Mrs. Stokes had read her a story about a fairy-tale princess. For reasons Melanie hadn't known, she'd cried at the end. Then she'd hastily dried her tears, given Melanie a yearning look, and quickly left the room.
Later, one of the social workers explained to Melanie that Mrs. Stokes had lost her four-year-old daughter years ago in Texas. It had been very tragic. Now the Stokeses were starting over in Boston and Dr. Harper Stokes and his wife were among the most generous people in the community. Really, a lovely couple. So sad what had happened, of course, but sometimes God knows best.
Melanie got it. The Stokeses were missing a little girl the way she was missing a family. Apart, they were all lonely. Together, they would fit.
The next time Patricia arrived, she thrust out her arms. In an instant Mrs. Stokes folded her into her embrace. She began to cry again. This time Melanie patted her back.
“It's all right now,” she whispered solemnly. “I'll be your little girl and everything will be all right.”
Patricia had cried harder.
Six months later the Stokeses brought Melanie home.
By the time she was twelve, Melanie was the only one who could make her overworked father laugh. She was the one who understood Brian and his black moods.
Then there were the really dark nights, when her brother stayed out late and her father worked late, when Melanie would go downstairs and find her mother staring up at the oil portrait of the four-year-old daughter who would never be coming home. The little girl Patricia had brought into the world and lost. The little girl who, even though Patricia had Melanie, she still couldn't forget.
On those nights Melanie would lead her mother upstairs and into bed. Then she would sit with her mother in the silence and hold her hand, trying to help her simply get through.
It's okay, Mom. I'll take care of you. I will always take care of you.
Five o'clock. The grandfather clock chimed again, rousing Melanie from her memories.
She was still staring at Meagan Stokes, who beamed as she held out her favorite red wooden horse to whoever was watching her. Little Meagan, with the perfect blue ruffled dress, big blue eyes, and golden sausage curls. Bright Meagan, who, just three weeks after the painting was completed, would be dead.
And twenty years later the Stokes family was still trying to get over it. Melanie understood now that there were some wounds not even an earnest new daughter could mend.
She finally turned away. She curled up on the sofa and whispered, “But they're my family too, Meagan. I earned them. I did.”
THE MAN HUMMED softly to himself in the dark room. Making a list, checking it twice…
Twenty-five years he'd waited. Thought about what he'd do, turned it over in his mind, refined it until it was absolutely right. Three weeks earlier he'd started the ball rolling with a single phone call.
First get everyone in the same town
. With Larry Digger's arrival just a few hours ago, the last of the players had arrived.
Now let the games begin
.
Twenty-five years ago such crimes had been committed, both big and small. Twenty-five years ago such sins had been tolerated, both big and small. He had always thought human nature would take care of everything in the end. Someone would break, someone would talk, maybe even Larry Digger would finally put the pieces together.
But year had passed into year, and everyone did absolutely nothing. Told nothing, asked nothing, remembered nothing, learned nothing. Everyone got away with it.
He had had enough. Now he was taking matters into his own hands. Starting with the list — the complete compilation of the crimes committed by each.
The crime of not telling. The crime of not knowing. The crime of not remembering. The crime of unconditional love. The crime of unrelenting cowardice.
The crime of never being enough of a man.
Then there came the worst crime, a crime so big, he could not come up with a name that could capture its full