From Cradle to Grave by Patricia MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

hopefully. ‘It must have been.’
    ‘And Drew?’
    ‘Oh, Morgan . . .’ Claire’s voice broke. ‘He drowned in the tub. My baby . . .’
    Morgan felt physically sick. She gasped for air, trying to force herself not to vomit. ‘Claire. You let him drown in the tub? Jesus Christ.’
    ‘Don’t sound like that, Morgan,’ Claire pleaded. ‘I didn’t mean to. I know I didn’t mean to. Don’t you be mad at me too.’
    ‘You didn’t mean to? You sound like a child,’ Morgan upbraided her. ‘This isnt like swiping some bubblegum from the Seven-Eleven.’
    ‘I know that,’ said Claire, suddenly angry.
    Morgan jumped up from the chair and began to pace the small cell like a tiger in a cage. She raked her hand through her hair, trying to process this information. Trying to imagine Claire . . .
    Officer Hardiman’s walkie-talkie emitted static, and the officer responded, speaking in a low voice.
    Morgan forced herself to calm down. She had to calm down for Claire’s sake. Claire had no one else to support her. No matter what she had done, their years of friendship required some kind of allegiance. Yes it was appalling, but accidents did happen. Perhaps it had been a series of horrible accidents. Accident or not, Claire needed Morgan to be on her side. Everyone deserved someone to be on their side. Morgan turned and looked at Claire, who sat slump-shouldered on the bed, her gaze far away.
    ‘I’ll do what I can to help you, Claire,’ Morgan said.
    Claire looked up at her, anguish and gratitude in her eyes.
    ‘County van is here,’ announced Officer Hardiman. ‘Two officers are on their way down here to escort the prisoner.’ She inserted the key in the door and slid it open far enough for Morgan to emerge. ‘Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
    Claire reached out and grasped Morgan’s hand.
    Morgan had to pull her hand free from her friend’s grip. She could hear the heavy tread of boots approaching. ‘I have to go.’
    Claire nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘I know. But Morgan, one more thing. Will you be sure to feed Dusty?’
    It took Morgan a moment to realize what Claire was asking. ‘Your cat?’ said Morgan in disbelief. ‘You’re worried about your cat?
    ‘Please,’ said Claire.
    ‘All right. All right,’ said Morgan. ‘I will.’
    ‘OUT. NOW,’ roared Officer Hardiman. Morgan jumped, and hurried to obey.

FIVE
    P hotographers’ flashes popped like fireworks in the dark as Claire was escorted, handcuffed, a burly state trooper on either side, out of the West Briar police station toward the waiting van. Across the street, Morgan watched as her best friend, so tall and comely that people sometimes mistook her for a fashion model, now stumbled down the walk in a filthy sweatshirt and jeans. Her sallow face, ashen eyes and sunken cheeks made her look like a malnourished street urchin. Reporters shouted her name, but Claire did not respond. She let herself be boosted up into the van, as one cop scrambled up into the seat beside her and another slammed the back doors behind them. Then he turned and faced the crowd. ‘OK folks,’ he cried. ‘Show’s over.’
    The newspeople began to disperse, ready to move on to the next story, as the van which transported prisoners to the county jail pulled away from the curb. Morgan knew that she needed to return to her car. She needed to decide what to do next. Where she was going to stay. All of that. But, instead, she remained where she stood, as if rooted, still trying to absorb, like a series of blows, all that she had seen and heard.
    A silver, ostentatiously large, late-model SUV with black-tinted windows pulled up to the curb in front of her and idled there, blocking her view across the street. The passenger-side window descended, and the driver leaned across the seat. Morgan frowned. Some rubbernecker wanting details on what had happened, no doubt. She was prepared to snap back at any such request.
    ‘Morgan?’
    Morgan