"So, uhm." Lena picked up the glass, needing something to do. She sucked what little liquor was left off the ice cubes, then continued. "She went to the bathroom, and somebody killed her."

There was little sound in the tiny office. Grasshoppers chirped outside. Gurgling came from the stream. A distant throbbing came from the bar.

Without preamble, Hank turned around, picking through the boxes, asking, "What've you had to drink tonight?"

Lena was surprised by his question, though she shouldn't have been. Despite his AA brainwashing, Hank Norton was a master at avoiding the unpleasant. His need to escape was what had brought Hank to drugs and alcohol in the first place. "Beer in the car," she said, playing along, glad for once that he did not want the gory details. "JD here."

He paused, his hand around a bottle of Jack Daniel's. "Beer before liquor, never sicker," he warned, his voice catching on the last part.

Lena held out her glass, rattling the ice for attention. She watched Hank as he poured the drink, not surprised when he licked his lips.

"How's work treating you?" Hank asked, his voice tinny in the shack. His lower lip trembled slightly. His expression was one of total grief, in direct opposition to the words coming from his mouth. He said, "Doing okay?"

Lena nodded. She felt as if she was smack in the middle of a car accident. She finally understood the meaning of the word surreal. Nothing seemed concrete in this tiny space. The glass in her hand felt dull. Hank was miles away. She was in a dream.

Lena tried to snap herself out of it, downing her drink quickly. The alcohol hit the back of her throat like fire, burning and solid, as if she had swallowed hot asphalt.

Hank watched the glass, not Lena, as she did this.

This was all she needed. She said, "Sibyl's dead, Hank."

Tears came to his eyes without warning, and all that Lena could think was that he looked so very, very old. It was like watching a flower wilt. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose.

Lena repeated the words much as Jeffrey Tolliver had earlier this evening. "She's dead."

His voice wavered as he asked, "Are you sure?"

Lena nodded quickly up and down. "I saw her." Then, "Somebody cut her up pretty bad."

His mouth opened and closed like a fish's. He kept his eyes even with Lena's the way he used to do when he was trying to catch her in a lie. He finally looked away, mumbling, "That doesn't make sense."

She could have reached out and patted his old hand, maybe tried to comfort him, but she didn't. Lena felt frozen in her chair. Instead of thinking of Sibyl, which had been her mind's initial reaction, she concentrated on Hank, on his wet lips, his eyes, the hairs growing out of his nose.

"Oh, Sibby." He sighed, wiping his eyes. Lena watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. He reached for the bottle, resting his hand on the neck. Without asking, he unscrewed the cap and poured Lena another drink. This time, the dark liquid nearly touched the rim.

More time passed, then Hank blew his nose loudly, patting at his eyes with the handkerchief. "I can't see anyone trying to kill her." His hands shook even more as he folded the handkerchief over and over. "Doesn't make sense," he mumbled. "You, I could understand."

"Thanks a lot."

This was sufficient enough to spark Hank's irritation. "I mean because of the job you do. Now get that damn chip off your shoulder."

Lena did not comment. This was a familiar order.

He put his palms down on the desk, fixing Lena with a stare. "Where were you when this happened?"

Lena tossed back the drink, not feeling the burn so much this time. When she returned the glass to the desk, Hank was still staring at her.

She mumbled, "Macon."

"Was it some sort of hate crime, then?"

Lena reached over, picking up the bottle. "I don't know. Maybe." The whiskey gurgled in the bottle as she poured. "Maybe he picked her because she was gay. Maybe he picked her because she was blind." Lena gave a sideways glance, catching his pained reaction to this. She decided to expound upon her speculation. "Rapists tend to pick women they think they can control, Hank. She was an easy target."

"So, this all comes back to me?"

"I didn't say that."

He grabbed the bottle. "Right," he snapped, dropping the half empty bottle back into its box. His tone was angry now, back to the nuts and bolts. Like Lena, Hank was never comfortable with the emotional side of things. Sibyl had often said the main reason Hank and Lena never got along was that they were too much alike. Sitting there with Hank, absorbing his grief and anger as it filled the tiny shed, Lena realized that Sibyl was right. She was looking at herself in twenty years, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Hank asked, "Have you talked to Nan?"

"Yeah."

"We've got to plan the service," he said, picking up the pen and drawing a box on his desk calendar. At the top he wrote the word FUNERAL in all caps. "Is there somebody in Grant you think would do a good job?" He waited for her response, then added, "I mean, most of her friends were there."

"What?" Lena asked, the glass paused at her lips. "What are you talking about?"

"Lee, we've got to make arrangements. We've got to take care of Sibby."

Lena finished the drink. When she looked at Hank, his features were blurred. As a matter of fact, the whole room was blurred. She had the sensation of being on a roller coaster, and her stomach reacted accordingly. Lena put her hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to be sick.

Hank had probably seen her expression many times before, most likely in the mirror. He was beside her, holding a trash can under her chin, just as she lost the battle.

Tuesday

Chapter Seven

SARA leaned over the kitchen sink in her parents' house, using her father's wrench to loosen the faucet. She had spent most of the evening in the morgue performing Sibyl Adams's autopsy. Going back to a dark house, sleeping alone, had not been something she wanted to do. Add to that Jeffrey's last threat on her answering ma chine to come by her house, and Sara did not really have a choice as to where she slept last night. Except for sneaking in to pick up the dogs, she had not even bothered to change out of her scrubs.

She wiped sweat from her forehead, glancing at the clock on the coffeemaker. It was six-thirty in the morning and she had slept all of two hours. Every time she closed her eyes, she thought of Sibyl Adams sitting on the toilet, blind to what was happening to her, feeling everything her attacker was doing.

On the plus side, short of some type of family catastrophe, there was no way in hell today could possibly be as bad as yesterday.

Cathy Linton walked into the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and took down a coffee cup before she noticed her oldest daughter standing beside her. "What are you doing?"

Sara slid a new washer over the threaded bolt. "The faucet was leaking."

"Two plumbers in the family," Cathy complained, pouring herself a cup of coffee, "and my daughter the doctor ends up fixing the leaky faucet."

Sara smiled, putting her shoulder behind the wrench. The Lintons were a plumbing family, and Sara had spent most of her summers during school working alongside her father, snaking drains and welding pipe. Sometimes she thought the only reason she had finished high school a year early and worked through summers getting her undergrad degree was so she would not have to poke around spider-infested crawl spaces with her father. Not that she didn't love her father, but, unlike Tessa, Sara's fear of spiders could not be overcome.

Cathy slid onto the kitchen stool. "Did you sleep here last night?"