed before I thought better of it.
She gave me a look of surprise.
“I’m in the middle of moving,” I said. “All my stuff’s in storage until I figure out where I’m going to end up.” Only then did I remember I’d told the deputy I was on vacation. Crap.
“You’re movin’ and you don’t know where you’re goin’?” she asked in surprise, slipping off her coat.
“No,” I said. “I just decided I needed a change, and I’m figuring out where to land.”
A huge smile spread across her face. “Maybe you’ll stick around Drum.” The horror on my face must have shown, because she laughed. “I’m teasing. No one willingly sticks around Drum except for the Drummonds themselves. Seems like the rest of us are stuck here.” She wrapped her arms across her chest. “Well, on that happy note, let me show you to your room.”
She led me down the hall to the first room on the right, a small bedroom with a full-sized bed and a wrought iron headboard. A silver metal lamp sat on the blue-painted nightstand. “This is your room. The bathroom’s across the hall. Franklin’s gotta go to work early, so you might hear him clomping around at six or so. I apologize in advance.”
“No need. I’m just grateful to be here.”
“If we’re gonna get to Greeneville for you to see Mr. Hank and back in time to get you to your lunch shift, we should probably leave here around eight.”
“Sounds good.” She left the room and shut the door behind her, leaving me alone with my memories and my fear.
Since I was still in my pajamas, I just climbed under the covers and pulled them up to my chin. I lay there for a long time, staring up at the dark ceiling and wondering if my life would ever be normal again.
Chapter Eight
I woke up to the sound of running water, and it took me a few seconds to orient myself.
Seth.
A spike of pain stabbed my heart as I remembered holding his hand and soaking up his blood with my shirt while I watched him die. No one should die like that, but especially not a seventeen-year-old kid. Had I gotten him killed by