longer.â He sat up a little straighter, and as if he were reciting a credo, he said, âWe had to accept the fact that our daughter was gone, and we had to leave that house ourselves. It wouldnât be fair to the new family weâre starting, to have the baby there. I actually grew up in Memphis, so it felt like coming home, to me. My parents are here. And Felicia was here, along with her parents, my first in-laws. She and Victor are very close, and we figured the move would be a good thing for him. Heâs had a very tough time.â
So everyone was happy here, except possibly Diane. It hadnât been coming home for her. It had been a move to a strange city that held many memories for her husband, memories of his first wife.
âWeâd had a lot of therapy, the whole family,â Diane said softly.
âWe all went, Diane and I and Victor,â Joel said. âEven Felicia drove over to Nashville from Memphis to go to some of the sessions.â
Iâd been to therapy, too.
The high school guidance counselor had been horrified when Cameronâs disappearance had exposed the conditionsunder which we lived. âWhy didnât you come to me?â sheâd asked, more than once. And one time sheâd shaken her head and said, âI should have noticed.â I didnât blame her for not noticing; after all, weâd gone to great efforts to conceal our home life, so we could stay together. Maybe a part of me had hoped that our substandard parents would be taken away and we would be given good parents, instead; but that hadnât happened.
âWhen is the new baby due?â Art asked in the cheerful voice parents used when they werenât going to be having any more babies themselves.
âIn five weeks,â Diane said, an involuntary smile curving her lips even under the circumstances. âA healthy boy, the doctor says.â
âThatâs great,â Tolliver and I said, more or less in unison. I eyed Felicia Hart, whoâd risen to stand behind the love seat. Felicia was looking less than ecstatic, perhaps even impatient. Maybe she thought the new baby would mean even more attention was diverted from Victor. It was also possible the childless Felicia was even more creeped out by pregnant women than I was.
âToday, we have to deal with Tabitha,â Diane said, to give us an easement back into the grim reality of the body in the cemetery. âHowâ¦you know how she died?â
âShe was suffocated,â I said, not knowing any other way to say it. Severely deprived of air? Terminally oxygenless? I wasnât trying to tell myself jokes, but there are only so many ways to talk about the COD of any individual, even a child, especially to the mother.
The couple did their best to take the news on the chin, but Diane couldnât suppress a moan of horror. Felicia looked away, her face a hard mask concealing deep emotion.
There were many worse ways to die, but that would hardly be a consolation. Suffocation was bad enough. âIt would be over in seconds,â I said, as gently as I could. âShe would be unconscious, after a tiny bit.â This was an exaggeration, but I thought Dianeâs condition called for as much cushioning as possible. I was terrified that she would go into labor right in front of us.
Art had the strangest expression as he looked at me. It was like heâd never seen me before; like the reality of me, of what I did, had just hit him in the portly belly he carried in front of him like an announcement of his own importance.
âWe should call Vic,â Joel said, in his warm voice. âExcuse me for a moment.â He brushed at his eyes and groped in his pocket for his cell phone. Vic, Joelâs son by his first marriage, had been a sullen fifteen-year-old at the time of Tabithaâs abduction. Iâd glimpsed him trying hard to be tough and contained in the face of an overwhelming
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