Touch of Evil by Colleen Thompson

implications finally became clear had been an even greater failing. After all, what use had a dead man—even her late husband—for his reputation?
    “You all right?” Her father sounded concerned. “You ought to sit up straight now. I don’t want you bumping your head if I catch a pothole. This county of yours ever hear of road maintenance?”
    She opened her eyes in time to glimpse his worry before he looked away. She smiled, understanding that he didn’t likeher catching him, that he was more at ease with being a role model than a father. Or a human being.
    Because she somehow loved him nonetheless, and especially because she knew what it was like to love a difficult child, she straightened and watched the row of grand old houses slide past. “I’m just a little tired. Sorry.”
    “You aren’t the one who needs to be apologizing,” he said darkly. “You remember any more this morning? Remember who the chickenshit bastard was that hit you?”
    She was tempted to name Roger to find out if their newfound camaraderie would prevent her dad from kicking Savoy’s ass. But as satisfying as that might be, she opted for the truth. “I still can’t come up with anything past getting into my SUV to go talk to the victim’s mother, and before that, bits and pieces from the crime scene.”
    She saw glimpses of it, coming in flashes that held the surreal quality of half-remembered snapshots. Caleb’s bare feet, dangling a scant few inches shy of the muddy earth. His marked pallor, in contrast to the livid patches on his soles, forearms, and hands.
    But there had been something strange about those forearms. Something she hadn’t noticed in either of the other corpses…
    “Dad, you need to take a right here, to my office. Did you forget where it’s—”
    “I’m doing what the doctor said.” Her father sounded adamant. “Getting you home for some rest and a good meal. Getting you well so you can take care of that boy of yours the way you used to.”
    She winced at the last words. “How is Noah? Did you see him this morning?” Though he didn’t show affection in the same manner as a normal child, might not even consciously realize that he missed her, she knew he would suffer from this sudden disorder in his world.
    “He’s a little stressed,” her dad said diplomatically. “Mrs. Crane didn’t know the way he likes to do things in the morning. I helped the best I could, but Noah—well, he wasn’t up for talking things through.”
    Justine sighed, knowing her son would be upset for weeks by the change in routine. And heaven help them all if his favorite meal of grilled cheese (sharp cheddar on stone-ground wheat, halved on the diagonal) and soup (Campbell’s Cream of Tomato, made with two-percent-fat milk) didn’t come off as planned this evening. At precisely six thirty, and not a minute earlier or later.
    “Did he use his cards, at least?” she asked, referring to the picture-exchange system with which Noah had made his needs known before he’d become verbal. Though the cards were a step backward, they certainly beat the hell out of a tantrum.
    “Took me a while, but I finally got him to get me one and show me what he wanted,” her father said.
    “Thank God you were there.” Justine meant it. Her dad might deny her his approval, but he’d do anything for his only grandson. Maybe because Noah looked so much like Ed Junior, her brother Eddie, lost so many years ago. The thought set off an uneasy flutter in her stomach.
    Her father frowned. “Seems like Noah’s…Well, I’m sure it’s tough, you working so much. And without Lou or me around to help out…”
    “I know, Dad.” Justine felt sick with the reminder that her son was regressing, that even with Gwen Bollinger’s help, something she could barely afford, Noah’s hard-won gains were dwindling, day by day. It made her furious at Lou, that he would talk her into moving out here and then die, leaving her in this situation. Alone again and