Secure Location - By Beverly Long Page 0,69

mind was whirling.

Melissa Ann Percy. Everybody had called her Missy. And everybody had loved her, especially Meg. She’d been the little sister that Meg had always wanted. And whenever the Percys had called her to babysit, she’d jumped at the chance.

Mrs. Percy had always dressed her daughter like a little doll, in sweet dresses with matching tights. Missy’s blond hair had natural curls and she was forever losing the barrettes that Gloria insisted she start the day with.

A half hour before Missy died, Meg had run the bath water. It was the middle of July and Missy had been sweaty and dirty from playing outside. Meg could still feel the weight of the little girl’s body as she picked her up and swung her over the edge of the white tub. She’d soaped her up and Missy had giggled and squirmed and when she was all rinsed off, Meg had wrapped her wet naked body in a big towel.

She’d smelled so good.

Meg had dressed her in her favorite pajamas, the ones with little pigs running across them. And she’d brushed the tangles out of her hair. And she’d said yes when the little girl had begged for a treat before bedtime.

She’d been big enough to crawl up into her highchair and she’d raised her little arms, impatient for Meg to attach the tray. Then she’d grinned when Meg had pulled a bag of marshmallows out of the cupboard. They were her favorite.

Meg had given her one and watched her eat it. Then another. And then the doorbell had rung.

It was almost eight-thirty and close to dark. But she hadn’t been scared. Maiter wasn’t Houston, where Meg’s family had always double-checked to make sure their windows and doors were locked. It was the kind of place where kids slept out in the backyard in tents and teenagers hung around the park at night after the summer baseball game had ended, talking and maybe sneaking the occasional cigarette.

Everybody knew everybody. And while some teenage girls might have been bored in the little town, Meg had been glad that her dad had lost his job in Houston and they’d moved to Maiter. Otherwise, she’d have never met the Percys who lived across the street in the big white house. She’d never have met Missy.

She’d gone to answer the door and it had been Mrs. Moore, the woman who lived next door. The Percys had been collecting her mail while she’d been out of town visiting her mother and she’d come to get it. Meg had retrieved it off the big dining room table, chatted for just a minute, and closed the heavy door after the woman.

And then she’d gone back into the kitchen. And sweet Missy had been lying on the kitchen table, her lips blue.

Not breathing.

The open bag of marshmallows was next to her, with more spilled out on the table.

Meg had grabbed her, stuck her fingers in her mouth, and swept out half-chewed marshmallows. But she remained unresponsive. Meg had looked up and T.J. was standing in the doorway, between the kitchen and living room, his eyes wide. “Stay here,” Meg had yelled and she’d run out of the house into the night, the little girl in her arms, screaming for help.

Hours later, when it had all been over, and she’d been sitting at her own kitchen table, listening to the police talk to her parents, she’d heard them say “lodged in her windpipe, just like a cork.”

The small town, the one that she’d started to really like, was no longer friendly and welcoming. Because everywhere she went, she was the girl who let sweet Missy Percy choke to death.

But she hadn’t.

For years she’d relived every moment of that night, breaking each action into discreet moments. She’d heard the click of the tray snapping onto the highchair, hadn’t she? She’d only talked to the neighbor for a minute, right?

It drove her crazy.

In the end, she’d realized it didn’t matter. Missy was dead. The Percys had lost a daughter. T.J. had lost a sister.

She had lost everyone’s trust. She’d disappointed the people who loved her most.

Now, she stared at Troy Blakely and felt as if she wanted to jump out of her own skin. She hated. For the first time in her life, she knew that she honestly hated.

Intellectually, on a better day, she knew that she might be able to reason that he was a sick man. Had obviously been a sick child. But she could not bring herself to feel