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She was about to close the door.
He snaked an arm through the bars of the security gate and grabbed her arm. “Wait! He’s out. Ray Watkins. You know it. I know it. Hell, the whole damned world knows it. That’s what this is all about! That’s why she ran!”
“Ray did his time. Paid his debt to society, right? Isn’t that the way it works? You’re the lawyer, you should know. It’s been twenty-five years. So he got out early, a few years off the original sentence for good behavior. And I hear he’s turned religious. Found God and Jesus.” She yanked her arm back and he let go. Glaring at him, she said, “Isn’t he some kind of minister, leads a men’s group at the penitentiary or something?”
“But Ray was focused on Lucy. Sent her letters for years.”
Marilyn’s eyes turned dark for a second, then she flipped up her hand, as if she were shooing away a bothersome insect. “Those letters stopped years ago.”
“Did they? Or did she just quit talking about them?”
“You tell me. You were married to her.”
He didn’t respond. They both knew Lucy Champagne McKenna struggled with her past and kept her secrets.
“What about you, Marilyn? Did you get mail from him? Did your mom?”
“I wasn’t the one whose testimony sent him to prison. And neither was Tina. Good Lord she was still too weak to testify at the trial.”
“So you did get letters?”
“Only one. When he first got in. It just said he was innocent and that he missed me.”
Ian wondered. The defiant jut of her chin said otherwise, and also warned him that the subject was closed. He took another tack. “Look, if Lucy’s running from him, I can help.” He held her gaze. “You know I can.”
“Oh, for the love of God, Ian.” She yanked her arm back. “I told you all I know. If anyone would know where Lucy is, it’s probably Mom, and good luck with that!” Casting him a final disparaging look, she slammed the door in his face.
Los Angeles, California
Then
“ . . . we find the defendant guilty as charged,” the heavyset foreman of the jury said in a booming voice that anyone in the filled courtroom, including Lucy, who was huddled against Aunt Beth, could hear distinctly. Voices murmured around her, the room with its high ceilings and blond woodwork buzzed with electricity. And Ray, who had been standing behind the narrow table, nearly collapsed.
“I’m innocent!” he insisted, bracing himself on the table. “I didn’t try to kill her!” And then he looked over his shoulder and found Lucy’s eyes. She shrank back at the sight of his disfigured face, the jagged, still-red scar running from his drooping eye where the scissors had cut his flesh.
Lucy swallowed hard and managed to hold back a scream, but that scar seemed to pulse with his anger. She’d heard the cops had caught him at his apartment, his car already filled with his belongings, blood on everything, the night that Mama almost died.
“The kid did it!” Ray accused, nearly spitting. “That little weirdo came in with a knife or something and hacked the hell out of us. And she got the drawer open. She knew where the gun was because she was always snooping around, going through Tina’s things. I swear on my mother’s grave, I didn’t try to kill Tina. I love her.” Beneath his navy suit jacket, his shoulders heaved and his voice broke. “I love her. I didn’t do it. It was the kid.” A police officer tried to shepherd him away, but he screamed, “It was the kid! I don’t know why Tina wouldn’t say so.”
Because she couldn’t. Still hospitalized, her memory muddled, her voice only a rasp, she’d withdrawn and retreated, leaving her children with strict, by-the-book, children-should-be seen-but-not-heard Aunt Beth.
People pushed and shoved behind them, but Lucy didn’t pay any attention as Ray turned, his gaze searching until it landed on her again. I’ll get you for this, his eyes seemed to say. “She did it! That little liar!” He pointed a long, accusing finger in Lucy’s direction, and the scar throbbed.
“Sweet Jesus.” Aunt Beth, along with some uniformed officers, bustled Lucy along with her sister and brother from the courtroom. Even so, Lucy heard the questions shouted at her:
“Is he telling the truth?” a sharp female voice.
“Did you find the gun?” another man with a nasal tone. “Shouldn’t you be charged?”
Another, this time a man with a foreign accent: “Lucille. Honey! Over here. Did you try to kill your mother?”
“Stop it! Of course she didn’t,” Aunt Beth, taller and willowier than Mama, shouted at them. “And she’s too young to go on trial. What’re you thinking?”
“But if she tried to kill Tina Champagne,” the woman’s voice cut in.
“She didn’t!” Aunt Beth insisted as she took Lucy by the shoulders, half-pushing her down the row of seats, past the gawking onlookers. “Oh, I knew this was a mistake!”
They were shuffled outside a side door and down a long hallway to a winding staircase. “Come on, Lucy!” Aunt Beth tugged on her hand, and they walked through a doorway, outside where the sun was high and baking the concrete. Police officers escorted her quickly to a waiting car.
