At that exact moment, there were so many fears she couldn’t name one for him to wage war on.
Zoe leaned into his chest and rested her head on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around her and held her tight.
“I’ll make space in my panty drawer if you make space in yours.”
He chuckled, held her tighter . . . a long while later, he said, “I don’t have a panty drawer.”
Jo had gone home an hour after the lights in the Brown home had turned off. Her alarm woke her by five. By six, she had another stack of paperwork to study, a fresh gallon of coffee . . . and yes, a pastry that she wouldn’t call a donut, but came painfully close, was at her side.
Ziggy Brown was put away during her father’s reign as sheriff. On the previous evening, she’d looked through her father’s reports . . . documentation of unproven and proven domestic abuse in the Brown home. He’d filed official reports from business owners who wanted to file a report but didn’t want to press charges. These reports did nothing but add to Ziggy’s lousy character reference when he went to trial.
He’d held up a mini-mart in Waterville at gunpoint. He’d beaten the clerk, stolen what money was in the register, and fled with a case of beer. The car he’d used to drive away was seen on a surveillance camera across the street from the mini-mart. Because he wore a ski mask and gloves, the clerk wasn’t able to positively identify him in a lineup. The case was won when the clerk’s DNA was found in bloodstains on the steering wheel of Ziggy’s old Chevy.
The viciousness of the attack on the clerk and the fact that he used a gun to hold the man up were what put him away for so long. He’d had a laundry list of misdemeanors including two DUIs, driving on a suspended license, and several assault charges. A felony assault had given him a sentence for six months, of which he served only three.
Jo flipped through her father’s reports and watched the timeline of the last six months that Ziggy was a free man. He’d been in jail the summer before the reports from the schools started showing up. Apparently, his time in prison made him meaner, and when he was released, he turned his mean onto Zoe and her family.
On two occasions Jo’s father quoted Zoe’s words.
Each time made Jo’s heart ache so many years later.
The school nurse had called him in when she found a welt over Zoe’s back.
Sheriff Ward: “How did you get that mark on your back, Zoe?”
Zoe Brown: “The rope swing broke when I was on it and the rope hit my back.”
Sheriff Ward: “Did you fall off the swing?”
Zoe Brown: Answered with a nod.
Sheriff Ward: “When you fell, how did you land on the ground?”
Zoe Brown: The child waited for thirty seconds and started to shake. “I don’t remember.”
Sheriff Ward: “Did you fall on your bottom? Your knees? Did you catch yourself with your hands?”—Note: Her hands were not scraped. Child was wearing long pants and a long sleeve shirt.
Zoe Brown: “I don’t remember.”
Sheriff Ward: I ended my questions when the child started to cry.
The report indicated Jo’s dad went to the Brown home to find Ziggy Brown alone. He’d questioned Zoe’s dad, who came up with an identical answer. “The rope swing broke and hit her on the back.”
When asked which tree the rope swing had been in, Ziggy pointed to an old pine. Upon investigation, there were no marks or evidence of a swing ever being in the tree. Ziggy explained they hadn’t had it long.
There wasn’t much he could do with the report other than watch for more possible home violence. There was a side note stating that Zane’s teacher asked if he ever had a rope swing at his house and the child answered no.
Still, there wasn’t anything Jo’s dad could do without more evidence and an actual complaint of domestic violence.
Jo sipped her coffee from the front seat of her squad car, her eyes drifting toward Zoe’s childhood home. They’d all shared some great times there once Ziggy was put away. Jo remembered her father wouldn’t let her go anywhere near the Brown home when he lived there. That didn’t mean that Jo and Zoe hadn’t been friends. Back then Jo was focused on her own world and not paying attention to Zoe’s. It wasn’t until junior high that Mel, Jo, and Zoe had really hooked up and formed their forever friendship.
The house hadn’t changed much . . . well, it had morphed a little. Lack of maintenance and attention seemed to make the left side of the house dip into the earth. Or maybe that was just the weeds swimming high on the foundation. The rut-filled gravel drive housed the old Pontiac Sheryl drove, and occasionally Mylo’s beat-up old truck. Zane was riding a motorcycle most of the time, but it wasn’t anywhere on the property.
Lights inside the Brown home flickered on in the back bedroom.
Jo rolled down her window, ignored the drizzle falling from the sky, and heard Blaze crying.
Jo straightened up in her car when the front door opened and Zanya stepped out of the home with Blaze in her arms. Dressed in a bathrobe, she bounced a cranky Blaze around in what appeared to be an effort to calm him down. She spoke to him in a quiet voice with words Jo couldn’t make out.
When the door opened a second time, Jo’s hand was on the car door handle, ready to step out.
Sheryl’s head peeked out, along with her hand, which held a bottle.
Zanya took the bottle, popped it in Blaze’s mouth, and turned to walk back in.
That was when Sheryl looked above her daughter’s head, and her gaze caught Jo’s.
Jo was lifting her hand to wave when Sheryl’s expression shifted from surprise to annoyance.
Zanya glanced over her shoulder and offered a weak smile before Sheryl pushed her through the door and closed it.
“Shit,” Jo cussed at the universe. The division in the family was already in full swing. The adults would take sides, leaving some with Ziggy and some on the street.
A curtain on the back bedroom shifted enough to know that someone was looking out.
Instead of driving off, she decided to hold out until Zoe showed up.
Jo knew her friend wasn’t sleeping in.
No, Zoe would be picking her words carefully and figuring out the best time to show up and confront the whole sordid mess.
Chapter Seventeen
Zoe watched the trees as they drove closer to the house. Each one felt like a countdown, a ticking clock to doom. It was just after ten in the morning. Early enough to ensure that everyone would be home, and late enough to know she hadn’t pulled anyone out of bed.
The thought of her mother sleeping beside her father made her physically ill. She silently prayed to find evidence of someone bunking on the broken-down couch.
The last quarter mile to the house, her head lifted, and she saw Jo’s squad car off the side of the road.
She attempted a smile.
Luke pulled alongside Jo and stopped.
Jo lowered her wire-rimmed sunglasses as she spoke. “You ready for this?”
“No.”