Free Indivisible by Kristen Heitzmann Page B

ahead. “Do what you have to.”
    She knew he would, but it mattered that she said it. He stopped her at the door. “If people come forward, there might be opportunities for immunity.”
    “Some people think squealing’s worse than time.”
    “Some people do.” He held her eyes until she looked away. “If you’ve got things here, I’ll run Caldwell down.”
    He never sent a male prisoner alone with a female officer. Besides, this was hitting her close to home. Inside, he fitted Tom Caldwell with a wide leather belt complete with metal ring through which he threaded the cuffs. Neither of them spoke on the way to the jail or when Jonah turned him over.
    He had jailed more than a few of his schoolmates, though usually not for long. Even, sadly, some who’d been friends. Came with the job. Some understood that. He headed home beneath a wan moon, expecting to find his place empty, but the scent of smoke reached him as he approached the porch. “Still here?”
    Jay pulled a long drag on his cigarette.
    “Those things’ll kill you.” Jonah mounted the steps.
    “I only smoke on Sundays.”
    Jonah pulled up a chair. He’d escaped the lure of tobacco, but his mistress called. He’d expected it to kick in, given the emotional stress of the day, and here it was. He could taste her in his mind. What he wouldn’t give for a glass of sipping whiskey and a slow sad song.
    He didn’t envy Sam Donnelly. What he’d seen looked like meth, and that was no mistress but a dominatrix from the deepest pit.
    He turned to Jay. “How do you feel about a new intervention?”
    “Who?”
    “Guy I know.”
    “Has he hit bottom?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Let me know when there’s nothing under him but the grave.”

Seven
Unity to be real must survive the severest strain without breaking.
—MAHATMA GANDHI
    T ia looked up from her detailing as a couple of shoppers peered in. She studied the faces, framed by their palms. She and her wares might be the inner structure of a snow globe they studied. She read their expressions and posture, surmising where they were in life and how they felt about it.
    To a practiced observer, there were common streams of experience, doubts, needs, and desires. It remained only to fill in the details. In that, her imagination proved more than adequate. They didn’t come in. It was Friday of a slow week, and she hoped it didn’t portend a downtrend. But a short while later, a shopper entered, tinkling the bell above the door.
    Her mother had hung that bell, ever conscious of potential wrongdoers. Stella Manning gave no one the benefit of the doubt. Those who measured up received her laud. All others need not apply. Tia’s infantile transgressions had landed her firmly in the latter camp. A mother would know, wouldn’t she, if her child were simply bad?
    The blond woman in burgundy scrubs moved awkwardly, not a limp so much as an uncoordinated gait that reminded Tia of the three-legged races on field day. Perhaps a prosthetic limb.
    Tia moved toward her, smiling. “Can I help you?”
    “Um, I don’t know. What’s the needle for?”
    Tia looked at the syringe in her hand and laughed. “Oh. Ornamentation. I was detailing these pillars.” She motioned toward the one she’d set down.
    “With a hypodermic?”
    “It makes a very fine groove and releases the wax evenly.” With the unorthodox tool, she as easily outlined pine needles and columbine as added abstract swirls and dots to coarse or smoothly textured pillars.
    “You make the candles?” The woman surveyed the store.
    “And all the scent blends and oils. You’re welcome to browse, or was there something …”
    “I’m looking for a gift. For my sister.”
    She thought of Reba’s gifts with a pang. “Birthday?”
    “She’s not well.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.” Would she even know if Reba were unwell? Would any of them tell her? “What does she like? Scents, textures? Is she more visual?”
    “Do you have anything with a lilac