North Country(116)
Moments later, the porch lights come on. Emery peeks out the window before unlocking the door. She’s still in uniform. Her cheeks are tearstained, like she was crying the whole drive home. “It’s past ten. You can’t be here. Your curfew—”
“Glen isn’t gonna send me back to jail for cutting across a field.”
She doesn’t put up a fight as I move inside, shutting the door behind me. “Talk to me.”
She shrugs, her focus on the old hardwood floor. “We knew the chances of finding her alive were low, even nonexistent. It’s been six months. At least we have a body to work with now. It should give us some clues.” She’s rambling—a clear sign that she’s about to lose it.
“Come here.” I pull her into my chest before she has a chance to argue, curling my arms around her. “It’s just you and me. You don’t have to pretend it’s okay. None of this is okay.”
Finally, she relents, her body shuddering as she breaks down in sobs. “She was still wearing her red shirt and that little skirt, and her one earring.”
I stroke Emery’s hair as I listen.
“I should have made Holly go home that night. If I’d just called Jenny, none of this would be happening now!” Another wave of ratcheting sobs takes over.
I could tell her a hundred times that this isn’t on her, any more than it’s on me, but I know it’s pointless. So I collect her unsteady body and carry her upstairs to her bedroom, helping her out of her uniform.
She falls asleep in my arms.
But it’s a long time before I’m able to drift off.
I’m finishing up Biscuit’s stall when Duke announces his presence with a whine of greeting and then a sniff of my pant leg. “Hey, buddy.” I scratch his head as I watch Isla in the barn’s alleyway, her horse trailing behind her.
The hollowness in her eyes nearly guts me. I’ve seen that look before.
On Emery, the day of my sentencing.
“Hey, kid.”
“Hey.” It’s a dull, lifeless greeting.
“His stall’s already done.” I wasn’t sure if she was going to make it this morning. She came home from Dillon’s two days ago but hasn’t left her room since.
Isla wanders over to the tack room to collect grooming tools, a mumbled thanks slipping out on her way past.
I pat a patiently waiting Copper’s muzzle. “You going to school?”
Isla shakes her head. “All the work is posted online, anyway.”
That’s probably smart. Holly’s picture is all over the news again, only now the headlines have replaced missing with homicide. It’s all anyone is talking about.
Isla drags the comb over Biscuit’s coat, her movements slow and mechanical.
Her horse responds with a whickering sound before turning his head to nuzzle her cheek, offering her comfort.
She buries her face against him, and a sniffle sounds.
Then another.
My chest constricts as I watch Isla suffer, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do to help. There are no words to make any of this easier. I know that better than most. “For what it’s worth, it won’t always feel like this. It’ll take a while, but eventually, you’ll wake up hurting a little less every day. I promise. You just have to get through this part.” Even after what Jay did, I still think about him, my mind snagging on the good memories that didn’t reconcile with one terrible one.
Of course, it’s worse for Isla because there is no way to rationalize this; there is no world where Holly deserved what happened to her.
Isla peels away from Biscuit and falls against me, a slight, trembling figure seeking comfort.
I falter, tensing at the security this child—Emery’s child—unexpectedly seeks in me, but then wrap my arms around her, enveloping her in a hug.
Chapter 43
Emery
“Cause of death is blunt force trauma to the skull. There are signs of hemorrhaging in the brain, suggesting victim was still alive for a short time after.” Schmidt reads from the preliminary autopsy report before skimming for key details to highlight. “There aren’t any signs that she was alive when she was submerged, and the manner of bruising around her ankles suggests she was tied postmortem.”
The mood in the meeting room is somber, to say the least.
“They weighed her down in the water.” Hoping to keep their secret just that for a lot longer than a spring thaw.
“Examiner believes this could have caused the deep laceration like the one she sustained.” He holds up a picture of the fork pocket protruding from the dumpster, where forensics recovered blood and tissue evidence for Holly. The metal is bent and jagged from years of harsh wear and tear, making it dangerously sharp. “They found traces of rust and metal particles embedded inside the wound.”
“So, she either fell and hit her head on it, or someone pushed her head into it with a lot of strength,” Terry says, studying the dumpster picture. “Given the height of it and angle, my bet’s on the former.”
“Were there signs of a struggle?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice even, clinical, even as the visuals being painted are making me dizzy.
“No defensive wounds on her arms or hands. Maceration of the fingers given the water, but they’re running DNA to see what they can find,” Schmidt says.