A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(39)

I couldn’t control the pain and I screamed, embarrassed by the tears that ran down my face.

He kept whipping, and I knew he enjoyed it. “You’re just like me,” he panted between strokes. “I see myself in your eyes every day. Need to whip it out of you.”

I glanced back at the house and saw my mother’s silhouette in her bedroom window. She was watching.

I hated her for letting him beat me. I hated everyone.

After that I behaved at home because I feared word would get back to my father.

My deeply hidden anger still grew; it festered. I kicked our dog in the ribs one time, furious at her continuous barking. The sad look of betrayal she gave me was enough to make me never do it again. Animals weren’t the answer.

I wanted to conquer the anger the same way I’d tackled my other emotions. My father was controlled by anger; I wouldn’t be.

I was determined to never be like him. No matter what he said.

I eventually learned to tuck it away deep inside. Hide it from everyone. I spent as much time as possible outdoors, seeking physical outlets for my excess energy. It helped. I bought a journal and hid it in my room, transcribing my deepest fears, desires, and needs.

After a month I burned it. Terrified it would fall into my father’s hands.

The words I wrote would have earned me another beating. Maybe worse.

I continued to hide any actions I thought would trigger my father. When the Deverell family was killed and no one knew who had murdered them, my curiosity got the better of me.

Weeks after the murders I snuck away and rode my bike to the Deverell home. The police were done with their investigation of the house, but still no killer had been named. Boards had been nailed over the windows. I’d heard someone had broken the glass and wondered who had covered them up. Neighbors? Police?

I crept around to the back of the home, trying the doors, and then spotted a small high bathroom window that hadn’t been broken or boarded up. I stacked firewood until I could reach the window, planning to smash it with a rock. To my delight it was unlocked, and I shimmied in, knocking down the shower curtain rod and landing awkwardly in the bathtub.

I tiptoed around, expecting a cop to appear at every turn. The house smelled musty and metallic. Black fingerprint dust covered every surface. I touched the black powder and then studied the smear I made on the wall. Panic swept through me and I grabbed a towel from the bathroom to wipe the place I’d touched.

In the first bedroom was a large bed, and I knew it must be the parents’. The bedding had been removed, and a hole had been cut in the carpet. But there were dark stains on the mattress. Blood?

I stepped closer, staring at the oddly shaped stains. I leaned over and sniffed. Yes, blood.

I’d heard the entire family had been killed in their beds. Blows to the heads. I crept from room to room. Each one was the same. No bedding. Stains on the mattresses.

How much do people bleed?

The kitchen and living room looked normal. Like the family was simply away for a day. Books, cups, and papers were scattered about the tables and counters. More black dust.

It became difficult to breathe. My breaths grew frequent and shallow, and I wondered if the boarded-up windows had blocked fresh oxygen. I sprinted to the bathroom, shakily replaced the curtain rod I’d knocked down, and crawled out the window. Outside I leaned against the house, taking deep gulps of the fresh air. I wiped my forehead and discovered it was covered in sweat.

I rode my bike home, thinking about what I’d seen and wondering if any of the Deverells had known they were about to die.

I’ve never forgotten that house.





NINETEEN

Finally some progress.

Delighted, Mercy hung up the phone in her office. Until this moment it had felt as if the Hartlage case had completely stalled, but that phone call had breathed new life into the case.

“Lunch?” Truman appeared at her door with a large paper sack.

Three good things in a row: new evidence, lunch delivery, and Truman.

“Absolutely.” Mercy cleared an area on her desk.

“Why are you beaming?” he asked as he handed her a spinach salad. He looked as tired as she felt after their long night at the Jorgensens’.

“Because I just heard from Dr. Harper. She found a dentist who had Corrine and Richard Hartlage as patients.”

“Nice!” Truman pulled up a chair and opened his steak sandwich. “Are they emailing the films?”

“That’s the one bad thing. They don’t have digital films, but the office is making copies and overnighting them.” She took a bite of strawberries and spinach. “I’m getting spoiled. I expect instant delivery these days.”

“I thought most offices had gone to digital films,” he commented.

“They have. But this office is in Burns.”

“Oh,” Truman said with understanding. Burns was a tiny remote city in eastern Oregon. Everything moved slower in that rural half of the state. “You told me she’d called every dentist around here. What made her look for a dentist in Burns?”

“Because two years ago, the Hartlages moved here from Portland. Do you know how many dentist offices there are in Portland? Poor Dr. Harper didn’t even know where to start calling. I dug a little deeper. Ten years ago they lived in Burns. I figured she’d have better luck pinpointing a dentist in a town of less than three thousand.”