Everywhere She Turns by Debra Webb Read Free Book Online Page A

God
.
    “Mrs. Jennings?” CJ couldn’t see a damned thing through that narrow opening, but, according to the neighbors, Frances Jennings still lived at this address.
    “You Cecilia Patterson’s girl? The doctor?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Anticipation fired in CJ’s veins. It was definitely Frances Jennings, one and only aunt to Ricky Banks. “Is it okay if I come in, Mrs. Jennings?”
    “I heard about your sister.” Frances opened the door a littlewider, eyed CJ suspiciously over her bifocals. “It’s a shame, that’s what it is.”
    CJ nodded, pushing aside the images that immediately tried to invade her thoughts. “I was hoping to talk to Ricky.” Just saying his name made CJ want to tear something apart. A year younger than CJ, Ricky had been in and out of Shelley’s life since middle school. One of the mistakes her sister hadn’t been able to stop repeating.
    “He ain’t here, but you can come on in.” Frances Jennings shuffled back, opening the door wider and staying slightly behind it as if she feared she might need it as a shield. Life in the village would do that to a person.
    “Thank you.” CJ stepped across the threshold, flashbacks from all the times she’d been here before, usually complaining about Ricky, tumbled one over the other.
    Francis closed the door and set the lock. “The two of ’em never could seem to stay away from each other. I always thought they’d end up married.”
    Yeah, right
. Ricky loved whoring Shelley out too much to marry her. She was his meal ticket. “I know what you mean,” CJ lied.
    Frances smoothed the skirt of her Sunday-go-to-meeting dress and lowered her hefty bulk into her rocker-recliner. She set the chair in motion. “Neither one of ’em could ever stay out of trouble, either.”
    Moving to a chair, CJ tried as inconspicuously as possible to survey the living room and what she could see of the kitchen beyond. “It’s harder for some than others.”
Careful. Don’t say the wrong thing. Don’t let her see your hatred
.
    Frantic scratching somewhere deeper in the house had CJ leaning forward in her chair before she could stop herself.
    “Don’t pay no mind to that,” Frances said. “It’s that big old dog of Ricky’s. I make him keep that beast shut up in his room when he ain’t here.”
    CJ nodded, relaxed marginally. Ricky had a brute of a mutt. A pit bull or Rottweiler or something like that. A savage pet for a savage man.
    “The police were here looking for him last night.” Frances folded her hands together in her lap.
    Another shot of adrenaline pierced CJ’s chest. “I guess they just want to talk to him about Shelley.” She tamped down the outrage that mounted, threatened to climb into her throat and out of her mouth in violent screams. “Surely they can’t believe Ricky would hurt Shelley like that. He likes to push folks around when he gets fired up, but he wouldn’t kill anybody.” The words left a bitter taste in her mouth.
    Frances nodded, her saggy double chin wobbling with her stern conviction.
    CJ held her breath.
    “That’s what he said. He didn’t kill nobody. The police just want somebody to blame. Why, that boy has gone to church with me every Sunday for the past twenty years. ’Cept for today. Wears that crucifix I gave him every day of his life. He ain’t guilty of a thing but trying to survive.”
    CJ made a concerted effort not to roll her eyes. If dear old Aunt Frances only knew.
    The naive old lady harrumphed. “That’s why I told ’em I didn’t know where in the world that boy was.”
    “The problem is”—CJ had to tread cautiously here—“if he doesn’t answer their questions, the police are going to presume he’s guilty.”
    Frances stopped her rocking.
    “He really should tell them what he knows so they can start looking at other possibilities.” CJ moistened her lips. “You . . . you know as well as I do how the police are about folks in this neighborhood. They probably figure nailing