style="font-size:15px;"> As she came in, Deborah was greeted warmly by people she had known most of her life. There were brief mentions of kids, aging parents, and a ballot initiative concerning the sale of wine in supermarkets, but there was also an averted look or two.
John Colby led her to his office. Bright as he was, physically imposing as he could be, John was a shy man, more prone to seeking insight than to attacking investigations head-on. He was also modest, happier to be taping off an accident scene than to be hanging official commendations on his wall. Other than a large clock and some framed photographs of police outings, the office was unadorned.
John closed the door, took some forms from the desk, and passed them to her. “It’s pretty straightforward,” he said. “Take it home, fill it out, return it when you’re done.”
“I don’t have to do it here?”
He waved his hand. “Nah. We know you won’t be skipping town.”
“Not quite,” Deborah murmured, glancing through the form. There were three pages, all requiring details. Time and privacy would help. “Do you have the results of any of the tests yet?”
“Only the ones on your car. It looks like everything was in good working order. No cause for negligence there.”
So much for the local garage, but Deborah’s real concern was with the state’s report. “When will you hear about the rest?”
“A week, maybe two if the lab is backed up. Some of the analysis involves mathematical calculations. They can be pretty complex.”
“It was only an accident,” she said.
He leaned against the desk. “This is just a formality. We’re mandated to investigate, so we investigate.”
“I’ve dedicated my life to helping people, not hurting them. I feel responsible for Calvin McKenna.” That was the truth, though it did nothing to change John’s assumption that Deborah was driving—and even here, with a man she knew and trusted, she couldn’t mention Grace’s name. Instead, frustrated, she said, “What in the world was he doing out there?”
“We haven’t been able to ask him that, yet,” John said. “But we will. In the meanwhile, you fill out that form. You have to file three copies.”
“Three?” she asked in dismay.
“One with us, one with your insurance company, one with the Registry of Motor Vehicles. It’s the law.”
“Does this go on my driving record?”
“RMV keeps your report on file.”
“I’ve never had an accident before. You saw the damage to the car. It isn’t much. I doubt I’ll even exceed my deductible.”
“You still have to file a copy with the insurance company. When personal injury is involved, you’re required to do it. If Cal McKenna isn’t insured, he may go after you for medical costs, and if he sues, your insurance company will have to pay.”
Deborah had thought her father an alarmist when he mentioned a possible lawsuit. John Colby’s mentioning it was something else. “Do you really think he’ll sue?” she asked. “What with the rain? His lack of reflective gear? What kind of case could he have?”
“That depends on what the reconstruction team finds,” the police chief said with a glance at the phone. “I’ll let you know when the report comes in.” His round face softened. “How’s your daughter handling things?”
“Not well,” Deborah said, able to be honest about this at least. “I had to pick her up from school a little while ago. She’s traumatized, and the talk there doesn’t help.”
“What are the other kids saying?”
“I don’t know. She won’t tell me much.”
“She’s at that age,” John said, head bowed. “It’s hard. They want responsibility until they have it. By the way,” he added, scratching his upper lip, then looking at her, “I should warn you. McKenna’s wife called me this morning. She could be a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“She’s pretty upset. She wants to make sure we’re not letting you off easy just because you’re so well regarded in town. She’s the reason you need to get your insurance company up to speed. She’s angry.”
“So am I,” Deborah burst out. “He shouldn’t have been running in the dark. Did she say what he was doing?”
“No. Apparently she wasn’t home when he left the house.
But don’t worry. We’ll do our investigation, and no one’ll ever say we favored one side or the other.” He tapped the desk and stood. “If I keep you much longer, I’ll get flack from my men. You’re seeing Officer Bowdoin’s new baby this afternoon. He’s pretty excited about the kid.”
Deborah managed a smile. “So am I. I love newborn visits.”
“You’re good to do it.”
“It’ll be the highlight of my day.” She rose with the accident report in hand. “When do you need this back?”
She had five days from the time of the crash to file a report, but from the minute she left the police station, she wanted to get it done. She made copies and spent several hours that night filling it out. She went through several drafts before she felt she had it right. Then she copied the final result, one for the police, one for the Registry, one for her insurance company. She put the latter two in envelopes, addressed and stamped them, and tucked them in her bag, but out of sight wasn’t out of mind. Waking early the next morning, the report was the first thing she thought of.
Dylan was the second. She had barely left her room, when she was drawn to his by the soft sound of his keyboard. He was playing “Blowin’ in the Wind” with such soulful simplicity that it brought a lump to her throat. It wasn’t the song that got to her but her son. His eyes were closed, glasses not yet on. He had been playing by ear since he was four, picking out tunes on the grand piano in the living room long before he’d had a formal lesson. Even now, when his teacher was trying to get him to read music, he was far more interested in the tunes his dad had liked.
Deborah didn’t have to be a psychologist to know that Dylan loved music precisely because he could do it without using his eyes. He had been severely farsighted by the time he was three, and by seven had developed corneal dystrophy. Eyeglasses corrected the hyperopia, but the dystrophy meant that the vision in his right eye would be gauzy until the time when he was old enough for a corneal transplant.
Going into his room, she gave him a good-morning hug. “Why so sad?”
He took his hands from the keyboard and carefully fitted his glasses to his nose.
“Missing Dad?” she asked.
He nodded.
“You’ll be seeing him the weekend after next.”
“It’s not the same,” he said quietly.
She
