her as she saw the utter mess inside. She took several steps into the room and stared around in horror.
Ripped clothes were everywhere. The French provincial bookshelf had been turned over, spilling its contents onto the floor. A hole was punched in the Sheetrock wall, as if it had been angrily kicked.
The bed had been stripped. She imagined that the investigators had taken away the bedclothes. “Definitely looks like somebody had a temper fit in here,” Charlie said from behind her.
Grace’s mind whirled with sick suppositions. Was it possible that a rage had been festering in Hope for some time? Their mother’s defection had been difficult on Grace, but it had been devastating for Hope. Grace had been twenty-eight years old when their mother had left, but Hope had been a thirteen-year-old who desperately needed her mom.
“I’ll just grab some clothes,” Grace said. She’d taken only two steps toward the closet when her foot crunched on something.
She looked down and saw the arm of a porcelain doll. She knew that arm. She knew that doll. It had been Hope’s prized possession, given to her on the birthday before their mother had disappeared.
Crouching down, she found the rest of the doll among the mess of clothes and books and miscellaneous items that had fallen from the bookcase.
The porcelain arms and legs had been pulled from the cloth body. The head was smashed beyond repair, and the body had been slashed open.
Rage. There was no doubt that rage had destroyed the doll. The rage of a daughter whose mother had left her with a man who hadn’t been able to understand her needs, her wants?
Hope’s rage?
The breakdown that began in Grace started with a trembling that seemed to possess her entire body. Her vision blurred with the hot press of tears, and for the first time she wondered if her sister had committed the crime, if it was possible that Hope was guilty.
Charlie saw it coming: the crack in her strength, the loss of her control. Until this moment Grace had shown an incredible amount of poise in dealing with the mess that had become her life.
Now she looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and lips that trembled uncontrollably, and he knew she’d reached the end of that strength.
“Grace.” He said her name softly.
“She couldn’t have done this, Charlie? Surely she didn’t do this?” They weren’t statements of fact but questions of uncertainty, and he knew the agony the doubts must be causing her.
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