style="font-size:15px;"> “Who are you, Hannah Martin?” he muttered. “And why did you come to me?”
Chapter Three
Hannah drove straight from St. Charles Avenue to her motel in Metairie in an exhausted haze. But now, sitting in her parked car, her brain was whirling, replaying every second of the past hour.
What had possessed her to place all her hopes of saving her mother on an old photo of a friendship from more than thirty years before? All she’d done was exhaust herself driving and waste over twelve of the precious hours her mother had left before her body went into toxic liver failure. All she’d gained for her trouble was the not-so-sympathetic ear of Kathleen Griffin’s handsome if grouchy son.
She turned off the engine and got out of the car. As soon as she put weight on her knees, they gave way. She barely managed to grab at the door frame to keep from falling. Her heart raced, her head felt weird—light and heavy at the same time—and the edges of her vision were turning black. It had to be exhaustion and hunger.
After a few seconds, she gingerly let go of the hot metal door frame and tested her ability to walk. Not too bad. But her hands trembled so much that it took her three tries to insert her key card into the motel’s door.
Once she was inside with the door closed, the tears she’d been holding back ever since she’d watched Billy Joe collapse and die came, as if floodgates had opened. She flopped down onto the bed and grabbed one of the pillows to hug as she cried. But within a couple of moments, she clenched her jaw and wiped her face.
That was enough of that. She didn’t have time to cry. She had to figure out what she was going to do. Here she was, eight hours away from her home, and if someone asked her why she’d driven all that way, she wouldn’t have been able tell them. In fact, she’d run away again as soon as Mack had started questioning her. He’d made her realize just how little she’d thought about what she was going to do.
What if she drove back to Dowdie and did what she should have done—gone to Sheriff King? For that matter, what if she’d gone to him about Billy Joe’s obvious involvement in something illegal? Would things be completely different now? Would Billy Joe be in jail instead of dead and would her mother be safe and sound at home, preparing to go for dialysis later in the week?
Or would she and her mother be sitting in an interrogation room trying to explain to the sheriff that they knew nothing about what Billy Joe was or was not doing?
When she’d raced to the Toyota and taken off with Billy Joe’s killer on her heels, she had actually considered going to the sheriff—for about ten seconds. Until she reminded herself that in her world, authorities like the police or Children’s Services had the power to destroy her life.
From long ago when she’d been barely old enough to understand, her mother’s admonitions were ingrained in her. If you tell the police Mommy fell asleep with a cigarette and started a fire, they’ll take you away from me and put you in an orphanage. You can put the fire out, can’t you, sweetie? Just put it out and don’t tell anybody. Then we’ll be safe. We’ll take care of each other.
And they had. Her mother had raised her alone. It had been just the two of them against the world. Then, when the roles had become reversed as her mother’s cirrhosis worsened, Hannah had taken care of her without regret—until the moment she’d witnessed a murder and run away.
Suddenly, Hannah remembered the phone call she’d gotten while she’d been standing outside Kathleen Griffin’s apartment. She blotted her cheeks on her shirtsleeve then fished inside her purse for her phone. Her fingers touched the smooth paper of the envelope, but she pushed it aside. Whatever was inside it wasn’t going to help her right now. In fact, it might make things worse.
She found her phone and sat there holding it, not wanting to look at the display. Maybe she’d misread the caller ID. Maybe her exhausted mind had merely overlaid Billy Joe’s name over whoever had really been calling her. But when she looked, the display definitely read “B.J.” Her heart jumped, just as it had earlier.
Someone was calling her from Billy Joe’s phone. There were only two possibilities. The man with the red tattoo, who’d shot Billy Joe in cold blood, or the sheriff.
As she’d peeled out of her mother’s driveway in her haste to escape Billy Joe’s killer, she’d prayed that the man would keep shooting at the Toyota until he’d emptied his gun. She’d prayed that one of their unconcerned neighbors would hear the shots and call the sheriff, and that the sheriff would catch him red-handed and charge him with Billy Joe’s murder. And she’d prayed that everybody in town would become so wrapped up in the murder that they’d forget about Hannah Martin.
She accessed new voice mails. There were two. If it was the killer who had called her, had he really been dumb enough to leave a message? She skipped the message from the sheriff’s office without listening to it and played the second incoming message.
“Where’d you go, Hannah?” She cringed and swallowed against a sick dread that settled in her stomach. That wasn’t the sheriff. It was the man with the red tattoo on his hand. She’d never forget that awful voice as long as she lived.
“I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I need to see you, talk to you. I need to make sure you’re all right. Call me as soon as possible and let me know where you are. I’m worried about you. Bye-bye, Hannah.”
Numbly, Hannah pressed the off button. She sat there, trying to will away the nausea that was getting worse with every passing second. Then, unable to stave it off any longer, she jumped up and ran into the bathroom, where she heaved drily. After a moment the heaves slowed, then stopped. She splashed water on her face over and over, trying to cool her heated skin and soothe her burning eyes.
At last the nausea dissipated, but there wasn’t enough water in the world to wash away the sight of what that man had done to Billy Joe.
Had her mother’s boyfriend deserved to die in such a horrible way? Maybe. Maybe not. But she wondered—if she’d gotten the chance to kill him, would she? She couldn’t honestly deny it. Of course, she’d have tortured him first to find out where he was holding her mother.
When she’d come home from the drugstore with her mother’s prescriptions only to find her missing, she’d threatened Billy Joe with going to the sheriff, but he’d quickly and effectively reminded her of his earlier warning.
She should have made good on her threat and gone to the sheriff then. She should have realized that of the two, Billy Joe or the sheriff, the sheriff was the more trustworthy. He’d have arrested Billy Joe and Hannah and her mother would be at home now, safe and healthy.
But instead she’d done the cowardly thing. She’d kept her mouth shut. She’d pretended nothing was wrong. It was what she’d always done. Long, harsh experience had ingrained the habit into her, as deeply as drinking was ingrained in her mother. It was what alcoholics did. It was what the children of alcoholics did. They pretended and lied and never told their secrets.
But now, doing what she’d always done was going to get her mother killed.
Hannah stood, grabbing the back of a chair when she felt light-headed. She needed to head back to Dowdie, but a lifetime of taking care of her mother and herself had taught her to pay attention to her body. There was no way she could drive eight hours tonight, no matter how desperate she was to get back home and find her mother. She’d fall asleep at the wheel.
Digging
