Don't Tell by Karen Rose Read Free Book Online Page B

backpack. He remembered the way Robbie had inspected it, sober and careful. The way he straightened like a soldier when he hauled it onto his back the first time. The way he’d said, „Thank you, Pa,“ respectfully, the way boys didn’t behave anymore. His boy had been special. His hands tightened into fists. „What else?“
    Vandalia shifted on his feet uncomfortably. „Detective, you really shouldn’t even be down here until the primary – “
    Winters advanced a single step, directing a harsh stare at Russell Vandalia’s spindly body in his grimy coveralls. „What else?“ he gritted from behind clenched teeth.
    Vandalia stood quietly, not moving a muscle. Winters hated him, hated the way he moved at his own damn speed, not caring about the important things going on around him. Then Vandalia shrugged again, turned once more to spit in his damn coffee can. „Your wife’s purse.“
    „Her wallet?“
    „Still there. Her driver’s license. No cash. No credit cards.“
    She hadn’t had any credit cards. He’d never allowed it. Mary Grace couldn’t be trusted with more than twenty bucks at a time, much less a credit card. Her wallet was still there, but empty. She’d been robbed. His gut churned. His boy had been killed over twenty bucks.
    „What else?“
    „Her walker, in the backseat. A set of jumper cables in the trunk.“ He paused, shrugged again. „A statue on the floorboard, driver’s side.“
    Winters sharply inhaled, every hair on his neck raising. „What?“ The garage and all its sundry contents faded to the distant background as he focused on the old man who remained stubbornly silent. Winters took another step forward, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, the urge to throttle Vandalia almost too strong to resist. „What did you say?“
    „A statue.“ Vandalia regarded him warily. „About eight inches tall. One of those cheap statues you put in your garden – I’ve seen ‘em for about fifteen bucks at Carolina Pottery. I’m not Catholic, so I can’t say for sure who it is. Maybe the Virgin Mary.“
    „Where is it?“ Winters asked, making his voice steady, impersonal. He didn’t want to make the old man suspicious. He needed to get a good look at that statue. He followed the direction Vandalia’s shoulder jerked, turning to a table next to the car. Unable to believe his own eyes, barely able to control the feral roar of murderous wrath that flooded him, Winters approached the table.
    There it was. That damn statue. She’d given it to her. That mother-fucking nurse’s aide that couldn’t keep her nose out of everybody else’s business. The young one. The one that looked at him like he was pond scum, a bottom-feeder that didn’t deserve to live. The one that coddled Mary Grace like she was some kind of victim. Hah. The only kind of victim Mary Grace had been was of her own stupidity and disobedience. The very existence of that statue was stone proof.
    Winters stared in disbelief at the cracks in the clay, vividly remembering the day he’d hauled her sorry ass home from the hospital. The head nurse, the old one, said his wife needed to stay another three months, maybe go to some fancy rehabilitation center. Bullshit. What Mary Grace needed was to be home. She’d been lazing in that hospital bed for three months while he did her chores at home. While he kept Robbie clean and fed. He was tired of ordering takeout from the Chink place down the street, tired of the macaroni-and-cheese Robbie made every single meal the boy cooked. Tired of dragging his clothes to the corner cleaners to be laundered. Tired of the sorry way Robbie picked up the floor and made the beds. Tired of his boy having to do women’s work.
    She could move. Enough to do her chores. Mary Grace needed to be home. It was her place.
    So he’d brought his wife home. She wanted to keep the statue, actually thought he would allow her to keep it, to remember that nosy home-wrecking nurse that treated him like he was