had been found covered in blood, clutching the knife in her hands, her room trashed. Grace grabbed the doorknob and still couldn’t force herself to open the door.
Charlie placed a hand on her shoulder. “We don’t have to do this. We can buy Hope whatever she needs for the time being.”
How could a man who had been incredibly insensitive eighteen months ago, a man who had been so thick he hadn’t recognized the depths of her feelings for him, be so in tune to what she was feeling now?
She didn’t have the answer but was grateful that he seemed to understand the turmoil inside her as she contemplated going into Hope’s room. Deep within, she knew she was grateful that he was here with her.
“It’s all right. I can do this,” she said, as much to herself as to him.
She straightened her shoulders and opened the door. A gasp escaped 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.
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