snowflakes were sparse, dry, crystalline bits easily brushed away. Neither of them moved. One flake landed on Justin’s cheek, another on his lashes. They rested on the dog’s fur, too, creating the thinnest of shrouds. In a way she envied the dog, whose struggles were already done. Hers were only beginning.
Cold was seeping into her, past her jacket, through her pink sweatshirt and her running shoes, and into her toes.
“Are we done with the therapy session?” she asked. She attempted a smile, trying to soften things. Justin was only trying to help, after all. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But I’m really okay. Really.”
Justin seemed to know he was beaten. “Suit yourself,” he finally said. “But if you change your mind, remember I’m here.”
“Thanks. I’ll remember.”
Without another word, Justin reached down and picked up both the foreleg and the hind leg of the dog. He dragged the stiff carcass to a spot on the roadside where the trees had thinned. Then, with a mighty heave, he thrust the remains into the sky. The dog’s carcass sailed in an arc, like a discus, before disappearing into the underbrush below.
It would be hidden now. Just like her secrets.
Chapter Two
"WHAT ARE YOU doing home so early—I thought you had work today!” Mammaw cried in surprise as Cameryn entered the Mahoney kitchen.
Cameryn slid into a chair and grabbed an apple from a green ceramic bowl. Then, thinking better of it, she let it roll back with the others. “Justin asked me to help him on a case, which turned out to be a dead dog, so when I got back to the Grand my boss said I should take the rest of the day off.”
Her grandmother, as usual on a Saturday, was making bread. Mammaw slapped and punched the ball of dough beneath her flour-encrusted fingers as though she could somehow beat it into submission. Like the rest of Mammaw’s compact body, her fingers were deceptively strong. “You left work for a dead dog?” she grunted.
Cameryn sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“Justin Crowley had no business taking you from the Grand. Your father will be home any minute, and one thing’s for certain—he won’t like hearing about this!”
“Then don’t tell him.”
Her grandmother didn’t answer. Instead she made a tsk ing noise between her teeth as she punched the bread with the heel of her hand. The next words out of her mouth were the words Cameryn could always count on her to say, as rote as prayer. “Let me get you something to eat,” Mammaw offered. “I’ve got some boxty in the refrigerator, and you’re as thin as a sparrow.”
“Maybe later.”
Mammaw’s lips were already compressed in disapproval as she murmured, “Do you see what looking at death does? It kills the appetite.”
Although it had been nearly sixty years since Mammaw had lived in Dublin, the Old World still clung to her like the blue waves of incense Father John swung from his censer in church. A rosary clicked inside her apron pocket, and a picture of the pope smiled beneath magnets on the refrigerator. The cross that hung from her neck was Celtic, ringed with a halo, the symbol of which Mammaw claimed came from St. Patrick himself.
But somewhere along the way she’d become Americanized, too. Her snow-white hair had been cropped short, like a man’s, and twice a year she made a trip to play the slots at The Lodge Casino in Black Hawk with other gray-haired ladies from St. Patrick’s Catholic Church. On those occasions, with her thin lips painted in rose-berry hue and a layer of powder on her nose, Mammaw looked just like any other Western woman bent on losing money.
“I ran into Velma today, and she told me the pictures for the yearbook are already due,” Mammaw said now. “We’d better look into it. Lord above, I can’t believe we’re talking about your graduation already—where does the time go? Oh, and Father John says he needs your help a week from next,” she went on in her
Cold was seeping into her, past her jacket, through her pink sweatshirt and her running shoes, and into her toes.
“Are we done with the therapy session?” she asked. She attempted a smile, trying to soften things. Justin was only trying to help, after all. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But I’m really okay. Really.”
Justin seemed to know he was beaten. “Suit yourself,” he finally said. “But if you change your mind, remember I’m here.”
“Thanks. I’ll remember.”
Without another word, Justin reached down and picked up both the foreleg and the hind leg of the dog. He dragged the stiff carcass to a spot on the roadside where the trees had thinned. Then, with a mighty heave, he thrust the remains into the sky. The dog’s carcass sailed in an arc, like a discus, before disappearing into the underbrush below.
It would be hidden now. Just like her secrets.
Chapter Two
"WHAT ARE YOU doing home so early—I thought you had work today!” Mammaw cried in surprise as Cameryn entered the Mahoney kitchen.
Cameryn slid into a chair and grabbed an apple from a green ceramic bowl. Then, thinking better of it, she let it roll back with the others. “Justin asked me to help him on a case, which turned out to be a dead dog, so when I got back to the Grand my boss said I should take the rest of the day off.”
Her grandmother, as usual on a Saturday, was making bread. Mammaw slapped and punched the ball of dough beneath her flour-encrusted fingers as though she could somehow beat it into submission. Like the rest of Mammaw’s compact body, her fingers were deceptively strong. “You left work for a dead dog?” she grunted.
Cameryn sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“Justin Crowley had no business taking you from the Grand. Your father will be home any minute, and one thing’s for certain—he won’t like hearing about this!”
“Then don’t tell him.”
Her grandmother didn’t answer. Instead she made a tsk ing noise between her teeth as she punched the bread with the heel of her hand. The next words out of her mouth were the words Cameryn could always count on her to say, as rote as prayer. “Let me get you something to eat,” Mammaw offered. “I’ve got some boxty in the refrigerator, and you’re as thin as a sparrow.”
“Maybe later.”
Mammaw’s lips were already compressed in disapproval as she murmured, “Do you see what looking at death does? It kills the appetite.”
Although it had been nearly sixty years since Mammaw had lived in Dublin, the Old World still clung to her like the blue waves of incense Father John swung from his censer in church. A rosary clicked inside her apron pocket, and a picture of the pope smiled beneath magnets on the refrigerator. The cross that hung from her neck was Celtic, ringed with a halo, the symbol of which Mammaw claimed came from St. Patrick himself.
But somewhere along the way she’d become Americanized, too. Her snow-white hair had been cropped short, like a man’s, and twice a year she made a trip to play the slots at The Lodge Casino in Black Hawk with other gray-haired ladies from St. Patrick’s Catholic Church. On those occasions, with her thin lips painted in rose-berry hue and a layer of powder on her nose, Mammaw looked just like any other Western woman bent on losing money.
“I ran into Velma today, and she told me the pictures for the yearbook are already due,” Mammaw said now. “We’d better look into it. Lord above, I can’t believe we’re talking about your graduation already—where does the time go? Oh, and Father John says he needs your help a week from next,” she went on in her
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