Sara pressed her lips together, looking at the framed magazine cover of Jeffrey on the wall. Maybe being back home had altered him in some way. The man Sara had seen last night was nothing like the Jeffrey Tolliver she had grown to know over the last few months.
She found herself trying to reason out his behavior. Prior to this, there had been nothing in his personality that would have pointed to last night's outburst. He was frustrated. He had punched the wall, not her. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe the circumstances had brought him to the edge, and she had done nothing but help push him over. He had grabbed her arm, but he had also let it go. He had warned her not to talk, but when the sheriff came, he had done nothing to stop her. In the light of day, Sara could understand his anger and frustration. Jeffrey was right about one thing: Alabama was a death-penalty state, and not just a death-penalty state, but almost as gung-ho about it as Texas and Florida. If Robert was found guilty, he could be looking at the electric chair.
Though she was punch-drunk from lack of sleep, Sara tried to go over in her mind again what she had seen in Robert's bedroom last night. She was no longer certain about what she had heard in the street, nor was she sure about the sear pattern she had seen when Robert had removed his hand. He had been fast about it, and had done a very good job of smearing blood around the wound. What it came down to was that Sara had to ask herself why he had gone to such great lengths to cover the entrance wound if there was nothing to hide.
If she was correct, the muzzle of the gun that shot Robert had been placed at an upward angle against the skin. The hot metal had seared a V-shaped impression of the muzzle into the flesh. Either the person who shot him had been in an inferior position, squatting or kneeling, or Robert had held the gun to his own side and pulled the trigger. The second theory would explain why so little damage was done. The abdomen contained seven major organs and around thirty feet of intestines. The bullet had managed to miss them all.
Sara would have voiced her suspicions to the sheriff last night, but after taking one look at the man, she knew that, like Jeffrey, he was going to do everything he could to give Robert the benefit of the doubt. Clayton "Hoss" Hollister screamed good ol' boy, from his nickname to his cowboy boots. Sara knew exactly how his kind operated. Her father certainly wasn't part of Grant's network of powerful old men – he hated doing favors because he had to – but Eddie Linton played cards with most of them. Sara had learned how they worked her first week as coroner, when the mayor explained to her that the county had an exclusive contract to order all their medical supplies through his brother-in-law's company, no matter how much he charged.
Today, Sara wanted to see Robert's wound again, and even if Jeffrey wouldn't – or couldn't – keep his promise to let her do the autopsy, she wanted to watch while whoever was in charge examined the slain man – or victim, depending on how you looked at it. After that, all she wanted to do was get the hell out of Sylacauga and away from Jeffrey. She needed time and some distance so she could get her head together and figure out exactly how she felt about him in light of last night's explosion.
Sara tested her weight on her feet. Her soles were bruised from the impromptu run last night, and something sharp had taken a chunk of skin out of her heel. She would stop to buy Band-Aids once she got on the interstate.
Nell offered a faint smile when Sara limped into the kitchen. "Kids won't be up for another hour."
Sara tried to be polite. "How old are they?"
"Jared's ten, Jennifer's ten months younger."
Sara raised an eyebrow.
"Trust me, I got my tubes tied the second she was out." Nell took a coffee cup out of the cabinet. "You like it black?" Sara nodded. "Jen's the smart one. Don't tell Jared I said that, but Jen's a full grade ahead of him in school. It's his own damn fault – he's not stupid, he's just more interested in sports than books. Boys that age just can't sit still for anything. You probably know all about that with your job." She put the cup down in front of Sara and poured coffee as she spoke. "I guess you want a houseful of kids when you settle down."
Sara watched steam rise from the cup. "I can't actually have children."
"Oh," Nell said. "There's my foot in my mouth again. You'd think I loved the taste of leather."
"It's okay."
Nell sat down across from Sara with a heavy sigh. "God, but I'm nosey. It's the only thing my mother says about me that's true."
Sara forced a smile. "Really, it's okay."
"I won't press you for details," Nell said, but her tone of voice implied she would be more than open to hearing them.
"Ectopic pregnancy," Sara provided, though she went no further.
"Does Jeffrey know?"
She shook her head.
"You could always adopt."
"That's what my mother keeps saying," Sara said, and for the first time she voiced the reason why she couldn't bear the thought of adoption. "I know this sounds horrible, but I take care of other people's children all day. When I get home…"
"You don't have to tell me," Nell said. She reached over and squeezed Sara's hand. "Jeffrey won't mind."
Sara gave her a tight smile and Nell breathed out a heavy sigh, saying, "Well, shit. Can't say I didn't see that coming, but I was hoping it would last a little longer."
"I'm sorry."
"Forget about it." Nell slapped her thighs as she stood. "Nothing bad between you and me. Jeffrey's loss is my gain. First damn time that's ever happened, I can tell you."
Sara stared down at her coffee again.
"You want pancakes?"
"I'm not that hungry," Sara told her, even as her stomach grumbled.
"Me neither." Nell took out the griddle. "Three or four?"
"Four."
Nell put the griddle on the stove and went about preparing the batter. Sara watched, thinking she had seen her mother do this same thing thousands of times. There was something so comforting about being in a kitchen, and Sara felt the nightmares from the night before start to fade.
"Stupid neighbor," Nell said, tossing a cheery wave at someone outside the window over the sink. A car door slammed, followed by an engine starting. "He's gone every weekend with some whore he met in Birmingham. Watch it," she said, tossing Sara a look over her shoulder to make sure she was paying attention. "Soon as he pulls out of the driveway, those dogs will start barking and they won't shut up till he comes back around ten tonight." She stood on the tips of her toes and craned her head to see into the neighbor's yard. "I've talked with him ten times about getting those poor things some shelter. Possum even offered to build him something. God, they howl when it rains."
The dogs started barking on cue. Just to keep her talking, Sara asked, "They don't have a doghouse?"
She shook her head. "Nope. He kept having to come home because they jumped the fence, so he put them on chains. So, of course every morning like clockwork they knock their water bowls over and I have to trudge over there and fill 'em back up." She handed Sara a carton of eggs and a bowl, saying, "Make yourself useful," before continuing, "Boxers are so damn ugly. They're not even the cute kind of ugly. And Lord, do they slobber. It's like taking a spit bath every time I go over there."