Seventy-Three
TAYLOR’S JEEP IS parked where I can see it—in front of their two-car garage, next to Burt’s regular squad car, not the unmarked he’d driven to McDonald’s that day for reasons Helene Mayes is yet to have determined.
Maybe no one from the Cross Rivers PD has had the heart to come pick up the squad car from here and drive it back to the station.
There is no light coming from inside the house, just one porch light over the front door.
I’d been in their home for the meeting Burt Webb had called, Burt calling us all together that recent summer night to figure out a way to save our town.
At least keep it safer.
The Glock is in my hand. Burt had explained how to work the safety mechanism on the gun, so I know there’s no chance of it going off accidentally. I’d promised Burt I’d never leave my house with it but figured he’d have given me an exception in this case. Just this one time.
I check the doorknob.
The door is open.
I step into the front room and call out, “Tay? It’s me.”
“In here,” she says. Her voice is calmer now.
I stick the Glock in my back pocket, not wanting to frighten her more than she obviously is, over whatever it is that had made her get me over here.
As I head toward where her voice had just come from—the kitchen, I’m pretty sure—the house is quiet. No television. No music playing. Just the slight creak of the floor as I make my way, guided by the stove light shining through the kitchen doorway.
Then I see her, seated at her small kitchen table, completely still, hands in front of her, palms down.
Even though she knows I’m here, I don’t want to startle her.
“Tay,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Are you all right?”
She doesn’t turn or answer me right away.
“What are you doing sitting here in the dark?” I ask her now.
“It’s all dark.”
“Wait… what…?”
“I can’t see,” she says.