Until She Comes Home by Lori Roy Read Free Book Online Page B

says, not answering Julia’s questions.
    “It was a difficult day,” Julia says.
    “She pushed it open?” the officer asks again, now standing at Julia’s side. “You’re quite certain? Walked through it and then up her sidewalk?”
    “There was news,” Julia says, silently counting out eight houses. In the light of day, she’d have seen much better. “The ladies were all talking. And the twins. They’ve only recently arrived. I had much to think about. She’s done this before, you know. Elizabeth has strayed before. Surely someone else saw her after I did. One of the other ladies. One of the neighbors. She’s wandered off. That’s all.”
    She can’t tell this man that instead of concerning herself with Elizabeth’s well-being, Julia had been worried about the dead woman on Willingham and the prostitutes who come to the factory over the lunch hour. She can’t tell him that Bill has been a good husband for the last two years and still she worries like all the ladies worry. She can’t explain to him how Betty Lawson’s baby cried and forced Julia from Grace’s house. How those cries made Julia ache and want to double over from the pain of it but instead she dipped a finger in the baked beans and called for more brown sugar. She can’t tell him that three years ago her own baby died and her husband won’t father another, that he won’t even touch her, not in that way. The officer wouldn’t understand that Julia had to leave Grace Richardson’s house before lunch was served because the fear of never having another baby had suffocated her and now she is so very sorry she didn’t watch Elizabeth closely enough. Avoiding the officer’s eyes, Julia says none of these things.
    “I saw her,” she says. “Elizabeth was home. I’m sure she was home. Surely someone else has seen her. Surely I wasn’t the last.”
    •   •   •
    Malina steps away from the window when Julia and a police officer walk down Julia’s driveway toward the street. She leans against the wall, where no one will be able to see her, and continues flipping through the newspaper. Twice she’s read through it and has yet to find anything about the dead woman on Willingham. If only a reporter would have commented on the woman’s stature. Was she slender and petite or on the stout, portly side? This is all Malina needs to know.
    If it weren’t for all the people shouting out to Elizabeth Symanski, Malina might open a window or two to cool down the house. While her skirt’s wide, six-yard sweep is perfectly suited to emphasize her narrow waist, it’s a curse in the heat. It’s only her imagination that those voices are getting closer. The men aren’t circling her house, closing in because they suddenly realize Mr. Herze is not among them. If anyone asks why Malina’s driveway is once again empty at long past suppertime, she’ll tell them Mr. Herze is busy dealing with that nastiness down on Willingham. Someone must coordinate with the police and see to it the matter of that dead woman is solved. This is what she’ll tell them, but only if someone asks.
    “Good evening.”
    Malina closes the newspaper, crumples it as she draws it to her chest, and swings around. Mr. Herze stands in the doorway, his briefcase in one hand, his hat in the other.
    “You’ve startled me,” Malina says. She folds the newspaper in thirds. “I didn’t expect you home so early. I rather thought the police would be keeping you busy.”
    Under the soft glow thrown by the porch light, the fringe of white hair around Mr. Herze’s head glistens with perspiration. This unusual heat, even when it breaks in the evenings, is difficult for him to manage. He glances at the newspaper Malina still holds in one hand and then at Malina.
    “It’s yesterday’s,” she says. “Today’s is there.” She points at the entryway table. “Right there, waiting for you.” Malina won’t search today’s paper for news of the dead woman until Mr. Herze has