My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(50)

“I testified at Edmund House’s sentencing.”

“I know. I’ve read the transcript. Did Sheriff Calloway ask you to convince me not to represent Mr. House?”

“No. He simply told me you were seeking a new trial. I’ve come on my own.”

“You understand why I have trouble believing that.”

“All I ask is for a chance to speak with you. I’ll say my piece. I won’t say it twice. Then I’ll leave you be.”

Dan considered the request. He was skeptical, but Bovine sounded sincere. He’d also just driven eight hours and not tried to hide the purpose for his visit. “You understand I have a confidential relationship with my client.”

“I understand, Mr. O’Leary. I’m not interested in what Edmund House has to say.”

O’Leary nodded. “My office is in the back.” He snapped his fingers and the two dogs turned and sped down the hall. Inside Dan’s office, they retook their spots on the throw rug but remained upright and alert, ears perked.

Bovine removed his jacket, still glistening with drops of rain, and hung it on the rarely used coatrack near the door. “They’re awfully large, aren’t they?”

“You should see my food bill,” Dan said. “Can I offer you a cup of stale coffee?”

“Yes, please. It’s been a long drive.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black,” Bovine said.

Dan poured a cup and handed him a mug and the two men settled into chairs at the table beneath the window overlooking Market Street. When Bovine raised his mug to take a sip of coffee, Dan noticed a tremor in his hand. Outside the window, the rain sheeted across the sky and beat hard on the flat roof, pinging as it funneled through the gutters and downspouts. Bovine lowered his mug and reached into his back pocket to remove his wallet. His hands shook even more as he struggled to pull photographs from their plastic slips, and Dan wondered if perhaps he had Parkinson’s disease. Bovine set one of the photographs on the table. “This is Annabelle.”

His daughter looked to be in her early twenties, with straight dark hair and skin lighter than her father’s. Her blue eyes also indicated a mixed-race heritage. But it was not the color of Annabelle Bovine’s skin or her eyes that caught Dan’s attention. It was her utterly flat expression. She looked like a cardboard cutout.

“You’ll notice the scar descending from her eyebrow.”

A thin line, barely detectable, curved from Annabelle’s eyebrow to her jaw in the shape of a sickle.

“Edmund House told the police he and my daughter had consensual sex.” Bovine placed a second photograph beside the first. The young girl in it was almost unrecognizable, her left eye swollen shut, the cut on her face caked in blood. Dan knew from Tracy’s file that House had raped Bovine when she was sixteen. Bovine started to lift his mug but his shakes had become more pronounced and he lowered it back to the table. Then he closed his eyes and took several measured breaths.

Dan gave the man a moment before he said, “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Bovine.”

“He hit her with a shovel, Mr. O’Leary.” He paused again and took another breath, but this time it was sharp and rattled in his chest. “You see, Edmund House was not content to just rape my daughter. He wanted to hurt her, and he would have continued to hurt her had she not found the will to escape.”

Bovine’s face inched into a resigned grimace. He removed his glasses, wiping the lenses with a red handkerchief. “Six years. Six years for ruining a young woman’s life because someone made a mistake gathering the evidence. Annabelle was a bright, outgoing young woman. We had to move; the memories were too horrific. Annabelle never returned to school. She cannot work. We live on a quiet street not far from the water in a quiet town with little crime. It’s peaceful there. And every night we deadbolt our doors and check every window. It’s our routine. Then we climb in bed and we wait. My wife and I wait for her screams. They call it Rape Trauma Syndrome. Edmund House served six years. We’ve served nearly thirty.”

Dan recalled similar testimony from the sentencing transcript, but hearing a father’s anguish brought the impact home. “I’m sorry. No one should have to live that way.”

Bovine’s mouth pinched. “But someone will, Mr. O’Leary, if you do what they say you’re attempting to do.”

“Sheriff Calloway shouldn’t have called you, Mr. Bovine. It isn’t fair to either of us. I don’t mean to in any way diminish what happened to your daughter or your family—”

Bovine raised a hand but did so in the same understated manner that he spoke. “You’re going to tell me that Edmund House was a young man when he raped my daughter, that it occurred nearly thirty years ago, that people can change.” The thin-lipped, ironic smile returned. “Let me save you the trouble.” Bovine looked to Sherlock and Rex. “Edmund House is not like your dogs. He cannot be trained. And he cannot be called off.”

“But he does deserve a fair trial, just like everyone else.”

“But he’s not like everyone else, Mr. O’Leary. Prison is the only place for violent men like Edmund House. And make no mistake. Edmund House is a very violent man.” Bovine quietly picked up the photographs and slipped them back in his wallet. “I said my piece. I won’t take up any more of your time.” He stood and retrieved his jacket. “Thank you for the coffee.”