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What bothered her the most was there was still no apology, even now. Would it have made a difference? Probably not, but it was just one more thing on top of everything else. Leah’s mom had been an avid apologizer—something she’d instilled in Leah as a child. I’m sorry shouldn’t be painful to leave the lips. It was a gift for the giver and receiver. Leah never understood that as a child, but she did as an adult. Maybe that was Damon’s problem: he was more kid than grownup.
What a whirlwind... Everything is spinning at one time! Characters add to the confusion by their actions and dialogue... And yet, there is absolutely no clues to the whodunit! A rare occurrence when an author is able to weave the action into a fully explained plot without revealing clues on the way. And yet, it worked! Kudos to the writer!
Irene was unhinged, not homicidal. The two didn’t always go hand in hand. Or so Leah hoped. Either way, this had to stop. She took a shaky breath, exited the car, and started across the street. She was almost to the door when Irene lifted her head. The panic on her face was instant and unmistakable; so much so, that she almost knocked over her chair as she stood. It only bolstered Leah’s resolve. Leah stepped inside. They sized each other up. From across the street, Irene had looked put together with modest makeup and a nice blouse. Up close told another story. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her skin was ashen under the fluorescent lights. Her left sleeve was stained with coffee. Neither spoke. A radio played something jazzy from the corner, and even though Leah’s eyes never left Irene’s, she noted they were alone. “I saw you,” Leah said before she lost her nerve. “You were at my job earlier, watching me from your car.” She expected Irene to deny it. Irene didn’t. She only sat back at her desk. “And you were at my apartment last night,” Leah said. “My roommate, who was with me at the visitation, saw you in our parking lot. Did you go there to leave more hateful gifts at my door? Or maybe you were looking to spray-paint my car, like you did Damon’s house.” Irene’s jaw clicked. “What?” “Don’t lie to me. I know it was you—” “I haven’t done anything or talked to Damon in forever. He left me a message this morning, but he didn’t answer when I tried to call back. And why would I spray-paint your car or leave you hateful gifts, whatever that means?” “So you are going to deny it.” Irene dropped her eyes. Leah hadn’t been fully convinced it had been Irene in their parking lot last night, but after seeing her at Office Playground this morning, she now had no doubt. “It was me,” Irene said in a small voice. “I was at your apartment, and I went to your work today. But I haven’t done anything to you or your dad.” “I don’t believe you. You’re angry over Amanda, so you’re blaming me for her death, and blaming Damon for getting you pregnant.” Shock filled Irene’s face. “Amanda was the best thing that happened in my life. You think I blame Damon for giving her to me? I only blame you for taking her from me.” And there it was. Irene did blame Leah for the accident. Of course she did. Leah already knew this, but hearing the words spoken made it real. “Amanda called you for help,” Irene said. Her hands were trembling atop her desk. “You got angry and yelled at her. I read the report you gave to the police. I know everything.” Leah didn’t know what to say. She was here to stop Irene’s harassment; not be judged. Irene hadn’t been there that night. She hadn’t heard the things Amanda had said. How unreasonable she’d been. How cruel. But none of that mattered. Irene had lost her only child. Nothing Leah could say would change that. If Leah had simply given Amanda a ride, everything would have been fine. Until the next crisis. “What happened to Amanda was an accident,” Leah said for what felt like the umpteenth time. All the fight had gone out of her. “I didn’t know she was going to freak out and run away and get hit by a car. Blame me if you want. You think I don’t blame myself? I do. But I can’t change anything. All I can do is move on with my life . . . but I can’t do that with you stalking me. So what do you want? Just tell me.” Irene composed herself, if only a little. “I’m not stalking you,” she said evenly. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to see you face to face so we can talk.” Leah crossed her arms. “And now we’ve talked and you’ve told me how you feel. So are we done with this? Or would you like to berate me more before I go? It won’t take much to make me feel worse than I already do.” Irene’s shoulders sagged. Apparently, all the fight had left her as well. “There’s a part of me that knows Amanda’s death was an accident,” she told Leah, “but every time I tell myself to accept that . . .” She dropped her clasped hands into her lap. “One minute, I think I’m okay, and then I think of you and that night, and I get angry again. I don’t want to be this way, but I can’t help it. I don’t know how to turn it off.” I know the feeling, Leah didn’t say, thinking of Damon. And she did. But that didn’t give Irene the right to harass Leah. If it was Irene doing it. Leah didn’t know what to think now. She was tired and wanted to be done. But there was still one question to be asked. “Someone has been messing with me and Damon,” Leah said. “If it isn’t you, then you could also be on their list. Has anything ‘bad’ happened to you recently?” Irene pursed her lips. “Other than the death of my daughter?” Not Leah’s best choice of words. “No,” Irene said. “I come to work, go home, and lie awake most of the night. Then I do it all over again the next day. Nothing changes.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” She leveled her gaze at Irene. “But if I see you outside my apartment or at my job again,” she said without malice, “I’m calling the police. Maybe they won’t do anything, but please . . . you have to figure out how to move on. You’re only making things worse for everyone.” Leah expected Irene to get defensive or angry, but Irene gave a submissive nod. There was nothing more to say. Leah moved to the door and heard Irene’s chair slide away from the desk. “Jake,” Irene said. Leah turned. Irene stood motionless with her palms on her shoulders, as if she were cold. “I’m sorry for being defensive,” Irene said. “You surprised me coming in here unexpectedly, and then tempers flared, and everything went downhill—” “What about Jake?” Leah asked cautiously. Irene shifted side to side as she spoke. “That’s what I wanted to talk with you about. I saw you with him at the cemetery. Jake’s a good man and a wonderful father. The world needs more people like him . . . and also like you, Leah. You’re decent and moral, just like your dad. Damon had a choice when he learned I was pregnant, and he owned up to what he’d done and asked me what I wanted. He didn’t run away.” Warning bells went off inside Leah’s head. She didn’t know where this was going or what it had to do with Jake, but the one thing Leah refused to do was listen to an explanation about their affair. “This isn’t about your dad,” Irene said, raising a hand. “All I’m saying is that people shouldn’t be alone. I’ve only ever had Amanda, and now that she’s gone, I’m lost without her. But that’s my cross to bear. I’m old and used to being by myself.” Her eyes took on a distant, glazed look. “Jake has his whole life ahead of him. Outside of Drew, Amanda was all he had. That boy needs a mother, and Jake needs companionship.” Leah’s skin tightened. “What are you saying?” “Amanda was your half-sister. If she’d married Jake, you and him would be family. In some ways, I already think of you as part of my family. We’re not related by blood or marriage, but we’re connected through Damon because of Amanda. Jake shouldn’t be alone. You’re young, like him, and single. If you and Jake hit it off . . . it’d almost be like him and Amanda being together. Don’t you see?” Leah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She didn’t think Irene even knew what she was saying. “Just get to know him,” Irene said. “That’s all I’m asking. I can only comfort him so much. He needs someone his age to talk to. To commiserate with. He doesn’t have anyone else—” “I shouldn’t have come here,” Leah said, backing away. “You owe me,” Irene said sharply. “After what you did. You need to make it right. I’m not saying you have to fall in love—” “You’re as crazy as Amanda was,” Leah said without thinking. Now Irene was not only angry, but livid. Leah didn’t stick around for what came next. She bolted out the door and across the street to her car, never once looking back.
~~~~
Family Drama always reminds me of what they used to call "soap operas" where you could not watch the program for a year and then go back to find the same characters and easily pick up on the turmoil brewing with this character or the other. I'm not normally a fan, simply because it never concludes... So if you are a fan, this book is for you. I enjoyed it because there was something happening to the main character which actually became quite a mystery... And that is not solved until the very end. I missed it totally, so I was pleased...
As with a family drama, one just starts reading and will get to know the family as the book moves forward. Leah is the main character and is now in her 30s, having been estranged with her father for years, and especially after her mother died from a heart attack... Leah blamed the attack on her father having a one-night stand, which resulted in a child. Her mother said she forgave him, but was dead within three months, so Leah still held the pain of what her mother had gone through... Funny thing, though, the child, who had grown up with her mother had become an acquaintance, almost a friend to Leah. Admittedly Amanda had been thrilled to know she had a father who was also Leah's father...
Leah Chapman was going to die. But hopefully not tonight, she thought as she parked outside Murphy’s Bar. She’d never been inside, but she knew the place. Everyone did. It was your typical dive: no flashy lights or neon signs—just an old, windowless brick building with gravel parking out front and back. Rumor had it you could score everything from crack cocaine to hookers inside. Leah doubted that, as the town of Aurora was far from a bustling metropolis, but she had no interest in finding out. She assumed Amanda would be outside waiting for her, but no such luck. Amanda was lucky Leah had answered the incoming unknown call so late at night. Her reward? You have to come get me right now! Leah checked her phone. No new texts or calls. It’d been almost six months since she’d seen or talked to Amanda, but it wasn’t uncommon for her to resurface when in crisis. It also wasn’t uncommon for Leah to come to Amanda’s rescue, despite Emily’s insistence otherwise. Leah couldn’t count how many arguments with her roommate began with: Your thirty-year-old problematic half-sister isn’t your responsibility. With Amanda, you had two choices: get on board, or get out of the way. The good news was that once Amanda was inside the car, it usually only took a sympathetic ear to calm her down. Usually. Murphy’s front door banged open. Amanda, disheveled and looking as frantic as she sounded over the phone, clawed open the passenger door. “What took you so long?” Amanda fumed. “Drive!” Leah only stared. Amanda’s eyes were bloodshot, and her mascara had bled down her cheeks. She was barefoot—God only knew why—and her red dress clung so tightly to her curves that it was a wonder she could breathe. “Are you hurt?” Leah asked. “No. But we have to get to Deerfield.” “Is that a town?” Amanda ignored her as she tried to fasten her seatbelt. She couldn’t get it to latch, and when she looked up and saw Leah hadn’t started the car, her mouth dropped. “Didn’t you hear me? We have to go before they hurt Drew.” That statement might have been concerning from anyone but Amanda. “I can take you back to your apartment,” Leah said patiently, “but I’m not driving you to some random town for some new boyfriend who’s mixed up in something.” “Drew isn’t my boyfriend. He’s my son.” Leah took a calming breath. She didn’t know much about Amanda’s life before they’d met two and a half years ago, but she knew Amanda didn’t have kids. What Amanda did have was a recreational drug problem that usually involved hallucinogens. Sometimes a girl just needs to escape, was Amanda’s go-to answer when confronted. If Amanda stayed home while she was high, it might have been okay. But she never did, which meant friends and family always had to pick up the pieces. “Let me take you to Damon’s,” Leah said. It was the last place Leah wanted to go, but she wasn’t used to dealing with Amanda this far gone. “I don’t want to go to Dad’s; I need to go home.” “Right. I already told you I’d take you to your apartment. Are you still on Crandall Street—” “I don’t live there anymore. I haven’t for months . . . this is bullshit!” Amanda got out of the car, circled around the front, and made for the driver’s side door. Leah instinctively locked it and drew back. “Open up,” Amanda demanded. “If you won’t drive me, then move over.” “Get back in the passenger seat.” A pickup rolled into the lot and shuddered to a stop beside them. The guy behind the wheel wore an amused expression and a baseball cap that read: SHIT SHOW SUPERVISOR. Just in time, Leah mused. “Can you give me a ride?” Amanda asked the guy. He grinned. “What’s in it for me?” “Amanda,” Leah snapped, climbing out. To her relief, Amanda only swore at the guy before marching off. “Your loss,” he called after her. Leah caught up to Amanda, who was standing in the middle of the road, looking left to right. “What are you doing?” Leah asked. “I’ll find another ride.” “This is stupid. Let me take you to Damon’s.” “I already told you; I’m not going to Dad’s. I have to get to Deerfield.” “I don’t know where that is,” Leah said evenly, “and even if I did, that’s not a good idea. How about this? Let me take you back to my apartment. You can stay with me and Em for the night.” “I don’t need your pity. I need a ride. You think I wanted to call you? I had no choice. Jake didn’t answer, and then I tried Mom, then Dad... everyone ignored me like they always do.” “Who’s Jake?”
But one night Leah received a call from Amanda that she needed her to drive her to pick up her son--that he was in danger... Whoa... First of all, Leah did not know Amanda had a son, so was having trouble trying to piece what she'd said even after the call ended. But Amanda didn't look well and Lena didn't think she should take her... Later that night Amanda had been hit and killed in a car accident... Leah was left feeling that once again, a death had occurred and she didn't understand what had actually happened, so she began to investigate... by going to the funeral and looking to see if she could find a child...
She did see one, saw a man he was with and knew that he was the father. Later, as Leah was seeking answers, she got to know a little about him, discovered that he and Amanda had been living together, but that Drew was the son of his former wife, who had left them... Leah was feeling guilty, even though everybody with whom she talked said that it was an accident. Still, was the little boy really in danger. His father didn't seem to think so...
Adding to her confusion, Leah was soon to meet Parker, a guy that you couldn't help but like, except if he came out and told you that she was now his sister!
Yeah, her father had gotten married--they were on their honeymoon--and Parker called Leah because her father's house had been vandalized with spray paint. He asked if she could come over. He couldn't reach his mother or her father...They had said they would not be using phones... Leah could not believe that, though this was not really an emergency, that if there was they still could not reach them... They called the police and reported it, but, of course, if didn't look likely that whoever did it would be found...
But that was not the end of it, Soon a bouquet of flowers and a doll was left at the door of Leah's apartment... She lived with Em, her best friend, but had conflicting work schedules... There were a couple of guys who worked in their apartment house that maybe would know something... Soon lies were coming, confusing the issue... As Leah thought Irene, Amanda's mother could be involved since Leah had failed to respond to her daughter's call...
Lots of options and Leah was tracking each one down to question. Since Parker had already notified Leah of her father's remarriage, he began trying to reach her. He had cared for Amanda, calling them both his girls, even though Lean resented how it had all occurred...
Thing is, that the entire book was involved with trying to find out who did what to whom... It makes for a suspenseful hold on readers and indeed has a thrilling ending... Yeah, it all came out in the end, but somehow there was not a feeling of completion... a satisfaction that the story was effective. Sure, it was logical and understandable, but so many lies were occurring along the way that I realized that if people had no ulterior motives, then the plot would not have been possible... I felt it was more like today's world, where lies and "spinning" tales were so common that we no longer know what truth is...
Leah and her father did agree to keep in touch, but the family dynamic was left hanging--not for the same reason, but still unsure--not back to normal... Is this what we face in today's world now? Where everybody seems to want to play the blame game and accuse somebody else who had little to do with a situation, just so the aggrieved individual can feel avenged? It's funny, I somehow felt cheated that lies told by various people were what makes it suspenseful and thrilling. A sad commentary, in my opinion, for today's world.
I love campfire songs. Of course, when I joined the youth choir, they teased me no end. I remember Jo Beth saying, “Watch out, Britney. Here comes our little pop star.” That type of thing.
Really liking this show...
I really thought I'd seen all styles of books...but there's always another writer who presents a story that is so compelling that you keep on reading, no matter what the pages look like... Let me explain... Or better, show you... Starting with the Playlist... And I have to admit upfront, LOL, that every time I read Per Say rather than Per Se, I cringed... literally...
I keep my radio tuned to the station that rotates between country and oldies. It felt like a good sign when the Grateful Dead came on mid-chorus. Sugar Magnolia. Bobby set to drumming his knees.
“Mason was a good ’un. The kind that die young.” I give Bobby a sharp look, but he has dropped his head, playing with a grass blade, and I think he’s being serious. Not smart-alecky.
Of course, he wouldn’t notice the likes of me. For one, he was two years ahead of me. Not to mention he’s from a rich family, the kind of boy that’s going to college. We were not in that class. But in spite of everything, the two of us did come together. We never dated, per say. He never took me to a dance or movie or nothing. We didn’t have friends in common that we might of run with as a group. After all, I was not the outgoing kind and had never really dated at the middle school. But against the odds, we crossed paths that fall of my sophomore year. It started at a sock hop after a football game the week after my fifteenth birthday. The dance was winding down. I was hanging around till the group of girls I palled with decided we were ready to split. Kids in couples, or the ones who had hopes of getting next to someone, were waiting for the last romantic slow song. It started at last—“Baby Hold On” by the Dixie Chicks, one of my favorites back then. Bernard happened to be standing with his friends in my field of vision, and when I heard that song, nothing could of been more natural than to raise my eyes on him—the angel-haired boy I’d dreamed about since last spring. That’s when a miracle happened because, somehow-some-way, Bernard glanced at me, right in the same moment. Our eyes hooked, and he didn’t hesitate more than a second—he walked right over to me. The gap between us was, maybe, twelve feet, but it felt like he was flying across the whole Ohio River to a separate world where I was living my little-small life. He put out a hand. His face had a sweet, kind of lopsided, grin. His voice said, “Shall we dance?” I had never heard anybody, let alone a kid around my age, say a thing like “Shall we dance?” Now, I know—and more or less knew at the time—he might of been looking to make some other girl jealous. I saw one or two of them, back where he’d been standing, drop their jaws when he put the move on li’l LaDene Howell. But why would I care? It did not cross my mind that this was anything less that a gift from God. When I took his hand, I stepped into my Cinderella story. His touch shot a bolt through me that felt stronger than the hardest drink I’ve had in my life—if he hadn’t taken me into his arms, I doubt I could’ve kept upright. My knees were that weak. But he kept the hand I put in his, pulled it to his heart, so my breasts fit on either side of our wrists. My temple came to rest on the front of his shoulder. His other hand and all his fingers traced the bones across my back and settled on my shoulder blade. I thought I might grow wings and really be like him. I know he must of felt me tingling all over. His slightest touch had done that to me. When the song stopped, at first I couldn’t raise my eyes. After a moment, I followed his hand lifting mine to his face, and he planted a kiss between the knuckles of my first two fingers. He said, “Aren’t you from Devola? One of the Howell girls?” In that euphoric state, it didn’t cross my mind that Effie and Jo Beth’s reputations might of preceded me. I nodded, or maybe I said yes, although it felt like I couldn’t possibly use my voice right then. He kept holding my hand and kept talking. “You like to hang out at Devola Lock and Dam? Me and my friends go there a lot. Come out this Sunday, if you can.” He gave my hand a final squeeze, turned away, headed back to his friends. The world could of ended right then and left me happy. But he glanced over his shoulder and said out loud, “Thanks for the dance!” To me he looked like the happiest, most carefree boy that had ever lived. I wanted to eat that like a last meal. It took a little while for us to wind up together. That first Sunday I rode my bike to the park to meet him, it was like he said—a bunch of kids hanging out in a group. Boys from the various sports teams that were known as arrogant jerks. A couple of girls on the benches—the fashion-plate type that belong to clubs, daughters of lawyers and judges. Some brandished cigarettes and blew puffs in a showy manner. I stopped while there were still shrubs along the roadside to hide me, listened to the boys’ loud laughs, the girls giggles, and didn’t go up to them at all. I turned right-round and rode home. But all that week, I reviewed how Bernard had looked at the park in khaki shorts, his powerful legs in sockless boat shoes, wide forearms emerging from an oversize blue T-shirt. So clean, so relaxed—shooting the breeze with wide shrugs and grins. Not smoking. Clearly a nicer boy than the company he kept. So the next Sunday, back I went, down the narrow asphalt road. River water pouring over the dam filled my ears. Sitting on top and around the lone picnic table, it was more or less the same group from the week before. It was a gorgeous day of early fall, no longer hot but still sunny, still warm, trees barely touched with yellow and rust. I told myself I had as much right to hang out at the lock as anybody. Sure, I did. My family used to stroll over here, evenings. My dad took his boat out on the river all the time. My sister Effie claims he took us fishing almost every weekend when she was little. Too bad none of that made it into my memories. But while I hung back debating myself, Bernard caught sight of me from where he was standing by the picnic table. I still remember how his arm shot up above his head, and he waved real wide like he was signaling somebody off in West Virginia. And he called to me. He had found out my first name. He called me by my name: “Hey, LaDene Howell—!” And he smiled real big. I was pretty near a total fool at that point, but it made a nice impression that he wasn’t ashamed for his friends to meet me and see that he had some kind of fondness for me. I knew it meant he was a nice person deep down. Honest to God, I still think so, no matter all the shit that was soon to meet the fan. It turned out, the boys in Bernard’s crew were actually quite interested to hear about my family. The notorious Twist-line men, that is. Everyone has heard tales about some of my relatives: Jake Blaine Howell who used to pimp out his own wife and sisters, back in the day. Old Eustis Howell who did a murder for hire in 1987. It never occurred to me that those connections could spark people’s interest in my own self. I was happy to confirm that, yes—my uncle was Big Bobby Howell who’d come home from Belmont just a couple years prior. And, of course, renowned bar-fighter Bobby Frank was my cousin. I omitted the fact that my own family had cut ties with most of them years ago. It only struck me as a little scandalous that those boys on the picnic table were swigging from cans of beer. Bernard soon pulled a bottle of pink wine out of a backpack. He twisted the cap off and handed the bottle to a girl sitting across from him. There were no glasses, so she drank from the neck and passed the bottle to her friend. That one drank and passed to me. I tasted it—my first alcohol. A couple of turns had me knocked pretty near on my ass. Everything about hanging with this group was so new to me, I really didn’t notice right off when the party starting breaking up. Or rather, it started breaking down into couples who scattered here and there, down to the cove to make out under the willows and on the little sand beach by the river. The odd boys out shuffled off to a black and chrome Silverado pickup parked on the asphalt. The driver revved his engine and drove away down the road. That’s when my wish came true—Bernard was alone at the table with me. We talked a little more, I’ve no idea what about. In years to come, I would review every touch and sensation at least ten-thousand times, but I can’t recall a single specific word we exchanged. I just knew that he was being sweet, not mocking me, or treating me like a lowlife hick, regardless who my family was. I talked a lot more country than him and his friends, but he showed no sign of caring a snap about such things as pronunciation or community standing. Of course, sex was not a secret to me. Momma had explained many times which body parts were involved and that it was the number-one thing girls must deny boys as a sacred duty. Jo Beth and Effie teased me in the privacy of our bedroom, telling all the details of their exploits. One time, I remember Effie asking me, “How many times you been fingered, LD?” The answer was zero, but I was so horrified she might think it had happened even once, I pressed a pillow over my head. Naturally, she only said it for the fun of freaking me out. So I had learned a lot of racy things, but the upshot was I viewed sex as something dire and disgusting. When I fell in love with Bernard, it truly didn’t cross my mind that what I was craving with him was sex. I utterly believed this was something higher, some fine and beautiful destiny. I could no more have turned him down than I could of stopped the sun in the sky. All told, I went out to meet him by the river six weeks in a row. I looked back later and counted up every meeting on the calendar. He took time to kiss me and hold me. He pressed me up against the wall of the pump station, and he brought along a soft plaid blanket for me to lie on. I thought I had discovered a lovely new world that held a special place for me where I would live in grace from then on, lonely no more. Indeed, a new life did open for me. Just not the one I imagined in those mad romantic days.
~~~~
Now I'm a country girl, so I began to recognize many of the words that were used... And we soon realize that a young girl is being interviewed by an officer who starts out asking questions... Then she took over saying that if they wanted to hear the whole story, she'd be happy to start... And she did...
The entire book proceeds from page 1 through to the final page with no stops, other than a short breath (and a bold phrase) to indicate a different scene. I was fascinated by the ease by which I was reading--without the distraction of chapter heading, pagination, etc., that readers (actually publishers) have become accustomed to--indeed, actually demand for the most part...
Then I was thinking about what law officer would actually have the patience to allow such a takeover of the questioning activity. My mind turned to Sheriff Country, and the one woman who just might have the patience as long as she knew the story would continue. Which it did for 207 pages with No White Space to be seen! LOL... Just the facts Ma'am--Just the facts... Well, not exactly, I learned today!
Now the thing is that she and a cousin was brought in for something that actually takes place almost at the end of the book... Yep, but this young lady, felt it was necessary to establish the background which had led to the situation where she was holding a knife and cutting a few places on his body... No, this is not satire, a comedy, or any other genre you might think of... It is a crime drama that happens to start many, many years ago...
I, LaDene Faye Howell, will recount the events of August 12, 2019, including all relevant background leading up to the encounter that I understand you are investigating. I will tell all in full truth and will hold nothing back to protect myself from the eyes of the law. Other persons involved do not know the full history of how and why things took place as they did. I’m the only one who can tell it all. I am the person who cut Mr. Jonathan Rutherford with a ten-inch folding knife, approximately. I made two cuts to his face, or rather the forehead—just about one inch long each, with the sharp edge of the blade tip. Also one cut on his chest. Very shallow cuts. In doing this, I acted alone. In fact, I meant to keep the exact nature of my actions secret. I told Mr. Rutherford to play dead. He may have been screaming when I said it. He did scream at one point, as I recollect. But I feel certain he heard me. I bent right to his ear. “Act like you’re dyin’,” I told him. He had been talking too much in general over the whole evening. I tried many times to quiet him down for his own good. I tried to do this in a nice way. A calm way. But once I took the knife, I finally got his attention. He will surely testify to that. I said it would all be for show. No. I never stabbed, struck, nor slapped or kicked Mr. Rutherford in any way. I did not strike him with my hand, knee, or any object. It is possible he was struck by another person. He may have been shoved or otherwise roughed up in a minor sort of way. I don’t know all details of that to a certainty, but I did not witness any physical beating being done to him. For most of the evening, Mr. Rutherford appeared to cooperate willingly with all that was happening. He was offered food and drink over a period of three to four hours. Yes, I myself gave him snacks and cold tea. No, I never heard him say flat-out, “You folks just let me go, now.” He did not say that. He was free to talk and dispute, which he did. Like I say, he talked more than was probably wise on his part. Yes, from his viewpoint, he probably felt he was subjected to harassment. Maybe even intimidation. I expect he did feel that way. Let’s just get it down on your recording right now that this man you keep calling my “confederate” is Robert Franklin Howell. He is known to most as Bobby Frank. The knife belongs to him, that’s correct. He “produced” the knife at an earlier point in the evening. From his pants pocket, I guess, but I didn’t see for sure at the time. Absolutely not—Bobby Frank did not cut anyone. Not in my presence. Not last night, nor at any time in our past history that I have ever observed. Bobby Frank is a relation to me. I’ve known him all my life. He’s a second cousin by a different mother—what some people call middling kin. We’ve always been friendly. No, we are not “intimate partners” and never have been. I’m aware that you are empowered to lie to me, but don’t bother saying that Bobby Frank pinned something on me. Like it was my revenge, snatching the old man, or I had a dire plan from the git-go, or any other shit on that line. He’s not about to say that. And I won’t be pinning stuff on him that he didn’t do, neither. I will only speak what really happened. I pledged to that already. I am 27 years of age. Bobby Frank is about nine years older than me, so that would make him 35 or 36, I guess. I don’t know where he’s been residing lately. He may not have a proper address. It looked like he’d been more or less camping in the house on Duck Creek Road—that house where the incident with Mr. Rutherford took place. That house used to be in our family. It was our Gramma Dot’s place. I don’t know who owns it now. You are aware that I sent my sister to check on the old man, right? When we left him at that house, I stopped and called her. Told her to go over right away and see to his welfare. How he was holding up after what happened. Mr. Rutherford was the principal of Marietta High School for many years. He was in charge when Bobby Frank attended there, and he was still principal later on when I came up. That’s how we knew him, from back when. No, categorically not—we never stalked him, never surveilled him, nothing like that. It was a pure stroke of fate that he happened to exit the Speedway on State Route 60 precisely when he did. Me and Bobby were driving north at that moment. It was me who recognized him. Well, that only makes sense, don’t it? It’s been, like, 20 years since Bobby was in school. Only about ten years for me. Okay, twelve years, to be exact.
“Baby Hold On” by the Dixie Chicks, one of my favorites back then. Bernard happened to be standing with his friends in my field of vision, and when I heard that song, nothing could of been more natural than to raise my eyes on him—the angel-haired boy I’d dreamed about since last spring. That’s when a miracle happened because, somehow-some-way, Bernard glanced at me, right in the same moment. Our eyes hooked, and he didn’t hesitate more than a second—he walked right over to me. The gap between us was, maybe, twelve feet, but it felt like he was flying across the whole Ohio River to a separate world where I was living my little-small life. He put out a hand. His face had a sweet, kind of lopsided, grin. His voice said, “Shall we dance?” I had never heard anybody, let alone a kid around my age, say a thing like “Shall we dance?”
There are two family/community dynamics within this novel... One is that the town is divided by those who are rich and those who are poor...
Also, one family has divided as well because of two major events... LaDene's older brother was killed in the war and thereafter their father changed... And, the side of the family from which they split was involved with criminal activities. LeDene's father had turned to religion to try to understand the loss of his one and only son in battle...
Effie had long since quit King’s Way, after she got called to account in the middle of Contrition for her car being noticed with a bumper sticker that said “WTF,” in reference to George Bush (“W,” that is). Not only blasphemous language (implied), it disrespected our God-appointed President, so Effie had some ’splainin’ to do. I understood full well this was the same reason why I was headed two states away with my thick ankles and bread-dough belly. Yes, I accepted it. Bowing out quietly should be easier than living under the judgment of everyone I knew, and everyone my family deemed important. But would it actually turn out any easier? That kind of thing is tough to measure, isn’t it?
“Don’t gawk,” Blake said. “Work.” She hit me a sharp blow with the 15-inch stick of PVC pipe. The one she carried was fitted with a three-way joint that left red half-moons on my wrist. I gasped from surprise almost more than from pain—she whipped that thing out and struck so fast, with no warning. Of course, I didn’t cry or complain. Just gave her a big-eyed stare for one second before looking down to the dustpile my sweeping had gathered. She bestowed a word of explanation. “You’re lucky to be in the house, here. It’s way better than scrubbing bathrooms, breathing that full-strength bleach.”
LaDene fell in love, allowed herself to get pregnant, thinking she would be getting married and only later knowing that his family would be paying for her to be sent far away to birth the child, after which she would be returned home--she was just 16...
As time goes by she moves on, out of her family's life and when her favorite cousin got out of jail, he looked her up...which led to LaDene handling the knife that cut the local school's principal...
But, WHAT A STORY! In fact as I think about the method, this could actually be written in journal or diary form as a biography... If so, God Bless the young girl LaDene who, really, never had a chance to...be...herself... Because when you're reading it all from her POV, you just gotta listen...
My child was the only thing that existed in the world for that time. She looked around for about two minutes before she fell asleep, but I know she saw me, and I believe she had her own understanding of who I was and why we were together on that first day of her life.
...Some new person inside me wants to go forth and take on the world, right the wrongs and slay the dragons. A new inkling of possibility grips my insides, it wants to get personal, get rough. Before I think about it, I’m on my feet dancing. I swing around the pole, twirl, sashay, jump over oil patches, bound off a bumper. My toes write poems in scattered gravel. My hair sweeps, unloosed from its captured braid. Wind is rising in the cottonwood. At some point I notice I’m in the middle of the parking lot. I lean my head back and sing out loud. Not that I know the words—
This book must be experienced as opposed to read... The thing is as I sit her now, I'm not quite sure I even know how it ended... After her cousin found her, there was a lot of drinking and drugs, but that shouldn't affect the reader should it? Tell you what, I'm going to depend upon the Sheriff to actually close out this case... What I know is that LaDene made it out alive, singing about Freedom... and that's enough for me... Just do it! See what happens when a writer does her own thing! Cool! Right?
GABixlerReviews
Note: I didn't get the entire Playlist done. The last words being sung, may or may not have been an actual real song. Also I wasn't sure about which Freedom song was correct...
The hallway felt colder somehow, less enchanted. She carried the baby monitor with her, its plastic warm from her grip. Her husband had gone to bed hours ago, exhausted from work. She understood his fatigue but missed the early days when they'd both been home, taking turns with the baby, discovering their new reality together.
"Laws are for people without the means to transcend them."
Her body was tired—bone-deep exhausted in the way that only new mothers understand—but her mind was still half in the nursery, hovering protectively over the crib. As sleep began to claim her, Lulu's last conscious thought was of gratitude—for the perfect child sleeping down the hall, for the husband breathing beside her, for the home that held them all safely within its walls. Everything that mattered in her world was here, protected, secure.
Clarissa's hands shook so badly she had to try three times to fit the key into the ignition. Annie's cries from the back seat had escalated to a full-throated wail that matched the storm brewing inside her chest. The birth certificate lay on the passenger seat where she'd tossed it, the manila envelope splayed open like a wound. Forgery. The word repeated in her mind with each beat of her heart. Not a clerical error or a bureaucratic mishap, but a deliberate deception crafted by someone—most likely her own mother. Clarissa drew in a deep breath, trying to steady herself as she reached for her phone—one more avenue to explore before confronting LaToya directly. "Shh, Annie, please," she pleaded, twisting in her seat to look at her daughter. Annie's face had flushed a deep red, tiny fists batting at the air as if fighting invisible demons. "I know, baby. I know. Everything feels wrong to me, too." She performed a quick Google search, fingers tapping impatiently against the steering wheel as the results loaded. Memphis General Hospital. Main switchboard. The number glowed on her screen like a lifeline. She pressed the call button, then engaged the car's Bluetooth system. Annie's cries competed with the ringing phone, creating a chaotic soundtrack to her racing thoughts. "Memphis General Hospital, how may I direct your call?" A woman's crisp voice emerged from the car speakers. "Records department, please," Clarissa said, then added, "Birth records, specifically." "One moment." Music filled the car—a tinny rendition of something classical, interrupted periodically by a recorded voice assuring her that her call was important. Clarissa's leg bounced against the floor mat, a nervous habit she'd never been able to break. She reached into the back seat, finding Annie's tiny hand with her fingers. The baby grasped her index finger tightly, her cries subsiding slightly at the contact. "It's going to be okay," Clarissa whispered, unsure if she was reassuring Annie or herself. "We'll figure this out." The hold music had cycled through three complete iterations when Annie's fussing escalated again. Clarissa unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed awkwardly into the back seat, contorting her body in the small space. She offered the baby her pinky finger to suck on—a temporary pacifier until she could find the real one buried somewhere in the diaper bag. "Birth Records, this is Administrator Grayson." A man's voice suddenly cut through Annie's whimpers, startling them both. Clarissa scrambled back to the driver's seat, breathless from the quick movement. "Yes, hello. My name is Clarissa Jones. I'm trying to verify my birth records from February 16th, 1993." She could hear the clicking of computer keys in the background as the administrator responded, "Give me just a moment to access that time period. Our records from the nineties were digitized about five years ago, so this shouldn't take long." More clicking followed. Clarissa found herself holding her breath, the air trapped in her lungs like the truth trapped in her past. Annie had quieted temporarily, distracted by a toy attached to her car seat. "Jones, you said? Clarissa Jones?" the administrator confirmed. "Yes. February 16th, 1993." Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, too high and tight. The clicking stopped. "I'm sorry, Ms. Jones, but I don't show any record of your birth at Memphis General during that time period. I've checked a month in either direction as well, in case there was a dating error." Clarissa closed her eyes, the final hope she'd been clinging to dissolving like sugar in hot water. "Could the records have been lost during digitization? Or misfiled somehow?" "It's extremely unlikely," the administrator replied, his professional tone softened with what might have been sympathy. "The digitization process was thorough, with multiple quality checks. If you were born at Memphis General during that period, there would be a record. We've even kept the original paper records in storage as backup." "I see." Clarissa's voice sounded hollow, disconnected from the turmoil churning inside her. "Was there anything else I could help you with today?" "No. Thank you for checking." She ended the call before he could respond, her finger jabbing at the screen with unnecessary force. The car interior fell silent except for Annie's soft babbling and the persistent tick of the hazard lights Clarissa hadn't realized she'd activated. She stared straight ahead, not seeing the parking lot, the county records building, or the people moving between them. Instead, she saw her mother's face when she'd handed over the birth certificate—the forced casualness, the way her eyes had never quite met Clarissa's. She saw the empty spaces on the walls where baby pictures should have been. She saw Jessica's face in that high school hallway years ago, a mirror image staring back at her with identical blue eyes and the same crescent-shaped birthmark behind her ear. Slowly, Clarissa turned to look at Annie in the rear-view mirror. Her daughter had settled, fascinated by the toy dangling from the handle of her car seat. Those same blue eyes. That same wavy hair was beginning to sprout on her tiny head. And on the left side, behind her ear, the same crescent birthmark—only on the opposite side from Clarissa's own. "We deserve to know," she whispered, meeting her reflection's gaze in the mirror. The face that looked back at her was no longer confused or desperate but hardened with resolve. "No more lies. No more running." She started the engine properly this time, her hands steady as she shifted into drive. She knew where she needed to go. LaToya had spent twenty-three years constructing an elaborate fiction, six of those years literally running from the truth. But that ended today. For Annie's sake. For her own sake. And perhaps even for Jessica's. As she pulled out of the parking lot, Clarissa remembered the first time she'd seen Jessica in that high school hallway. The shock of recognition had rippled through her body like an electrical current, setting off alarms she'd been too young to understand fully. Now those same alarms blared with new urgency and purpose. Whatever the truth was—however painful or complicated—she would face it head-on. She checked Annie once more in the rear-view mirror, drawing strength from her daughter's innocent gaze, then turned the car toward her parents’ house.
~~~~
Warning: This book contains baby kidnapping scenes
You choose, but the scene to say a second child Ranks 10 in my opinion...
In the Prologue, readers are immediately confronted with a mother and father who has just settled in for a night's sleep, with a baby monitor nearby so that they could hear if their new baby cries...
Instead other sounds and smells come racing into their bedroom... The house is on fire and they cannot get out of their bedroom door. They get out through their room's window... The mother carries the baby monitor in her hands as she gets out and then screams to the firemen that there is a child in the house, pointing out her room...
The baby monitor never picks up anything during that long night..
As often is the case with Prologues, you will be left at the point where the prologue ends and the book is broken down into three parts and epilogue... One hint, there are name changes, so be on the alert...
Nothing in her demeanor suggested the weight of what she'd done, the lives she'd shattered by taking Ellie. The ordinariness of her actions made my blood simmer with quiet rage.
I know, I know, this type of story is very hard to read. You will, however, be amazed in the twists and turns that the author presents to us to begin to potentially carve out the answer to the mystery... Actually, there are two kidnappings many years apart. The second is when Eva Rae Thomas, FBI, becomes involved and represents the major part of the book... beginning at Chapter 1... Thomas' daughter's new baby has been kidnapped. And they have on tape who had picked her up, as a nurse, and succeeded in walking out of the hospital! Thus that investigation begins!
I shot Matt a grateful glance. He knew when to smooth my rough edges, especially when dealing with other agencies. My personal stake in this case was clouding my professional judgment, and we both knew it.
That's how you might miss the extraordinary scenes that begin in Part I. Your notice will be drawn by the word "Then" and will take you into another subplot that runs parallel with the second kidnapping...
"You're a cop," she hissed, the words carrying the weight of the ultimate prison betrayal. She slid away from me on the bench, putting distance between us. "You’re a disgusting pig."
Within the first chapter you will see the FBI grandmother decide to get herself placed in the women's prison. Their investigation had shown that the woman who kidnapped her granddaughter has a sister in prison. Eva's plan is to get close to that sister and try to discover what she can about the kidnapping... But there was not enough time and she was attacked by the inmates!
Pinewood Heights had been transformed for Clarissa. It was no longer just the town she'd fled; it was now a map of deception and lost possibilities, of lives that should have intersected but were kept deliberately apart. Eight blocks had never seemed so vast a distance.
Folks, this book is so complex with twists and turns that it is not easy to share much without giving the storyline away... I do want to highlight with just a comment that a favorite character for me was Clarissa who was the first child kidnapped. Her entire life was being raised in lies, lies, lies... Her story does not end like the second baby kidnapped... The author chose to merely close out what happened to Clarissa. For me, it wasn't enough--but then, as we all have begun to realize when somebody around us lies about about anything and everything, you can be sure that somebody is going to be either hurt or dead soon. Are we learning anything about how lying can change each person's life drastically? This one story will reveal so much!
Twenty-three years of living someone else's version of her life, of carrying questions she hadn't even known to ask, crashed over her in waves.
Finally, I was holding my breath as Eva Rae promises to find her granddaughter and then see the thrilling action that takes readers into a final totally unbelievable airplane scene that I would rank, itself, as a 10! Each character that is in that scene is so finely written and merged into paragraph after paragraph that readers feel as if they are watching what each character is doing while ensuring that they perform as necessary to get everybody landed and home alive! An outstanding climatic ending to a unbelievably shocking tale of what happens when selfish people choose to act for their own gratification without thought of others...
"But you have no right to take my granddaughter from her mother." "An eye for an eye, Agent Thomas," he replied, cold satisfaction settling over his features. "You took my family, so I took yours." His finger caressed the trigger of his gun almost lovingly. The blood loss was making it increasingly difficult to think clearly. My arm trembled slightly with the effort of holding my weapon steady, and a chill that had nothing to do with the desert night began spreading through my limbs. If I passed out now, Ellie would be gone forever. Christine would never see her daughter again. I had one card left to play. "Take me instead," I said, the words deliberate and clear despite the heaviness of my tongue. "I'm the one you want. The one who destroyed your family. Not Ellie."
How shall I phrase my final recommendation? For some, the emotional impact of what happens when a baby is kidnapped out of what was a safe place, is a traumatic experience. It is tragic! On the other hand, when you can learn just how these types of criminal actions occur--and how easily it can happen--then I think it is a "must-read" for those who care about the mother-child relationship...
I've read Willow Rose before and this one was the very best. She's already a top author, but her ability to keep multiple plots going at the same time for an ultimate perfect closing is a spectacular achievement!
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