collected these?â
Mike had long been Madelineâs suspect of choice. A week before her father went missing, the reverend had caught nineteen-year-old Mike smoking pot in the bathroom of the church and turned him in to the authorities. Mike had spouted off a few threats but the circumstantial evidence pointing his way had never been solid enough for police to press charges. Now Mike was in prison for manufacturing crystal meth in his basement, and Madeline was still harassing him with regular letters.
Grace drew enough breath to speak. Before she could say anything, however, Chief Pontiff interrupted. âWe can ask him. He gets home in a few days.â
âA few days?â Irene echoed. âBut he still has two years.â
âNot anymore. Heâs been granted parole.â
Grace felt almost sorry for Mike. He had his problems, but he wasnât a murderer. After a stint in prison, heâd be coming home to another maelstrom of questions about Barker.
She glanced at Clay, wondering if he was thinking about Mike, too, but saw him staring over their motherâs head at the things on the table. From the veins standing out in his neck, she knew that what he saw bothered him as much as sheâd expected. Hooking her arm throughhis, she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder to tell him that the past was behind them, that they couldnât allow this discovery to ruin the happiness theyâd both found.
âHowâs Allie?â she asked to remind him of everything they had to protect.
He blinked, then let go of Irene, who was digging through her purse for a tissue.
Grace sensed him struggling to contain his emotions, but it was only when Madeline edged closer that he managed an answer. âFine. Allieâsâ¦â His chest rose as he drew a deep breath. âAllie,â he finished simply, using her name as the talisman Grace had intended it to be.
âAre you okay?â Madeline asked.
âIâm fine.â He stretched his neck. âBut whoever put that stuff in the trunk is one sick bastard,â he said and stalked out.
Relieved, Grace watched him go. Heâd been careful to say is one sick bastard. Not was. Theyâd handled this meeting as well as she couldâve hoped. With any luck, this discovery would fade into the background and theyâd be able to return to their lives.
As Madeline thanked Chief Pontiff for his efforts, Grace nudged Kennedy, indicating that they should go, too. She didnât want to be in the same room with those panties, or with the other objects, either. The person sheâd been was not the person she was now. âGrinding Gracieâ was the one whoâd been raped, repeatedly, by her stepfather, but Grinding Gracie was dead and gone. Grace wouldnât be her anymore, sheâd reject her pain, her inadequacies, her needs.
But halfway to the door she heard Madeline say something that made her freeze.
âHow long will it take?â
âDepends on the lab. Could take a few weeks. Could take months. Without a suspect, we donât have a legitimate reason to ask them to rush.â
Graced turned back. âYouâre going to try and get a DNA sample?â
He nodded.
âFrom what?â
âEverything.â
âBut itâs been nearly twenty years! Any DNA will be too degraded.â
âNot necessarily. This stuff was sealed up tight.â
She felt the pressure of Kennedyâs hand, warning her to be careful. She was sounding panicky, but she couldnât help it. âBut what good will getting a profile do?â
Pontiffâs eyebrows rose. âWhat good will it do?â
âItâs only helpful if you have something to match it against,â she said, âand you donât even have a victim.â
Wearing the same rubber gloves heâd used while laying out these objects, he started putting everything back into a brown paper sack. âTrue, but like I