Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

grandmother.”
    This didn’t surprise her. Her mammaw was convinced that cutting into the dead was the devil’s business. Her father, though, had always been on her side. “Why did you make that promise?”
    “Because the last case we worked on put you in danger. For now, at least, she wants you to stop.” He grinned, trying to soften her up. “You know how she can be when her Irish dander’s up. Just humor her, all right? Humor me.”
    Inside, Cameryn groaned. This again.
    “But this job ,” she argued, “is the reason I’m being courted by a top forensic school. Besides, this case is not a homicide—it’s a car wreck. Please, both of you, quit worrying about me. You said ‘for one thing.’ So, what’s the other thing?”
    He took a step closer, his eyes full of appeal. “You’re struggling. There’ve been so many changes in your life that I want to keep anything that can hurt you as far away as I can. You can tell me anything, Cammie, and I’ll help. No matter what it is. Or who.”
    At that moment, she became aware of a bird cawing overhead and the whisper of wind through the pines and the way her father’s feet had planted in the snow like pylons. For some reason she registered these things—the mountain sounds and Patrick’s stolid legs, the blinding whiteness of the snow, the coldness of the air in her lungs, mingled with the pungent smell of truck exhaust. It was then that she understood: this was not a conversation about some thing , this was about some one. Her father had been talking about Hannah, the mother Cameryn had never known, the woman who had unexpectedly been resurrected in their lives only weeks before.
    “You’re worried about Hannah,” she answered. “That’s what this is all about.”
    Patrick’s silence told her all she needed to know.
    “Dad, she’s— I just want to spend time with her. You said you’d let me figure things out on my own, and that’s what I’m doing. She’s my mom.”
    “Genetically. A womb doesn’t make a mother. And since we’re opening this box, how long is Hannah going to stay in Silverton? Doesn’t she have a life in New York? She was supposed to come and go, but she’s still here.”
    “I—I don’t know.” It was the truth. Her mother had returned, but she was elusive, as vague about her plans as she was her thoughts. “Hannah told me she’s just taking it a day at a time. She doesn’t tell me a lot. She . . . paints.”
    “She paints.” Patrick scoffed. “Hannah doesn’t talk, she paints. Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds?”
    “Don’t say that!”
    The words echoed against the granite mountainside. That, that, that, rang through the air and her father stared, as though if he tried hard enough, he might somehow burn Hannah from his daughter’s mind. When she could no longer return his gaze, she watched the victim’s math book as it lay there on the road, splattered with blood, its pages turning gently in the winter wind.
    “Be careful,” Patrick told her, his voice low. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he raised her face until she was forced to look into his eyes, which had become once again warm, fatherly. “I loved her once, too. But there are reasons you need to be cautious. Has she told you the story of how Jayne died?”
    Shaking her head, she mouthed the word no . Of course she had asked. Countless times she’d tried to fathom details from the depths of her mysterious mother, but whenever she’d pressed, Hannah had turned away. In this delicate chase of daughter courting mother, Cameryn felt as though she’d lose if she pushed too hard.
    “Before you give up your heart, find out what happened that day. I think it’s important.”
    “Why can’t you tell me?”
    “A long time ago, Hannah promised to stay away and I promised to stay quiet. Secrets were put in place to protect you. But you tell her for me that if she breaks the deal, I will, too. You’re slipping away from me, Cammie. She’s giving me no choice.”
    “Dad.” She stopped there, because the words she wanted to say were jammed in her throat. Eyes brimming with tears, she asked, “Why does it have to be this hard?”
    “Oh, baby. Sweetheart, I’m sorry.” Pulling a blowing strand of hair away from her face, he hooked it gently behind her ear. With the edge of his thumb he wiped a tear that rolled down the side of her cheek. “Cammie, it’s just . . . when I saw that dead kid, I kept thinking about you and me and how