“Have a nice day,” the principal said and walked the other direction.
Kay hurried to catch up with Jenna, which wasn’t until she reached the front door of the high school, where Jenna was already hurrying down the steps.
“Young lady, wait! Right now!”
But Jenna didn’t wait. Instead she kept her pace and went straight to Damien’s car. But it was locked.
Kay, nearly out of breath, stopped short of plowing into her. “What is the matter with you?”
Jenna stared through the window of the car.
Kay grabbed her arm. “Jenna! Talk to me!”
“Talk to you? Really, Mom? Talk to you? Give me a break.” Jenna yanked her arm away. “Unlock the stupid car!”
“No!” Kay clutched her purse. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I got mad. I hit a girl. Clear enough?”
“No. I want to know why you would hit someone. That’s a very irrational, irresponsible thing to do. You’ve never been violent. We’re nonviolent people.”
Damien hurried around Kay, stepping between them. “Maybe we should finish this at home.”
“I can’t go home! I have to show a house in—” Kay looked at her watch. “I’m late!”
Damien put a hand on each of them. “Okay, let’s calm down. Kay, I can take Jenna. She can come to work with me.”
“To work with you?” Jenna moaned. “Just kill me right now, would you?”
Damien smiled at Kay. “You owe me one.”
Kay couldn’t smile or think anything else except that her world had suddenly fallen apart. Her baby girl, the sweetest she ever knew, had hit someone. On purpose. Kay took a tissue out of her purse and pressed it against her eyes. She watched Jenna get into Damien’s car. She could only stare at that stupid white string bracelet she kept wearing. Had someone called her a name? insinuated she was . . . loose?
Kay hurried to her SUV. She started it and peeled out, the frustration of the day coming to a head.
Then, like a slow-motion dream, someone stepped in front of her SUV. Two people. Kay slammed on the brakes, her tires squealing like a frightened pig. Her body lunged forward and then snapped back as her seat belt locked. Instinctively she held out her hand to the passenger’s empty seat.
“Watch out!” a woman yelled.
Kay had missed them by ten feet or more, but it was still a close call. She tried to catch her breath as she watched the woman and her teenage daughter cross. The woman had a protective arm around the girl. As Kay leaned forward for a better look, she realized the girl was holding . . . her nose. A bloodstained rag poked out from her hand. Kay slid down in her seat. Should she say something? apologize? do nothing?
The girl, a brunette with a glittery headband on, was crying and shaking her head. Her mother was rubbing her back as she assisted her along the pavement. That was the girl? Kay had pictured the other girl being Goth or something.
They finally made it across and Kay inched forward, daring to look one more time. They seemed so . . . normal.
***
A crowd had gathered on the front lawn of the home when Frank and Gavin arrived. Frank got out and immediately saw the cat, black as night, swaying from a limb in the slight breeze, a stark white rope around its neck.
He wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t expected this. The dispatcher said nothing about the cat hanging from a tree.
“What do we do?” Gavin said, suddenly beside him.
Frank tore his eyes away from the cat. “Where are the home owners?” he said loudly, above the noise of the crowd.
“Over there!” someone shouted.
Frank saw a couple standing on the porch, holding each other.
They met Frank in the driveway. “I’m Reverend Ted Caldwell. This is my wife, Beth.”
“Is this your cat?” Frank asked, his back to the tree.
“Yes, it is,” Reverend Caldwell said, glancing at it. “His name is Riddle.”
“When did you discover the cat?” Frank asked.
“We know he wasn’t there this morning.”
Gavin took out his pad, started writing notes.
“Our daughter left for school, and we surely would’ve noticed him.”
“When did you notice him?” Frank asked.
“Maybe around nine thirty,” Mrs. Caldwell said. Tears dripped down her face. “I was leaving for the grocery store.”
“Jenkins, go ahead and cut the cat down.” Frank didn’t want the freaks to start showing up, though there were plenty of people gawking already, with their cell phone cameras out. “There are some tools in the trunk.” He grabbed Gavin’s arm and said quietly, “Don’t let it drop to the ground. Do it carefully, considerately. Do you understand me?”
Gavin’s eyes widened. “Yes.”
“And make sure it’s really dead.”
“Don’t you need to keep it there . . . for evidence?” the wife asked.
“No, ma’am. We don’t do crime scene investigations on animal cruelty cases, but we do take them very seriously.” Frank pulled out his own notepad. “You didn’t see anybody?”
“No, sir,” the reverend answered. “Nothing unusual.”
“You’re a pastor. Of what church?”
“Redeemer’s.”
Frank asked all the standard questions, his voice calm and collected, but inside an uneasiness started to set in. Marlo was not the kind of town where you found cats hung in trees. He was having a hard time focusing on the Caldwells. “Can you think of anyone who would want to do this to you?”
“Actually, yes.” Mrs. Caldwell glanced at her husband, then back at Frank.
Frank raised an eyebrow, his attention on the reverend, who suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Really? Someone has a grudge against you?”
“
Grudge
might be too hard of a word,” he said. “We just recently learned this.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Tim Shaw. He’s a deacon at our church,” Beth Caldwell said.
“What is the nature of the disagreement?”
“Church, apparently,” Reverend Caldwell said.
“You’re not sure?”
“Not exactly.”
“Has Mr. Shaw confronted you?”
“No. Not directly.”
“How do you know he’s angry with you?”
The reverend glanced at his wife, who gave a small nod. “Well, um . . . there’s this Web site. It’s . . . I don’t know really what it is. But it’s got conversations on it from our town. One of them is Tim talking about me.”
Frank quickly jotted down notes. A slight stirring of the crowd and a timid scream caused them all to look toward the tree. Gavin hung from a limb, sawing the rope. It snapped and the cat fell to the ground. A poof of dust rose up around it.
Frank turned and marched toward Gavin, clutching his pencil like a weapon. Gavin was climbing down the tree. Frank grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him off.
He fell to the ground and jumped up, looking angry and scared. “What?”
“I told you not to let that cat drop!” Frank yelled.
Gavin breathed hard. “I tried. Honest. But I couldn’t hold on to the limb, cut, and hold the cat. I would’ve fallen out.”
Heat flushed through Frank’s face. “Give me your coat.”
“What?”
“Your coat!”
Gavin took it off and handed it over.
Frank turned to the cat and crouched, searching carefully for any signs of breathing. He put two fingers to the small of its neck, then stood and laid the coat over the cat. And glared at Gavin. “You better learn to follow orders, son.” He walked back to the Caldwells, trying to compose himself.
Mrs. Caldwell looked away from where the cat lay, shaking her head. “How are we going to tell Gabriella?”
“Where might I find Mr. Shaw?” Frank asked.
Mrs. Caldwell pointed through the crowd. “That’s him. Standing on his lawn across the street.”
The reverend grabbed Frank’s arm. “But I know this man. He wouldn’t kill my cat.”
Mrs. Caldwell glared distantly. “Yeah, well, we all thought we knew Tim. Until we heard what he was capable of saying about you.”
6
Damien drove toward his work, glancing at Jenna every few seconds, trying to figure out what to say. She only leaned against her window, gazing out, seemingly not even there. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“No.”
“This is unlike you. You’re not one of those kids.”
“And what kind of kid would that be?”
“A kid that hits other kids. You were a pincher in preschool, but you got over that phase.” Damien smiled, but Jenna didn’t. “Look, why don’t you just explain it. I want to hear your side of the story.”
“It won’t change anything. I’m suspended. Probably grounded.” She looked at Damien.
“Well, um, yes. Of course. But still, you need to tell me what happened.”
A long, strong sigh escaped from Jenna, and she finally sat up. “It goes down like this. A girl was being mean. To another girl. So I hit her.”
Damien didn’t react. He wanted to listen, hear her out. “Okay.”
“That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“This isn’t some epic tale.”
Damien took a deep breath, trying not to lose his patience.
Jenna turned the radio on, switching the channel to some horrid sound called alternative rock.
Damien pushed it off. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what’s going on with you and your attitude, but it’s not acceptable.”
“You want to give me some speech about the power of words, Daddy? Something about how I should’ve tried to use my words? You know what? Sometimes words are the problem. And sometimes they can’t fix things.”
Damien nodded, alarmed at her tone, but glad she was at least talking. “Okay. I understand that.”
“No, you really don’t.”
“Then help me understand.”
“Just ground me. And let’s leave it at that.”
“Fine. You’re grounded.”
“From what?”
“You pick, since you want to go this thing alone.”
Jenna’s scowl couldn’t hide the surprise. She attempted a halfhearted shrug. “Whatever. Fine. The Internet.”
“Perfect. One week.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
***
Frank told the Caldwells to go inside and wait there. He backed the crowd away to give them their space. Gavin was calling animal control and covering the cat with a sheet so he could take his coat back. Frank turned to cross the street.
Tim Shaw stood still, watching the scene.
A nearby man approached Frank before he got to the other side of the street. “I have some information.”
“About the cat?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“I work at Al’s Hardware Store. Tim’s a frequent customer.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, he was in the other day. And he paid with cash.”
“He paid for what in cash?”
“His items.”
“You’re saying he bought a rope?”
“No. He didn’t buy a rope. He bought some weed killer. But he paid in cash. He pays for a lot of things in cash. You know, maybe trying to cover something up.”
Frank glanced at Mr. Shaw, who was still standing there, looking worried. “All right. Thank you.” He started to walk off.
“It’s just, you know, there was a conversation.”
“On the Web site.”
“Yeah. Something about getting even.”
“How do you know it was Mr. Shaw talking about Reverend Caldwell?”
The guy shrugged and pointed to the tree. “The cat kind of says it all, doesn’t it?”
Frank continued across the street. As he neared Mr. Shaw, the man looked more and more alarmed. “You’re Tim Shaw?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s talk inside.”
He led Frank inside the house. A woman, presumably his wife, stood near the large front window, like she’d been peeking out the country blue curtains. She walked across the country blue carpet and stopped by the country blue couch. A collection of rooster images, from framed prints to metal-and-wire cutouts, hung on a far wall.
“I’m Officer Merret.”
“Darla.” She gave a limp handshake and sat down. “What’s going on?”
“You don’t know?” Frank asked.
“We went over this morning when we heard all the commotion, and Beth yelled at us to get off their lawn,” Tim explained. “I’m not sure why they’re so upset with us. We’re friends.”
Frank sat down in a dark blue recliner. Through the kitchen he saw two poodles anxiously panting at the door. “You’re aware their cat was hung—” he cleared his throat—“from a tree.”
“Yes,” Darla said, squeezed close to her husband on the couch. “That’s awful.”
“Did you have anything to do with it?”
Darla’s mouth dropped open, and Tim’s eyes widened. “They think we hung their cat?”
“That’s what they said.” Frank gave them a moment to process it, closely reading their reaction.
“Why would they think that?” Tim said, anguish in his voice. “I’m the head deacon at their church. We’ve known Ted and Beth for years.”
Frank wasn’t sure how to broach the next subject. He took his time figuring out how to say it right. “Okay, look; they mentioned a Web site. Are you aware of it?”
“A Web site? What Web site?”
“It’s called Listen to Yourself.”
“Never heard of it,” Darla said and looked at her husband. “Have you?”
“No. What is it?” Tim asked Frank.
“I’m not sure. I only recently discovered it myself. A fellow officer told me about it. Apparently someone is going around town recording conversations and posting them on the Internet.”
Tim and Darla stared at each other, then at Frank. This wasn’t sinking in.
“According to the Caldwells, there is a conversation on there—you’re talking about them. I don’t know the specifics because I haven’t seen the actual conversation. But whatever it was, they’ve concluded that you’re angry with them.”
As if guilt had cloaked Darla, everything about her changed, from her expression to her posture. She turned to Tim, who still didn’t seem to follow.
Tim asked, “What do you mean, our conversation?”
“Like I said, I don’t know that. But this Web site is called Listen to Yourself and—”
Tim walked over to the breakfast bar, where a laptop was open. He cleared the screen saver and typed quickly.
“What are you doing?” Darla asked.