Rosalind by Stephen Paden Page A

think, you know, she had something to do with the fire?"
    "I wouldn't be a cop if I didn't at least ask the question, but I'm a pretty good judge of character, and she doesn't strike me as a criminal. Definitely not a killer type." He leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk. "I'm hoping it's something as simple as she just saw something and ran. And if she did, it would sure help me close this case. That sounds awful doesn't it? I wouldn't wish seeing that kind of destruction on anyone."
    "You know, I do remember something about that day. Was she the one that got robbed? The girl at the diner?"
    "See what I mean? This is entre nous. That means just between me and you in German," he said.
    "French," she replied with a smile. "I've always wanted to go there. Got me a book at home on popular phrases just in case I do."
    "Is that right? Make the calls. If you can’t find anything, I guess we'll figure something else out."
    "Yes, sheriff."
    Susan went back to her desk and started making calls. The sheriff sat at his desk for a moment and looked at the photos from the fire. Some were too graphic for a second glance, but he forced himself to do so. It was hard enough looking at the remains of a charred adult, but when he came around to the burned and blistered baby in the crate, it made his stomach turn. He shot up and ran to shut his door, then knelt over the waste basket close by and threw up.

Chapter 10
     
    Rosalind folded the clothes neatly, just the way Mrs. Peterson had taught her. She had never seen a real washer and dryer before, and it took her some time to learn the controls, but Mrs. Peterson had been thoroughly impressed at how quickly she picked up the trade. It was only one of her duties, but Rosalind decided that it was her favorite. There was a tranquility to it. Her home was always filled with some kind of noise, and it was mostly the static from the old television in the living room that no one ever turned off. But here, there was only Rosalind and the gentle tumbling of shirts, pants, and underwear.
    Her creases had become something of a legend in the house, and the comments and praise from the rest of the tenants continued to come her way. She had learned a few more recipes (with the help of Mrs. Peterson) and she was now able to cook an entire week's schedule, never once duplicating even a side-dish. While her chicken and French fries were still a favorite, her meatloaf was slowly gaining house-wide notoriety.
    Rosalind was about put the last of the sheets from the dryer in the basket at her feet when a sharp pain shot through her stomach. She doubled over and her knees slammed into the floor. She gasped for air, but couldn't yell out for help. She was barely able to breathe. The pain grew more intense until finally a squeak escaped her mouth. If the dryer had been on, Mrs. Peterson might never had heard the unusual sound, but it wasn't and Mrs. Peterson came racing down the stairs.
    "Momma," Rosalind said, her eyes wet and red with fright. "Oh, momma."
    Mrs. Peterson rolled her over on her back and put a few of the freshly folded sheets under her head. "Where does it hurt?" she asked.
    "My tummy," said Rosalind through tears. Mrs. Peterson hadn't looked down at that part of her body until that moment, but when she did, she saw that Rosalind's red skirt was darker than usual. She reached down to touch it and pulled the finger back to her sight. Blood. She knew what this was, and she jumped up and ran to the phone.
    The pain subsided, but Rosalind continued to breathe heavily as tears streaked down the sides of her face. She lifted her skirt and felt between her legs. She pulled her fingers out and looked at them. She was dying. She knew it. She'd cut herself from time to time and the amount of blood never bothered her, but this was different. There were no cuts. When she first saw the blood, she thought it was her monthly, but she never had so much pain whenever her that came around, and they never