Sorrow Road (Bell Elkins #5) - Julia Keller Page 0,63

actual photo. The picture was in her head. It would always be in her head from now on, because it was the kind of image that stuck with her. It was so vividly emblematic of this region and its tight family bonds, those sticky connections that could be either uplifting and inspiring—or grim and imprisoning:

A stubby, heavyset woman with short gray hair and a round red face, smiling broadly and hopefully, dressed in a pink smock and white Dickies pants and white lace-up shoes—the uniform she wears at Thornapple Terrace. Her right arm is locked around the frail, knobby shoulders of her granddaughter. Lorilee’s head is tilted away from her grandmother and her skinny face is puckered, as if she’s smelling the contents of a backed-up sewer drain. The tiny hands at her side are drawn up into fists. Her body has that Wish I was anywhere but here shudder to it. She is wearing a tight white T-shirt with a ripped collar and denim short-shorts. Her face is thickened with rouge, eyeliner. Her sloppy mascara is clumping so badly that it looks as if she is weeping toxic sludge in lieu of tears.

The two women seem to be occupying different universes. Granny, heavy and rooted, as stolid as a fence post; Lorilee, fragile and skittish, ready to bolt.

And yet of the two, it is Marcy Coates who is gone, while Lorilee lives. Lorilee, in the end, is the tough one. The survivor. Marcy is the vulnerable one, the one at risk.

Bell shook her head. She had to let Sheriff Harrison and her deputies do their work. It was their investigation. She had already called Jake Oakes and passed along what she had learned in her conversation with Lorilee. He would check out the granddaughter’s known associates, he said. Find out if maybe one of her skanky pals had stopped in to paw through Granny’s cookie jar for spare change—and while there had committed double homicide.

Sure, Lorilee had claimed that Marcy was broke, and doubtless passed along the intel to her jittery brethren. But junkies don’t trust other junkies. They know—far better than non-junkies—what desperation can do. A lie about Granny’s finances would hardly constitute breaking news in Lorilee’s dark world.

So if it wasn’t just a random crime of opportunity—if the killer had not just blundered along that road until he saw the light from Marcy’s window and decided to take advantage of the house’s isolation—then why? Why had Marcy Coates been chosen? Who stood to gain from her death?

And was Connie Dollar an intentional target? Or had it been just a case of wrong place, wrong time? They both worked at Thornapple Terrace. Was that a factor or—

A knock at the back door.

Bell was startled. Could it be Carla? No, she’d use the front. And anyway, Carla had a key.

She opened the door. She’d forgotten to turn on the back porch light, and so she based her instant identification of the visitor solely on his silhouette. Clay Meckling was six feet four and a half. And lean. His physique was a direct consequence of hauling around roof trusses and eighty-pound bags of Quikrete all day long.

She flipped on the outside light. The switch for the kitchen light was right next to it. She flipped that on, too.

“Hey,” Clay said. “I know you asked me to leave you alone. Give you time to think.” He was talking very fast, the spurts of his breath visible in the super-chilled air. “But I need to say something, okay? If you want to throw me out after that, then fine.”

Bell pulled him inside by his jacket sleeve. The jacket was stiff with cold. “It’s freezing out there. Come on.” She shook her head. “I can’t throw you out. I’d face charges for reckless endangerment. Was that part of your diabolical plan?”

He was surprised by her jocularity. She could see it on his face. The last time they had spoken, here in this very kitchen, Bell was trembling with anger, with outrage, laying down the law: Leave me alone. I have to decide—decide if I can have you in my life. Don’t call. Don’t come by. Don’t text. For God’s sake—I have to process things, Clay. I have to find out if I can deal with this. Or if I just need you to go away for good. So—please. I’ll call when I’m ready. Not before.

What had changed?

Nothing. Nothing had changed.

Only that it was a cold night, and some time had passed, and she