Free Dead Right by Brenda Novak

when she was in the most vulnerable positions a girl could be in.
    Pontiff spoke again. “No one ever used the rope or, um, the—any of these items to hurt you in any way?”
    A bead of sweat rolled between her shoulder blades.
    Madeline squeezed her arm as if to say it didn’t matter, that nothing would change if she answered in the affirmative. But Grace knew that wasn’t true. Summoning more strength—from where, she had no idea—she managed to add a scoffing tone to her voice. “Of course not.”
    â€œNo one…touched you inappropriately when you were a girl?” Pontiff repeated.
    She lifted her chin. “Who would do such a thing?”
    â€œThat’s what we’re trying to find out,” he replied.
    Suddenly, the door burst open and Clay charged in, his thick black hair standing up in front as if he’d shoved his hand through it so many times it would no longer lie flat.
    Grace was mortified to think her brother would see what was on the table. He knew, of course, but knowing and actually seeing some of the implements of Barker’s torture were two completely different things. Clay already felt guilty for the fact that he hadn’t realized sooner, hadn’t protected her. This would make his guilt even more intense.
    He looked at each person. Then, when his gaze landed on the items arranged on the table, his jaw tightened and his blue eyes glittered with dark emotion. “What’s going on?”
    While Kennedy explained, Grace was afraid that Clay wouldn’t be able to control his reaction. The graying pallor of his skin told her how tortured he was by the mere thought of what she’d been through, and worry for him somehow made it easier for her to cope with her own pain.
    â€œSomeone must’ve stolen my underwear,” she said when Kennedy was through. “But I have no idea when or how. Or who might’ve owned these other pairs.”That last part was true. As far as she knew, she’d been her stepfather’s only victim. So what did this underwear signify? That there were more?
    The possibility of others having suffered as she’d suffered sent a chill down her spine. But she steeled herself against it. She’d think about that later. She couldn’t add anything else to what she was feeling right now.
    â€œI used to hang all our laundry on the clothesline,” her mother volunteered from the periphery. Considering Irene’s present state of mind, it was a worthy attempt at an explanation. They’d been so poor they hadn’t had a dryer. But worthy or not, her mother seemed dangerously close to losing her composure. Grace feared that if Clay didn’t give them away, Irene would.
    Throwing back her shoulders, she pulled off her sunglasses. “Right. Which meant they were available to just about anyone. I’m guessing whoever collected these—” she motioned toward the table and fought to assume her professional persona, hoping no one could tell how badly she was quaking inside “—was in the fantasy stage.”
    â€œThat was twenty years ago,” Pontiff said. “So, if he’s still around, he might not be in the fantasy stage anymore.”
    Grace focused on his neatly clipped mustache. “Have you had any complaints, Chief?”
    â€œNo, but…sometimes this type of thing goes unreported.”
    â€œThat’s true,” she murmured as if she had as much objectivity as he did.
    â€œWhoever it was killed Lee and ran off,” Irene said.
    Pontiff wore his skepticism as proudly as his badge. “But no one else has gone missing.”
    Irene crowded closer. “It was a drifter. It had to be a drifter. Why won’t anyone believe me?”
    Clay put an arm around their mother and told her to calm down while Madeline tugged Grace from the table. “Mike Metzger lived within walking distance,” she said. “Do you think he might’ve