Chapter Twenty-Three
Emmy sat offstage trying to ignore the murmur of the crowd in the packed auditorium. The debate had been rescheduled while she was in the hospital. The election was in two days. Half the town had shown up to see if she could stand upright. The other half would post something nasty about it later.
Mayor Carly Clifton was at the podium talking to the crowd about fundraising for the school and begging for food donations to the pantry.
If Emmy hadn’t already been sitting in a chair, her knees would’ve been wobbly.
Sweat was dripping down her face. This was not another panic attack.
It was stage fright. The last time Emmy performed in front of a crowd, she’d been six years old, dressed as a carrot, and battling explosive diarrhea.
Jude said, “You don’t have to do this.”
Emmy felt the familiar sensations of irritation and gratitude.
The pendulum had turned into a circle. She was finding it hard to hate a woman who’d done everything but wipe her ass for the last month.
Jude hadn’t once left Emmy’s side. It was enormously suffocating, but also a relief.
Emmy had forgotten what it felt like to be cared for.
Jude said, “You could get a job anywhere. I could help you.” Emmy nodded, but she had realized that this was the job she wanted.
Not because her father had wanted it for her, or to piss off Brett Temple, but because it gave her purpose.
She helped people. She did good in the world.
Jude kept telling her to try therapy, but getting shot in the gut had a way of making you re-examine your life.
“Emmy Lou.” Jude put her hands on her hips. “I need to tell you something.”
Emmy braced herself for another lecture.
“Now that you’re better. Now that you’re healing—” Jude stopped. “I need to go back to San Francisco for a while.”
Emmy felt her heart start to rattle in her chest. Jude hadn’t talked about going home since the night Emmy had been shot.
“It’s only temporary.”
Emmy didn’t believe her. Jude Archer was a hot-shit FBI agent. She had to be tired of playing nursemaid. Especially because of the fight at Allison’s house. Emmy only had flashes of memories from after she’d been shot, but she recalled every nasty word that had come out of her mouth before.
She cleared her throat. “When are you leaving?”
“It’s up to you. I want us to talk first, okay? We got interrupted the last time.” Jude smiled, but her eyes didn’t crinkle at the corners like they usually did. “Let me know when you’re ready. I need to tell you some things.”
Emmy remembered that phrase, too. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the things.
Her throat struggled against the words, but she managed to push them out. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“You don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.” Emmy stifled her irritation. “I almost drove you to drink.”
“You’re not that powerful. An alcoholic who wants to drink is always going to find a reason to drink.
” Jude’s smile was bitter-sweet. “As hard as it was to hear, it was good for you to get it out. Especially the part about Mom. What you went through was traumatic. You were right that I should’ve been here to help you carry the burden. ”
If this was what therapy was like, Emmy was not a fan.
“Sweetheart.” Jude knelt beside her. She stroked back Emmy’s hair. “I appreciate your apology, but you need to know that I will always forgive you.”
Emmy felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She didn’t fight them. Jude had seen her completely broken. Why she’d been so eager to help Emmy pick up the pieces was a mystery Emmy wasn’t ready to solve.
She told Jude, “We’re gonna have to get Cole back here if you need help standing.”
Jude’s laughter reached her eyes this time. She grabbed the back of the chair and pulled herself up.
Emmy looked at the stage. The children’s choir was shuffling onto the stands, dozens of seven- and eight-year-olds tripping over their feet. The debate would start after they’d finished singing. Emmy felt the urge to pull the fire alarm.
Jude’s hand went to her shoulder. “Myrna always said that confidence speaks in a whisper.”
Myrna had never whispered anything in her life, and she had considered herself one of the most infallible women on earth. “What if I say the wrong thing?”
“Then fuck ’em. Gerald and Myrna Clifton didn’t raise you to beg.”
The music teacher raised her baton, and the children’s choir started singing the national anthem. Emmy barely noticed their screechy, off-key voices. She was looking up at Jude, who was frowning like she couldn’t believe children could sound so horrible.
It was exactly like her mother. Especially when she walked away.
Emmy looked down at the floor. Her stomach had clenched, which had set off a nuclear reaction deep in her belly. She squeezed her eyes closed. Tried to breathe through it. She called up a flash of a memory from the shooting. For some reason, Emmy had found herself going back to it repeatedly—
Riding in the back of Cole’s cruiser. Her head cradled in Jude’s lap. Listening to her sing “Sweet Dreams”. Emmy had never heard Jude sing before. In retrospect, she found it very annoying that she was actually a good singer.
The heat in her belly finally dialed down to a low simmer.
Emmy retrieved the Cartier watch from her pocket.
She’d asked Hannah to have it serviced before she offered it back to Jude.
Dried blood from the bullet wound had gummed up the dial.
Emmy had been shocked to find out how expensive it was.
The 1979 Cartier Ronde was worth a breathtaking $6,000.
Jude had said that the watch had belonged to Emmy’s grandmother.
Except Gerald’s mother had died the year he’d turned eighteen.
Myrna’s mother had died in 1965.
“What a terrible day to have ears.”
Hannah had sneaked up on her, which was one of the hazards of always sitting in a chair. Her eyes were on the children’s choir. Some of her former students were onstage. She was practically glowing with pride.
Emmy said, “The school board is gonna vote to give you back your job.”
Hannah scrutinized her face. “Dervla McLatchy hates me and nobody’s talking to your cousin Ace.”
“Dervla owed me a favor.” The woman had been appreciative when Emmy had told her she should get tested for the clap. “And I’m the reason Cousin Ace called off the wedding.”
Hannah’s eyebrows shot up.
Heat rushed into Emmy’s cheeks, but it felt good to finally confess. “Mom had a really bad day. I drank too much wine. Ace drove me home.”
“Oh my God.” Hannah dropped to one knee. “You’re a cousin-fucker.”
Emmy started laughing. Then she stopped when the flames ignited in her belly. “Please don’t make me laugh.”
“You and Taybee can be Clifton-Cliftons together.”
The comment was sobering enough to stop any laughter. “It was a one-time thing. Cole’s the only man I need in my life right now.”
Hannah took the hint. “I heard Cole’s thinking about joining the GBI?”
Emmy had seen an application on his laptop. “Jude told me if I give him more responsibilities, he’ll stay. But if he stays, he’ll want more responsibilities.”
“If you give a mouse a cookie.”
Emmy couldn’t talk about it anymore. “You’d better find a seat.”
Hannah started to go, but she turned back and squeezed Emmy’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
Emmy nodded. The watch went back into her pocket.
She looked across the stage. Brett was in the wings bouncing like a boxer ready to fight.
His wife was there with a baby on her hip and another in her belly.
She looked at Emmy like she wanted to strangle her.
No one was talking about sharing the sheriff’s job anymore.
Everybody knew that Brett had gotten everything wrong.
Especially Brett’s wife. She kept looking at him like she wished he’d been shot, too.
Emmy was conflicted. Not about Brett. Obviously, she would’ve been fine with him getting shot instead.
At the very least, he wouldn’t have had to listen to the surgeon brag about how he’d managed to save his uterus.
Emmy didn’t want Brett to win the election because everybody felt sorry for her.
She wanted to win so she could keep doing her job.
The murder of Allison Vickery had been solved, but nothing about the case felt closed.
The district attorney was still mulling charges against Mandy Vickery.
All the evidence Sherry had collected at the scene had proven Emmy’s theory of the shooting.
Mandy’s palm prints were sealed in Allison’s blood onto the Glock.
The touch DNA found on the black nitrile glove had belonged to both Allison and Mandy.
The blood on the access panel to the attic was solely from Allison.
Ballistics, forensics, spatter and splatter analysis, all told the same story.
The extent of the damage to the girl’s brain was still undetermined.
Mandy’s memory loss was pronounced. She recalled only sparse details about what had happened at the house over the two days that led to the murder of her mother.
She’d confirmed the important pieces about Bill and Russell, but for now, the rest was lost.