Sisters in the Wind(82)

It was after my first bubble bath that Missus mentioned the options I had for adoption. She spoke highly about the attorney they’d used with previous adoptions. His name was Mr. Scully, and she was happy to arrange a consultation session when I was ready.

“Thank you, Missus,” I replied. “I read about direct-placement adoptions, where I get to pick the couple who would adopt the baby. I think I’d like that. Um, you know, kind of interview a few couples and maybe see where they live. It’s such a huge decision.”

“That’s wonderful, Lucy. Mr. Scully is very experienced with direct placements. I’m sure he’d be happy to screen applicants for you to meet.”

I’d been hoping he didn’t have that particular experience, so my eventual suggestion to use a different attorney wouldn’t be suspicious.

“That sounds good,” I told Missus. “I have more than five months to go, so it … uh … doesn’t have to happen tomorrow.”

“You just let me know when you’re ready,” she said.

As I prepared to leave the apartment, one of the framed art prints on the living room accent wall was crooked. I adjusted the frame. Stepping back to check for levelness, I realized it was a reproduction of a Monet oil painting of irises. The print next to it was a watercolor of vibrant blue irises. In fact, all the artwork on the accent wall had irises.

Irises.

The stress that had melted away during my hour-long soak returned with a vengeance. My stomach reacted. It was too early to feel the baby, but my gut nausea was familiar.

There’d been an iris pendant in Boyd’s trinket box. Mementos of his sexual conquests.

She lets me do what I want, he had bragged.

Was it possible that he and Missus had had sex? I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.

I made my way to the door. It was all I could do to keep from running.

“Lucy,” Missus called out.

I halted, even though staying in the Hoppy private apartment was the last thing I wanted.

“You did a great job cleaning,” she told me. “No offense to Lexi—she does a good job. But you are extremely thorough. Well done, dear.”

“Thank you, Missus,” I said, hiding the twitch in my gut. “My first foster parent taught me how to clean things.”

“Wonderful. That was Miss Lawton, right?” She made a “tsk-tsk” sound before adding, “What a shame, losing her home to a fire. No wonder Boyd’s death affected you so much.”

“You read my file?” It was all I could think to say.

I had been foolish enough to engage in a chess match with Missus.

“Yes, Lucy. Foster parents must be informed if a potential placement has a history of, say, physical violence, drug use, or fire-starting behavior.” She smiled. “Fortunately, Mister and I received additional training to be able to accept high-risk teens.”

Missus knew about the fire at Miss Lonnie’s. She knew about the incident with the fireworks that had first labeled me as a juvenile delinquent. She was escalating the stakes, making her chess moves, bringing up the fire that killed Boyd.

The fire that had been my fault.

“I’m reluctant to tell you,” she said, not sounding reluctant at all. “Before Tonya left, she wrote a letter claiming to have seen you leaving the outbuilding the night of the fire.”

My body responded with every fight-or-flight physiological indicator: porcupine quills on my neck, clammy gooseflesh, and rabbit-quick heartbeats.

“Don’t worry, Lucy. You have the most important work to do. Growing a human being. A baby who will be the answer to the most heartfelt prayers of a loving family. Please get a good night’s sleep. I am here for you. Always.”

I was playing chess with a world-class champion.

There was nothing else for me to do except turn, take the last two steps to the door, and grasp the door handle. As I crossed the threshold, she delivered her checkmate with the warmth of an icicle.

“Tonya wasn’t the only witness, Lucy. I saw you.”





INVESTIGATION


JUNE 2009

Jamie prepares to add an attorney who specializes in arson defenses. I can’t imagine the cost, but Daunis takes it in stride. She focuses on tracking down character witnesses.

And she still tries to lift my spirits.

“You have a lot of regulars who believe you’re innocent,” she says.

“The elderly ones with memory issues?”

She smiles. “Younger customers too. College students, high schoolers, casino workers.”

“So we might not need the arson-defense attorney?”

“You let Jamie and me handle that.”

“He has to let me know if the prosecutor offers a plea deal, right?”

Her ivory skin flushes, like Jennifer’s perfect rosy cheeks.

“Lucy Dolce Smith. Do not go there. You did not bomb the diner. We will find out who did. Do not give up. You will put this behind you. You will live a life that you choose.”

Choose? What have I ever chosen?

“I choose pizza for dinner tonight,” I tell her.





WHEN I WAS SEVENTEEN


2007

Missus had proof placing me at Boyd’s loft the night of the fire. That proof, along with my documented history of—and proximity to—arson crimes would probably get me a murder conviction.