Free A Judgment of Whispers by Sallie Bissell

two of us.”
    Mary glanced at the long sleeve that had ridden up to Grace’s elbow. Bruises dark as tattoos decorated her forearm. “Did he give you those?”
    Grace quickly pulled her sleeve down. “Yeah. I saw Emily looking at these yesterday. I bet you all think my husband beats me, don’t you?”
    â€œI don’t know what Emily thinks,” said Mary. “I’ve just worked on a lot of abuse cases and connected my usual set of dots.”
    â€œI’m divorced. My husband, Mike, left me when Zack turned sixteen. He just couldn’t take having a damaged child anymore.”
    Mary asked, “Did his leaving set off your son’s outbursts?”
    â€œNo, Zack’s had anger issues since he was a little boy.” Grace looked down, her chin quivering. “He’s always remorseful after one of his meltdowns, but in the moment, he truly can’t control himself.” She rose from the sofa and walked over to the front door.
    â€œSee this painting?” She pointed to a small landscape of their front yard, sunlight dappling the flowers, the blue mountains hazy on the far horizon.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” said Mary. “When did you paint it?”
    â€œI didn’t,” Grace replied. “Zack did. Zack also did this.”
    She took the painting off the wall, revealing a fist-sized hole in the plaster. “I don’t have the money to have them all repaired, so I just started hanging pictures over the worst ones.” She gave a deep sigh. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent my whole life covering up Zack’s outbursts.”
    Suddenly a high-pitched yell came from the back part of the house.
    â€œExcuse me,” said Grace. “I’ll be right back.”
    As Grace hurried to her son, Mary remained on the sofa, wondering how many paintings were there on display and how many just hid fist holes in the walls. Soon she heard Grace’s footsteps returning.
    â€œSorry,” Grace apologized. “The VCR chewed up one of his tapes.”
    Mary said, “He still watches videotapes?”
    â€œHe’s obsessed with them—as are many autistic people. He orders them from all over the country. Getting a new video in the mail is like Christmas for Zack.”
    Mary didn’t know quite what to say, so she asked the obvious. “So how can I help you?”
    Grace said, “Have you ever heard of the Teresa Ewing murder case?”
    Mary drew a quick breath. First Victor, now Grace. “Of course I have. The little girl under the Undli Adaya . Why?”
    â€œMy son was the only person they arrested. We lived on Salola Street then. He played with Teresa and the other neighborhood children. Everyone was convinced Zack did it, because he was older and bigger and, well, strange.”
    â€œBut they didn’t go to trial,” said Mary.
    â€œNo. The police scared him into signing a confession. Then Cecil Earp got the thing thrown out.” Grace rubbed her temples, as if she had a headache. “This reason I called you is that a detective came here yesterday. He said they wanted new DNA samples from Zack.”
    Mary frowned, confused. If Victor didn’t know the date of manufacture of those underpants until this morning, why had the cops asked for DNA yesterday? “Did the detective give you his card?”
    Grace gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t need Buck Whaley’s card. He comes by here every month or so. Zack’s the puppy he likes to torture.”
    Mary stared at her. “Are you serious?”
    Grace nodded, her words pouring out. “Mary, Teresa Ewing’s murder was the worst thing that ever happened to us. We got constant phone calls, garbage dumped on our lawn, a rattlesnake in our mailbox. Once I was buying flowers at the hardware store when a man waggled a rope in front of me and said he was buying it to lynch my pervert son. After they threw out Zack’s