A Breath Away. Rita Herron
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She urged Violet closer, then scribbled, “Back to Crow’s Landing, to see Neesie. Have to see my family one more time before I meet the master.”
Neesie was her grandmother’s sister. They hadn’t seen her since Grammy had stolen away with Violet that dark, cold night. “You’re not dying, Grammy,” Violet said in a choked voice, “you’re going to be okay.”
“Please,” she wrote, “prove your daddy didn’t kill that little girl.”
Anguish tightened Violet’s throat at the thought of returning to Crow’s Landing. At the mere idea of seeing her father’s face again. Of burying him. She couldn’t deny her grandmother’s plea, though.
But how could she face the town now that everyone believed she was a murderer’s daughter?
CHAPTER FIVE
BY THE TIME VIOLET stumbled into the cabin on Tybee Island, she was drained and dizzy with fatigue. Still shell-shocked, she flipped on the overhead light and stared at the vinyl chair where her grandmother had nearly died. The horrible trembling began all over again, stirring pain deep in her soul. She had to gain control.
Or she would never be able to face the people back in Crow’s Landing.
The echo of Grady Monroe’s voice over the phone line seared through her like a hot poker. Had she heard condemnation in his tone? Did he think she’d known what her father had done? Rather, what her father had confessed to doing in that note?
No. Her grandmother didn’t believe her father was a killer, and she had never lied to Violet or led her wrong. Besides, even though her father had shut her out of his life, she sensed he wasn’t evil.
Would she be able to prove her father’s innocence if she returned to her hometown?
“Please, Violet, you have to go…. The hospital will transport me to the facility near there. Go on to Crow’s Landing.”
Knowing she needed sleep before she began the long drive to Tennessee, she heated a cup of Earl Grey tea and sipped it. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten, but the thought of food still repulsed her. After some sleep, she’d get her affairs in order and inform her employees at Strictly Southern that she’d be away for a few days.
Shadows claimed the earth-toned walls of the cabin as she crossed the den to her bedroom. The scent of her grandmother’s gardenia lotion sweetened the air, reminding Violet of her absence. The handmade quilt Grammy had stitched, using different fabric scraps from Violet’s childhood dresses, lay draped across her antique bed. Hugging the quilt to her as if she was hugging her grandmother, Violet crawled beneath the covers, praying the tea and quilt would finally warm her.
But as she closed her eyes, the image of Darlene’s frightened eyes flashed before her, the terrifying plea for help screeching through her head. Another twenty-year-old picture resurfaced with vivid clarity—of her father dragging her to their old station wagon, shoving her inside, then wheeling away from her as she pleaded with him to find Darlene.
Violet curled into a ball, hugging her arms around her middle. She had let Darlene down years ago; could she let her grandmother down now? But what if she discovered the confession was real?
Her father’s words echoed in her head: Nobody needs to know what goes on behind closed doors. Had he warned her to keep silent so Darlene wouldn’t be found in time to point the finger at him?
Had he shut Violet out of his life because of his guilt? Because he’d been afraid she might figure out he was a killer?
GRADY STOPPED BY his office to grab the files on his sister’s case, determined to review every inch of them. He had to figure out how the sheriff had missed the fact that Baker had killed Darlene.
First, though, he called Information and requested a listing of all the hospitals in the Savannah area. He tried the two major ones first. A nurse at St. Joseph’s informed him that Violet’s grandmother had been admitted and was listed in stable condition. Thank God.
Now he had to face his father.
Or was he jumping the gun? Giving his father the illusion the police had found Darlene’s murderer when, in fact, they might not have?
Confusion riddled Grady. He’d just been given the answer to the question that had tormented him his entire life—so why didn’t he take it at face value? Why was he having trouble believing the suicide note? Because it was too easy, too pat? Because he’d heard his father’s argument with Baker?
Or because finding Darlene’s killer has consumed you. You’ve lived for revenge. Without that, what will you do with the rest of your life?
You’ll still have the guilt….
Clenching his fingers around the steering wheel, he drove to the Monroe estate, his mind on overdrive. He’d never known his own mother, only his father’s second wife, Teresa. He’d wanted to please her and his father so badly.
But he’d failed.
The unkempt yard spoke volumes about his father’s downward spiral into depression. Maybe he should have confronted his dad years ago, forced him to discuss the details of Darlene’s death. But he’d been a son before he became a cop. The irresponsible teenager who hadn’t come home to watch Darlene that day. The boy who’d disappointed his father in the worst way and started the domino effect that had ruined their lives. Discussing details about Darlene’s disappearance had been impossible.
Actually, conversation in general had been practically nonexistent between the two men for ages. Any mention of Darlene had driven a deeper wedge between them.
Grady shut off the engine and waded through the overgrown grass to the front porch, wincing as the boards creaked and groaned. After his token knock, he opened the screen door. The faint scent of cigar smoke permeated the humid air, making him crave a cigarette. Inside, the dismal atmosphere magnified the emptiness of the house. Once this place had breathed with life, with Darlene’s incessant chatter, the scent of cinnamon bread Teresa had baked. The joy of a family.
“Dad?” He walked across the hardwood floor, listening for sounds of his father. A curtain fluttered in the evening breeze, the sound of crickets chirping outside reminding him of his lost childhood. Of nights when he and Darlene had raced barefoot across the backyard, catching fireflies in mayonnaise jars. Had streaked in front of the sprinkler on hot July afternoons.
He checked the den, then his father’s office, surprised he wasn’t slumped in front of the TV watching All in the Family reruns on cable. Something about Archie Bunker had appealed to Walt’s twisted sense of humor, when he’d had one.
Hot air surrounded Grady as he walked through the house. A scraping sound coming from somewhere near the kitchen broke the silence. He headed through the double wooden doors, then crossed the room and halted in the doorway to the garage. His father was sitting there—so still that for a brief moment Grady thought he might be dead. The low sound of a knife scraping against wood invaded the stale night air. Grady exhaled. His father was whittling again.
He spent hours carving, scraping away the edges of a raw piece of wood until he achieved the perfect smoothness he wanted. Back and forth, scraping and sawing, watching the splinters and dust fall. Once Grady had even watched him carve a chicken bone into an odd shape, then tell Darlene a story about his creation.
Grady had hated the sound of that carving.
He cleared his throat to alert his father of his presence, then descended the two stairs to the garage. His father’s face was craggy, his eyes fixed in concentration, his bourbon beside him.
Oddly, his dad was carving a baby lamb. Did it have some significance?
“Dad?”
As if his father had just realized he had company, his knife froze in midair. The gaze he swung to Grady was not inviting.
“We have to talk,” Grady said, ignoring the jab of pain his father’s reaction