“Hannah’s life,” Cameryn added quietly. “I think I saved her life, too.”
“You very well could have. The case against her was circumstantial, but people have gone to prison on circumstantial evidence before.” He laced his fingers through hers. “Cammie, you ultimately got to the truth. But… because of your mother, you withheld evidence in a murder case. Last summer you sat in that kitchen and begged me to hire you as assistant to the coroner. Your grandmother hated the idea.”
"She still does.”
“I’m beginning to accept it,” her mammaw interjected. “Beginning,” she added when Cameryn shot her a look. Mammaw had dropped into the easy chair and picked up a large cloth Madame Alexander doll that needed a leg. With a hooked needle, she began to reattach a new limb, her hand moving as fluidly, Cameryn thought, as a surgeon’s.
“When I put you on the payroll, you agreed to work for me. Not just father and daughter,” he reminded her, “but employee and boss. Remember?”
She nodded.
“I want to talk to you now as your boss. You knew things about Esther’s death that could have been crucial, yet you withheld the facts. Cammie, that’s obstruction of justice. That’s a very, very serious mistake.”
“But it didn’t matter-it doesn’t matter. I was right, wasn’t I? Hannah didn’t do it. She didn’t have anything to do with Esther’s death.”
Her father rubbed his hand over his eyes. “That’s not the point. As a coroner, as medical examiners, our job is to reveal the facts. Reveal, Cammie, not conceal. There could have been legal ramifications for what you did.”
“You mean legal ramifications for finding the truth?”
“You are not listening. If you were anyone else, you’d be fired. Do you understand?” He shook his head as she pleaded justification. “There is none,” he said. “But we’ll put this behind us and move forward. Because now I want to talk about your mother.”
She knew where this was going, what he was about to say, but he surprised her. In a tender voice, he began, “Your mammaw and I talked, and we-I-Cammie, neither one of us has been fair to you. Or to Hannah.”
She looked at him, disbelieving. Mammaw nodded her head while keeping her eyes on her needle and murmuring agreement. Ever since Hannah had reentered her life, Cameryn had felt as though they’d been locked in battle. Her grandmother’s cantankerousness had equaled her father’s firmness, and she, Cameryn, had matched both in her own quiet, stubborn way. But now the rules seemed to be changing. They were lining up together again, on the same side, the same team.
Patrick’s heavy brows came together, creating a pleat between his eyes. “When your mother got… sick… I couldn’t take it. But you’ve stuck by her. I’m proud of you for that.”
“You have Amy Green now,” she told him. “And you have Mammaw. Hannah’s got no one but me.”
“That was a mistake. My mistake. Our mistake. So I called her.” His face contorted and his voice wavered as he said, “It’s the first time I’ve talked to Hannah in almost fourteen years.”
“It was the right thing to do,” agreed Mammaw. “I see it now. It will be hard for us, but your father and I will try. We’re going to try to make room for us all.”
Cameryn sat, too stunned to speak. The flames of the fireplace danced as she tried to comprehend.
“I asked her to come to the house and she said yes,” Patrick continued.
“Hannah? Here? When?”
“Any minute now. In fact, I think she’s here.”
Through the window Cameryn saw a figure make its way up the steps, heard the timid rap on the door. Leaping to her feet, she opened the door to see Hannah’s pale face.
“Is this okay?” Hannah asked, her voice cautious.
Cameryn’s eyes filled with tears as she threw the door wider. Light from the house brightened her mother’s curly hair. In Hannah’s outstretched hand she held a painting of an iris. “A gift,” she said, “for your house.”
And Cameryn, her throat so tight she could barely get out the words, answered, “Welcome to our home.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cameryn was happy. It had been a long time since she’d felt so content, so full up with every good emotion. Her mother had come to their home, and her father had stood up to greet her. Awkwardly, he’d thrust his hands in his pockets when she’d walked in. Rocking on his heels, he’d examined Hannah while Mammaw, smiling stiffly, had offered her their most comfortable chair.
Hannah hadn’t stayed long. Just a brush, a contact point, and then she was gone. But after she left, Mammaw had looked at the painted iris a long time before she put it on top of the piano. “I’ll hang it in the morning,” she’d said. “Not tonight.”
And all the while Cameryn had beamed.
Now, stretching out on her bed, stomach down, she pulled her stuffed dog against her chest. There was no way to stop the memories that washed over her like an ocean at high tide. Her father, teaching her to fish, the line like a spider’s thread in the waters of the Animas; her mammaw sewing an old doll’s cloth arm while telling of her own Irish childhood in a brogue soft as a lullaby; the three of them huddled on the hard wooden pews of St. Patrick’s, where her father nodded off while Cameryn laughed and her grandmother poked a sharp elbow into his side. This was her family, her past and present.
The future would soon add another thread. Her father had promised her that. Patrick, Hannah, Justin, her friends-they would weave their lives together into a new tapestry. It wouldn’t be like it was before, but every thread would be strong. A beautiful cloth.
The soft ding of her computer brought her out of her thoughts. Someone had e-mailed her. Curious, she went to her desk and sat down, moving her mouse so that she could read her screen.
It was from Jo Ann Whittaker.
Dear Cameryn,
I was pleased to hear that you had a part in solving yet another difficult forensic case. This is precisely why we at Colorado University are so interested in your application. I hate to nudge, but I’m at home and I was hoping to ask you a few questions concerning the original case that brought you to our attention. As I write this, it is almost nine o’clock-a bit late, I realize. But if you’re at your computer and available, I would like to clarify a few points. You are part of a presentation that I will give tomorrow.
Typing quickly, Cameryn wrote:
Hi Jo Ann,
I am here, at my computer. Ask me anything you’d like. I’m sorry I didn’t fill out the form you sent, but I was very busy with the Jane Doe/Esther Childs case. I’ll wait here for your next e-mail.
Cameryn
A minute went by before she heard another ding.
I am reviewing the case of Brad Oakes (the victim of Kyle O’Neil). It is an interesting study. I would like to ask you some specifics concerning your experience. The decedent, Brad Oakes, was microwaved in his bed by a klystron tube. How did the body present?
Jo Ann
The good feeling she’d experienced evaporated as she read the e-mail. Her teacher, Brad Oakes, had taught her to love poetry. It was still hard for her to think about his death, the way he’d looked. She remembered it too well- his eyes blown out of his skull, and his withered body, arms pulled up, still clutching his bedsheet. The memory made her recoil, made her heart beat faster. Maybe Justin was right. Maybe she did need counseling.
Since she couldn’t write that to Jo Ann Whittaker, she typed instead:
The body presented as though it had been burned, but burned from the inside out instead of the outside in. The internal organs near the head were cooked, while the organs lower down were not. I hope this is helpful.