Blindsighted Read online

  “I didn’t—”

  “I’m nearly forty years old, Jeffrey. I choose to be a good daughter to my parents and a supportive sister to Tessa. I chose to push myself so I could graduate at the top of my class from one of the finest universities in America. I chose to be a pediatrician so I could help kids. I chose to move back to Grant so I could be close to my family. I chose to be your wife for six years because I loved you so much, Jeffrey. I loved you so much.” She stopped, and he could tell that she was crying. “I didn’t choose to be raped.”

  He tried to speak, but she wouldn’t let him.

  “What happened to me took fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes and all of that was wiped out. None of it matters when you take those fifteen minutes into account.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It’s not?” she asked. “Then why didn’t you call me this morning?”

  “I tried to—”

  “You didn’t call me because you see me as a victim now. You see me the same way you see Julia Matthews and Sibyl Adams.”

  “I don’t, Sara,” he countered, shocked that she would accuse him of such a thing. “I don’t see—”

  “I sat there in that hospital bathroom on my knees for two hours before they cut me loose. I nearly bled to death,” she said. “When he was done with me, there was nothing left. Nothing at all. I had to rebuild my life. I had to accept that because of that bastard I would never have children. Not that I ever wanted to think about having sex again. Not that I thought any man would want to touch me after what he did to me.” She stopped, and he wanted so badly to say something to her, but the words would not come.

  Her voice was low when she said, “You said I never opened up to you? Well, this is why. I tell you my deepest, darkest secret and what do you do? You run off to Atlanta to confront the man who did it instead of talking to me. Instead of comforting me.”

  “I thought you’d want me to do something.”

  “I did want you to do something,” she answered, her tone filled with sadness. “I did.”

  The phone clicked in his ear as she hung up. He dialed her number again, but the line was busy. He kept hitting “send” on the phone, trying the line five more times, but Sara had taken her phone off the hook.

  Jeffrey stood behind the one-way glass in the observation room, playing back his conversation with Sara in his mind. An overwhelming sadness enveloped him. He knew that she was right about calling. He should have insisted Nelly put him through. He should have gone to the clinic and told her that he still loved her, that she was still the most important woman in his life. He should have gotten on his knees and begged her to come back to him. He shouldn’t have left her. Again.

  Jeffrey thought of how Lena had used the term victim a few days ago, describing targets of sexual predators. She had put a spin on the word, saying it the same way she would say “weak” or “stupid.” Jeffrey had not liked that classification from Lena, and he certainly did not like hearing it from Sara. He probably knew Sara better than any other man in her life, and Jeffrey knew that Sara was not a victim of anything but her own damning self-judgment. He did not see her as a victim in that context. If anything, he saw her as a survivor. Jeffrey was hurt to his very core that Sara would think so little of him.

  Moon interrupted his thoughts, asking, “About ready to start?”

  “Yeah,” Jeffrey answered, blocking Sara from his mind. No matter what she had said, Wright was still a viable lead to what was going on in Grant County. Jeffrey was already in Atlanta. There was no reason to go back until he had gotten everything he needed from the man. Jeffrey clenched his jaw, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand as he stared through the glass.

  Moon entered the room loudly, banging the door closed behind her, raking a chair out from the table, the legs screeching against the tiled floor. For all the APD’s money and special funding, the city’s interview rooms were not nearly as clean as the ones in Grant County. The room Jack Allen Wright sat in was dingy and dirty. The cement walls were unpainted and gray. There was a gloominess to the room that would encourage anyone to confess just to get out of the place. Jeffrey took this all in as he watched Mary Ann Moon work Wright. She was not nearly as good as Lena Adams, but there was no denying Moon had a rapport with the rapist. She talked to him like a big sister.

  She asked, “That old redneck didn’t fool with you, did he?”

  Jeffrey knew she was trying to bridge some trust with Wright, but he did not appreciate the characterization, mostly because he guessed Mary Ann Moon thought it was an accurate one.

  “He busted my bracelet,” Wright said. “I didn’t do that.”

  “Jack.” Moon sighed, sitting across from him at the table. “I know that, okay? We need to find out how that gun got under your mattress. That’s a clear violation and you’re on your third strike. Right?”

  Wright glanced at the mirror, probably knowing full well that Jeffrey was behind it. “I don’t know how it got there.”

  “Guess he put your fingerprints on it, too?” Moon asked, crossing her arms.

  Wright seemed to think this over. Jeffrey knew that gun belonged to Wright, but he also knew that there was no way in hell Moon would have been able to run the gun through forensics this quickly and get any kind of ID on the prints.

  “I was scared,” Wright finally answered. “My neighbors know, all right? They know what I am.”

  “What are you?”

  “They know about my girls.”

  Moon stood from the chair. She turned her back to Wright, looking out the window. A mesh just like the ones at Wright’s house covered the frame. Jeffrey was startled to realize that the man had made his own home resemble a prison.

  “Tell me about your girls,” Moon said. “I’m talking about Sara.”

  Jeffrey felt his hands clench at Sara’s name.

  Wright sat back, licking his lips. “There was a tight pussy.” He smirked. “She was good to me.”

  Moon’s voice was bored. She had been doing this long enough not to be shocked. She asked, “She was?”

  “She was so sweet.”

  Moon turned around, leaning her back against the mesh. “You know what’s going on where she lives, I take it. You know what’s been happening to the girls.”

  “I only know what I read in the papers,” Wright said, offering a shrug. “You ain’t gonna send me up on that gun, are you, boss? I had to protect myself. I was scared for my life.”

  “Let’s talk about Grant County,” Moon offered. “Then we’ll talk about the gun.”

  Wright picked at his face, gauging her. “You’re being straight with me?”

  “Of course I am, Jack. When have I not been straight with you?”

  Wright seemed to weigh his options. As far as Jeffrey could see, it was a no-brainer: jail or cooperation. Still, he imagined Wright wanted some semblance of control in his life.

  “That thing that was done to her car,” Wright said.

  “What’s that?” Moon asked.

  “That word on her car,” Wright clarified. “I didn’t do that.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I told my lawyer, but he said it didn’t matter.”

  “It matters now, Jack,” Moon said, just the right amount of insistence in her voice.

  “I wouldn’t write that on somebody’s car.”

  “Cunt?” she asked. “That’s what you called her in the bathroom.”

  “That was different,” he said. “That was the heat of the moment.”

  Moon did not respond to this. “Who wrote it?”

  “That, I don’t know,” Wright answered. “I was in the hospital all day, working. I didn’t know what kind of car she drove. Could’ve guessed it, though. She had that attitude, you know? Like she was better than everybody else.”

  “We’re not going to get into that, Jack.”

  “I know,” he said, looking down. “I’m sorry.”

  “Who do you think wrote that on her ca
r?” Moon asked. “Somebody at the hospital?”

  “Somebody who knew her, knew what she drove.”

  “Maybe a doctor?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “You being straight with me?”

  He seemed startled by her question. “Hell, yeah, I am.”

  “So, you think somebody at the hospital might have written that on her car. Why?”

  “Maybe she pissed them off?”

  “She piss a lot of people off?”

  “No.” He shook his head vehemently. “Sara was good people. She always talked to everybody.” He seemed to not remember his earlier comments about how conceited Sara was. Wright continued, “She always said hey to me in the hall. You know, not like ‘How you doing’ or anything like that but, ‘Hey, I know you’re there.’ Most people, they see you but they don’t. Know what I mean?”

  “Sara’s a nice girl,” Moon said, keeping him on track. “Who would do that to her car?”

  “Maybe somebody was pissed at her about something?”

  Jeffrey put his hand to the glass, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise. Moon picked up on this as well.

  She asked, “About what?”

  “I don’t know,” Wright answered. “I’m just saying I never wrote that on her car.”

  “You’re sure about that.”

  Wright swallowed hard. “You said you’d trade the gun for this, right?”

  Moon gave him a nasty look. “Don’t question me, Jack. I told you up front that was the deal. What have you got for us?”

  Wright glanced toward the mirror. “That’s all I have, that I didn’t do that to her car.”

  “Who did, then?”

  Wright shrugged. “I told you I don’t know.”

  “You think the same guy who scratched her car is doing this stuff in Grant County?”

  He shrugged again. “I’m not a detective. I’m just telling you what I know.”

  Moon crossed her arms over her chest. “We’re gonna keep you in lockup over the weekend. When we talk on Monday, you see if you’ve got an idea who this person might be.”

  Tears came to Wright’s eyes. “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “We’ll see if it’s the same truth on Monday morning.”

  “Don’t send me back in there, please.”

  “It’s just holding, Jack,” Moon offered. “I’ll make sure you get your own cell.”

  “Just let me go home.”

  “I don’t think so,” Moon countered. “We’ll let you stew for a day. Give you some time to get your priorities straight.”

  “They are straight. I promise.”

  Moon did not wait for more. She left Wright in the room, his head in his hands, crying.

  Saturday

  25

  Sara woke with a start, not certain where she was for a brief, panicked second. She looked around her bedroom, keeping her eyes on solid things, comforting things. The old chest of drawers that had belonged to her grandmother, the mirror she had found in a yard sale, the armoire that had been so wide her father had helped her take the hinges off the bedroom door so they could squeeze it in.

  She sat up in bed, looking out the bank of windows at the lake. The water was rough from last night’s storm, and choppy waves rode across the surface. Outside, the sky was a warm gray, blocking the sun, keeping the fog down low to the ground. The house was cold, and Sara imagined that outside was even colder. She took the quilt from the bed with her as she walked to the bathroom, wrinkling her nose as her feet padded across the cold floor.

  In the kitchen, she started the coffeemaker, standing in front of the unit as she waited for enough to fill a cup. She went back to the bedroom, slipping on a pair of spandex running shorts, then an old pair of sweatpants. The phone was still off the hook from Jeffrey’s call last night, and Sara replaced the receiver. The phone rang almost immediately.

  Sara took a deep breath, then answered, “Hello?”

  “Hey, baby,” Eddie Linton said. “Where you been?”

  “I accidentally knocked the phone off the hook,” Sara lied.

  Her father either did not catch the lie or was letting it pass. He said, “We’ve got breakfast cooking here. Wanna come?”

  “No, thanks,” Sara answered, her stomach protesting even as she did. “I’m about to go for a run.”

  “Maybe come by after?”

  “Maybe,” Sara answered, walking toward the desk in the hallway. She opened the top drawer and pulled out twelve postcards. Twelve years since the rape, one postcard for every year. There was always a Bible verse along with her address typed across the back.

  “Baby?” Eddie said.

  “Yeah, Pop,” Sara answered, keying into what he was saying. She slid the cards back into the drawer, using her hip to shut it.

  They made small talk about the storm, Eddie telling her that a tree limb had missed the Linton house by a couple of yards, and Sara offering to come by later and help clean up. As he talked, Sara flashed back to the time just after she was raped. She was in the hospital bed, the ventilator hissing in and out, the heart monitor assuring her that she had not died, though Sara remembered that she had not found that reminder in the least bit comforting.

  She had been asleep, and when she woke, Eddie was there, holding her hand in both of his. She had never seen her father cry before, but he was then, small, pathetic sobs escaping from his lips. Cathy was behind him, her arms around his waist, her head resting on his back. Sara had felt out of place there and she had briefly wondered what had upset them until she remembered what had happened to her.

  After a week in the hospital, Eddie had driven her back to Grant. Sara had kept her head on his shoulder the entire way, sitting in the front seat of his old truck, tucked between her mother and father, much as she had been before Tessa was born. Her mother sang an off-key hymn Sara had never heard before. Something about salvation. Something about redemption. Something about love.

  “Baby?”

  “Yeah, Daddy,” Sara answered, wiping a tear from her eye. “I’ll drop by later, okay?” She blew a kiss to the phone. “I love you.”

  He answered in kind, but she could hear the concern in his voice. Sara kept her hand on the receiver, willing him not to be upset. The hardest part about recovering from what Jack Allen Wright had done to her was knowing that her father knew every single detail of the rape. She had felt so exposed to him for such a long time that the nature of their relationship had changed. Gone was the Sara he played pickup games with. Gone were the jokes about Eddie wishing she had become a gynecologist, at least, so that he could say both his girls were in plumbing. He did not see her as his invulnerable Sara anymore. He saw her as someone he needed to protect. As a matter of fact, he saw her the same way Jeffrey did now.

  Sara tugged the laces on her tennis shoes, tightening them too much and not caring. She had heard pity in Jeffrey’s voice last night. Instantly, she had known that things had irrevocably changed. He would only see her as a victim from now on. Sara had fought too hard to overcome that feeling only to let herself give in to it now.

  Slipping on a light jacket, Sara left the house. She jogged down the driveway to the street, taking a left away from her parents’ house. Sara did not like to jog on the street; she had seen too many injured knees blown from the constant impact. When she worked out, she used the treadmills at the Grant YMCA or swam in the pool there. In the summertime, she took early morning swims in the lake to clear her mind and get her focus back for the day ahead. Today, she wanted to push herself to the limit, damn the consequences to her joints. Sara had always been a physical person, and sweating brought her center back.

  About two miles from her house, she took a side trail off the main road so that she could run along the lake. The terrain was rough in spots, but the view was spectacular. The sun was finally winning its battle with the dark clouds overhead when she realized she was at Jeb McGuire’s house. She had stopped to look at the sleek
black boat moored at his dock before she made the connection as to where she was. Sara cupped her hand over her eyes, staring at the back of Jeb’s house.

  He lived in the old Tanner place, which had just recently come on the market. Lake people were hesitant to give up their land, but the Tanner children, who had moved away from Grant years ago, were more than happy to take the money and run when their father finally succumbed to emphysema. Russell Tanner had been a nice man, but he had his quirks, like most old people. Jeb had delivered Russell’s medications to him personally, something that probably helped Jeb get into the house cheap after the old man died.

  Sara walked up the steep lawn toward the house. Jeb had gutted the place a week after moving in, replacing the old crank windows with double-paned ones, having the asbestos shingles removed from the roof and sideboards. The house had been a dark gray for as long as Sara remembered, but Jeb had painted over this in a cheery yellow. The color was too bright for Sara, but it suited Jeb.

  “Sara?” Jeb asked, coming out of the house. He had a tool belt on with a shingle hammer hanging from the strap on the side.

  “Hey,” she called, walking toward him. The closer she got to the house, the more aware she became of a dripping sound. “What’s that noise?” she asked.

  Jeb pointed to a gutter hanging off the roofline. “I’m just now getting to it,” he explained, walking toward her. He rested his hand on the hammer. “I’ve been so busy at work, I haven’t had time to breathe.”

  She nodded, understanding the dilemma. “Can I give you a hand?”

  “That’s okay,” Jeb returned, picking up a six-foot ladder. He carried it over to the hanging gutter as he talked. “Hear that thumping? Damn thing’s draining so slow, it hits the base of the downspout like a jackhammer.”

  She heard the noise more clearly as she followed him toward the house. It was an annoying, constant thump, like a faucet dripping into a cast-iron sink. She asked, “What happened?”