Unconditional (19 page)

I inched closer. “Wow,” I said, nearly breathless. Everything about this reminded me of my own bedroom at her age. “Did
you
do all this?”

I looked at her and smiled.

She nodded, clearly proud of her work. Prouder still that I appreciated it.

“It's beautiful. I love it,” I said, focusing on a paper with multihued balloons caught together by a giant bow. Underneath the words “
I
♥
CANDY
” were written in fat letters of pinks and purples. Next to it purple sailboats rocked on a red sea.

Keisha pointed to one of her drawings illuminated by a bedside lamp whose tilted shade reminded me of the one next to my own bed.

“Do you want me to see something?”

She nodded, drawing me closer.

I pressed a hand to my heart. “Oh, Keisha,” I said, stepping nearer to the crayon-drawing of a red-headed woman standing next to a precious little black girl whose hands were raised high. Both were dressed in bright clothes, and both were smiling. They stood in green grass under a shining yellow sun and cheerful blue clouds. “Why, that's us!”

I looked at Keisha. She grinned at me.

I returned to the wall, to the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven pieces of wonder and childhood. Joy washed over me. With our shared love of art, I could see a whole new purpose forming in my life.

Then . . . the air around me stood still.

Staring at me, as if frozen in time, was a drawing—an exact replica of my little Firebird. I grew dizzy. Roaring built to a hurricane-force in my ears, drowning out the rest of the world. My heart beat wildly as I pulled the drawing from the wall, turning it toward Keisha.

Her face had changed from happy to scared. Frightened, no doubt, by the look on my own face. I leaned toward her, pushing the paper close. “Did you draw this?”

She stared at me, unmoving.

“
Keisha?
Where did you see this?” My hands began to shake. As they did, Keisha buried her face into her own. “Keisha! Baby! You have to tell me!”

I was getting nowhere. My gestures and the pitch of my voice had petrified her. I fled from the room, no longer thinking clearly. No longer caring about the feelings of a little girl who I'd made so much progress with only the day before.

Macon sat at the Formica kitchen table, looking at his report card. The same one he'd shown to Joe earlier, the one that had made Joe so proud. I thrust the drawing at him, demanding his attention. His eyes were wide, knowing.

“Where did Keisha see this?” I demanded. “Who showed her how to draw this?”

Macon's eyes darted back and forth over the little oriole, his expression registering that he was more afraid of answering my questions than not.

But I was done playing. I was through with tip-toeing around. Whoever had shown Keisha how to draw Firebird had also taken Billy's copy of my original. And whoever that was had killed my husband.

“Macon!”

“It was T, okay? T showed her how to draw it one day. Said it was the only thing he knew how to draw good.”

A whimper pushed its way out of my lungs.

I'd been right. All along . . . I'd been right.

Anthony Jones
had
shot Billy. He was the one. And now I had the evidence Detective Miller demanded to make the case against him.

I took two steps back, knowing exactly what I had to do.

Chapter Eighteen

“Baby,
what
has
gotten into you?”

Mattie's voice came from behind me. I turned around, no longer capable of a rational thought. She looked at me, confusion written on her face, a look that asked,
Why have you come into my home and spoken to my boy in such a way?

I pressed a hand to my forehead, pushing my hair away from my face, and I looked past her to where Keisha stood, half-hiding, half-peeking around her bedroom door. “I—I have to go,” I stammered.

I couldn't get out of the apartment fast enough—my legs seemed to be made of wet dishrags, my boots weighed down with bricks. I stumbled to Billy's truck, my hands shaking so much, it took several attempts to open the door and slide in. As I did, thunder rumbled overhead and sprinkles of rain plopped across my windshield before forming trails toward the wipers.

I threw my purse onto the seat beside me, opened it, and dug around for my phone. Finding it, I flipped it open, my thumb frantically searching the keys for Detective Miller's number. Just as I did—just as I was about to press “send”—I stopped.

Don't call me about this again, you hear me? You're on your own.

I closed my cell phone. My eyes went to the glove compartment. Anger formed in the pit of my stomach, rose to my chest, and gripped my heart. I slowly raised my fingers to the glove compartment's latch. The door fell open, the sound echoing in the truck's cab.

The night of Keisha's accident, I had returned the .44 Magnum to its resting place within the scuffed interior. Since then it had shared the space with an old Bic lighter, the truck's registration papers, and a half-empty box of Tic Tac mints Billy had left behind. I wrapped my fingers around the grip and jerked the gun out. I could see Anthony Jones's apartment building through the rain-drenched windshield, but I could not clearly see his door. Not that it mattered. Opened or closed, home or gone, I was about to right a three-year-old wrong.

I opened the cylinder. The single bullet I'd shoved into one of the chambers was still there, ready and able. But was I?

Ready or not, I no longer cared. If I took the drawing of Firebird to Detective Miller, he'd dally with it. He'd tell me it wasn't enough, that I didn't know what I was dealing with.

My only other choice . . .

I blew out a pent-up breath and climbed out of the truck. I hid the gun under my shirt and shut the door behind me as quietly as possible. Fat raindrops fell on my head, snaking toward my shirt collar as I walked up the cement walkway. Just past the Dumpster and the swing sets, I had my answer: Anthony's front door was wide open. Only the screen door stood between me and justice.

I looked around, but no one was about. The rain had driven them all indoors. A few forgotten articles of clothing hung on the wires stretched across the common area. They grew wetter, and the wires sagged under their weight.

A plastic crate filled with motor oil and a red mechanic's rag sat next to the single step leading up to Anthony's porch. He'd been careless enough to leave behind his work rag in that dark alleyway, and he was foolish enough to leave another one just like it in the open for the wife of his victim to see. I squared my shoulders, reached for the screen handle, and pulled. The door swung open, creaking loudly to announce that a force to be reckoned with had come calling. I dropped my right hand to my side, keeping the barrel of the gun pointed toward the floor, my finger loosely wrapped around the trigger. With the thumb of my left hand, I released the safety.

Nothing about the apartment had changed since I'd last been inside. The rooms were still bathed in shadows, still reeked of motor oil and cigars. I stepped fully into the living room, joining my right hand with my left to hold the gun steady, low and in front of me.

The curtains on the kitchen window had been pushed back, allowing what little bit of overcast daylight could eke past the grime and rust on the screens to penetrate the room. Dishes had been washed and stacked in the drainer. Little was scattered about the countertops—a toaster, a half-empty glass of water, a can opener.

I inched my way toward Anthony's bedroom, walking as quietly as I could in boots on bare tile. At the door to his room, I looked toward the back door. This time, it was tightly shut, cloaking the hallway in a shroud of darkness.

Once inside the bedroom, I rushed to the chest of drawers where Anthony's belt still curled in one corner and a filled ashtray sat in another. In one movement I laid the gun next to the ashtray and jerked open the top drawer. My eyes flew past the newspaper clippings, directly to the cigar box I'd not been able to search the last time I'd been inside this room. I removed the box and placed it next to the gun, pausing a moment to listen for movement inside the apartment.

Nothing. There was only the sound of the rain becoming more insistent, accompanied by the wind's occasional howl outside the building.

I pushed the top of the box open with my thumbs. Inside was a folded piece of paper. I removed it carefully, holding my breath as I pulled the corners open.

My breath caught in my throat.

Firebird
. . .
my little oriole, staring up at me with Billy's blood splattered across the page. Three-year-old death stains, taunting me.

My hands shook, and I held my breath as I released the drawing. It dropped to rest on top of the open cigar box, sitting next to the gun.

Everything came back to me at once. Camping with Billy. Drawing by the firelight. Reciting my little story to him. His attentiveness.

You keep that drawing for me, you hear?

Sam, you gotta write this. Promise me . . .

I released the breath, taking new ones in past dry, parted lips.

“Who are you?”

The quiet voice penetrated the cadence of the rain and the sound of my own ragged breathing. I spun around, sweeping the gun off the dresser and gripping it with both hands. My arms extended, I pulled the hammer back.

Anthony Jones's eyes grew large as the gun's chamber clicked into place. I stared at him, determined not to be afraid, unwavering in my assurance that this man had killed Billy.

Without taking my eyes from his, I reached behind me and grabbed the drawing of Firebird with my left hand. “I'm Samantha Crawford,” I said. In spite of my resolution, my voice quivered slightly. I held the paper between him and me. “You killed my husband.”

He took a step into the semidarkness of the room. “How'd you find me?” He sounded genuinely shocked, as though he'd never expected this moment to come.

I grabbed the gun with both hands again, showing him I meant business. “Don't!”

Little Firebird slipped out of my hand and floated to the floor, landing at the toes of my boots.

Anthony raised his hands. Thick chest muscles strained beneath the gray ribbed tank he wore tucked into a pair of belted jeans. “You don't wanna do that, now.” He slowly lowered himself to one knee, hands splayed, never taking his eyes off mine. “You need to hear what I gotta say to you . . . 'cause your husband . . . he wanted me to tell you something . . .”

What . . . ?
Had Billy whispered a message for me to his killer mere seconds before he died?

Both knees came to the floor and Anthony straightened his back as though to make a point. I kept the gun pointed at his head. “You ain't gonna believe me.” He blinked once, then swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing slowly up, then down. “But I need you to try . . .”

I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. I could only barely take in his words. Guilty or not, he knew the details of the last minutes of Billy's life. Details I wanted to hear. I
needed
to hear.

“You already know I was there . . . It was raining that night. A hard rain. A break had come in it, and I was headin' over to my cousin's house. Thought I'd have enough time to get there on foot before it started raining again, but . . .” He took several breaths, his eyes never leaving mine. “I got just about to Murphy's when the bottom fell out again. I was wearing . . . I had on this red hoodie . . .”

My chest constricted.

The killer wore a red hoodie . . .

“I've seen it,” I said. “Seen it the day you got on to Macon for putting it on.”

Anthony's eyes turned sad. “Macon. That boy . . . he don't know what's good for 'im.”

I didn't want to talk about Macon. I wanted to talk about Billy. “What happened outside Murphy's?”

“I stood up under the awning, hands shoved in my pockets, madder than a hornet that I was stuck there. It was dark all around. No lights coming from inside, none from the outside either. Then all of a sudden I hear this electrical buzzing and the lights come on.

“Next thing I know, your husband comes walking around from the corner of the alley. He's more drenched than me, if you can imagine.” A faint smile crossed Anthony's lips. When I didn't return it, he continued. “He was taking off his hard hat—I remember, it was white—tucked it under his arm as he passed by. He nodded, like he knew me.

“I nodded back. I knew he didn't belong around the Commons, but his eyes . . . they were kind.”

Tears burned my own eyes. Anthony's image glistened before me. I raised the gun a tad higher. “Go on.”

“Your husband knocked on Murphy's door, and old Murphy opened it. I could see him, but he couldn't see me. Or if he could, he didn't notice. He looked at your husband standing there and said, ‘My man, you did it.'

“‘Just the transformer,' your husband said.

“‘Well, I thank ya kindly, anyway.'

“Your husband asked if he had any coffee going. Was probably chilled to the bone.”

That knowledge pained me more than I could have imagined it would.

“Old Murphy said, ‘I can put some on. Won't take a second to start it.' He moved on back into the store, but Billy—your husband—he turned and looked at me. ‘You live around here?' he asked me. ‘Do you need a ride?'

“I told him I was heading over to my cousin's as soon as the rain let up. Your husband looked at the sky, scoping out the weather. He said, ‘May be a while. Can I get you anything?' He looked at Murphy's like he would have bought me something, and he didn't even know me.”

“He would have,” I whispered.

“I told him no. I mean, I wasn't used to white guys from other parts of town offerin' to buy me anything. But he wasn't in that store five minutes before he came back out with a sandwich and a cup of coffee.”