Turn to Stone by Brian Freeman Page B

The carpet smelled freshly washed, and there was no hint of urine or vomit lingering in the closed-up space. Nothing in the house was new, but Ginnie Black kept her surroundings organized and neat.
    Like her house, Ginnie was neatly but cheaply put together. She wore Wal-Mart fashions—simple checked top, dark skirt, practical shoes—but everything fit, and she clearly ironed whatever came out of the drier. Her brown hair was long and straight, and it was tied in a tight ponytail behind her head that gave her a high white forehead. She wore makeup, but her face was severe and plain. She didn’t smile. She looked beaten down by life, but she didn’t look like someone who quit.
    “I have to keep the animals inside,” Ginnie told him. “We used to let them out, but I lost a dog and a cat that way. Killed. Dropped on our doorstep with their heads cut off. Fucking savages.”
    As harsh as her words were, her voice was calm.
    Stride sat down on a sofa. A black-and-white cat lazily re-located to his lap, purring loudly. “Have you talked to the police about it?” he asked.
    “Nobody cares. I’m Jet’s wife. Sheriff Weik sends a cop out so they can put it in their files that they responded, but they don’t try to stop it. Most of the time, I don’t call anymore.”
    “You had nothing to do with what your husband did.”
    “You think that matters? They want me out, that’s the bottom line. I remind them of Jet. Nobody’s looking for reminders, believe me. Nobody wants to see my face in town. I had to go to Green Bay to get a job.”
    “What do you do?” Stride asked.
    “I work at Lambeau. It’s a good job, lots of overtime. I need the money. Jet left me a pile of debt.”
    Stride noticed her left knee twitching to a beat he couldn’t hear. That was the only glimmer of the emotions churning inside Ginnie Black. She kept everything else locked away. Nothing made it onto her face.
    “You heard about Percy Andrews?” he asked.
    “Yes, I did. That’s a terrible thing.”
    “He killed your husband,” Stride said.
    “So? I wish I’d thanked him for it. I hope that doesn’t shock you.”
    “No.”
    “What I feel bad about is that I didn’t kill Jet myself years ago. Other people suffered because I was a coward. Not that I didn’t think about it. I kept a knife under my pillow. I would lie there and listen to him breathe and think about slitting his throat.”
    “I can imagine what you went through with Jet.”
    “Can you? I doubt it.”
    “I knew a woman about your age in Duluth. Her name was Michaela. She had a husband very much like Jet. Michaela needed protection.”
    “And did you protect her?” Ginnie asked.
    “I tried, but he killed her anyway.”
    Her face froze in an instant of compassion. Then it drained away. “Well, I guess she should have kept a knife under her pillow, too.”
    “The point is, none of this is your fault.”
    Ginnie shrugged. “Then whose fault is it?”
    Stride didn’t answer her. He thought about Anna Bruin. You look for someone to blame . Even when there was nothing and no one. Even when God stood aside as evil things happened.
    “Sooner or later, you have to take responsibility for who you are,” Ginnie went on. “Jet wasn’t some dumb-ass slacker. He was smart. Clever. Athletic for a small kid. Track, tennis, swimming. Yes, he was bullied. Humiliated. He had things done to him I wouldn’t wish on anyone. But you know what? Bad things happen to everybody. Jet could’ve gotten past it, but instead, he decided that he was going to pay back every hurt, and he did. Starting with me and Mike, and ending with Kelli. He became worse than any of the people who tormented him. So you tell me, Mr. Stride. When does the victim become guilty himself?”
    He knew she was right. There was no line in the sand between guilt and innocence. It kept getting washed away. He’d put hundreds of abused children in jail after they grew up and became molesters, rapists, and killers. He