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  The woman remained standing, lacing her fingers, then unlacing, lacing, then unlacing.

  “What can we do for you?” he asked again.

  “Mrs. Wendell, Mr. Wendell.” He acknowledged each of them separately. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. I’m so sorry, but your daughter has been the victim of a homicide.” He was disappointed with himself for phrasing it that way, especially since he’d only done it to ease his own burden of delivering the news. He quickly rephrased it. “She’s—passed on.”

  Cynthia Wendell’s hand was already at her mouth. Her husband was already reaching to embrace her.

  Neither one asked, “Which daughter?” because they only had one daughter, a fact that had caused the news to weigh even heavier on Officer McKelvey’s heart as he had trudged through the course of his day. According to the photos inside Casey’s apartment, the grief-stricken couple clinging together before him had just lost their only child.

  Mr. Wendell controlled his voice long enough to ask, “What happened? Did she—” he glanced at his wife as if considering whether the details might best be discussed later, but her face was resolute and her eyes seemed to say “Henry, I need to know, too,” so he finished his question. “Officer McKelvey… Did she suffer?”

  “A man affiliated with one of your daughter’s social service cases broke into her home in pursuit of information. Casey put up a good fight, but we have reason to believe she was unconscious during most of the attack. Her suffering was likely minimal…”

  Grim realization struck Mrs. Wendell, and she gasped. “By “attack,” you don’t mean. He didn’t… Did he violate her?”

  A flicker of disgust passed over the Bob McKelvey’s face, unnoticed by the woman but not by her husband, the former deputy. “No,” he answered flatly.

  “No?” Mr. Wendell asked, like he didn’t believe it, and Bob McKelvey had a decision to make. He could tell the truth about the trophy Randall had taken from their daughter or not. Casey’s murderer had violated her when he chose to take something personal from his victim—the one, solid piece of evidence now linking him to the crime. Post mortem exams showed no signs of rape, but the little monster had been thinking dirty thoughts, hadn’t he? Why else take her panties? Why? Why carry them in his pocket, eventually using them to plug Tara Jane’s mouth as she screamed?

  “No,” Bob repeated. “The exam performed on Casey showed no signs of rape.” Sure, he could tell them about the panties, but why bother? What good would it do them now?

  Mr. Wendell leaned forward, closer to McKelvey. “And the man who did this?”

  Bob placed his hands in his lap and looked at them. “Dead. Shot while attempting to take a hostage.”

  The older man leaned back, dazed. His shoulders trembled as he let out a sigh and spittle decorated his lip and chin. Tears leaked from his eyes. “God’s gained an angel today,” he said.

  Head bowed, Bob replied, “I’m sure he has, sir. And I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  The woman let out a mournful sigh and lowered her head, mumbling, “Why Casey? Why Casey? Why my baby? Why so young?” There was a long pause, filled with the sounds of soft weeping, for Bob McKelvey could not answer these questions. He knew their grief would only worsen after the shock wore off, just like it always did. He wished he could be there for them when it did, when it came time for them to scream and wail and curse the world for taking Casey, but for now, he offered what comfort he could.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tara Jane held the mirror at arm’s length and pursed her lips as she studied her reflection. Mrs. Martinez frowned. “You don’t like them. It’s okay. You don’t have to wear them. I just thought—”

  “I love them.” She lowered the mirror and raised her hand to her mouth, eyes apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just…. I love them. I really do. Thank you, Mrs. Martinez.”

  She raised the mirror and studied the gold clip-on earrings, turning her head from left to right to catch the light. She was still adjusting to the idea that she had any worth, any right to decorate her body. She’d been raised to believe she belonged to God and if she kept sweet, she would someday belong to her husband. There had never been any mention of Tara Jane’s right to make decisions regarding her own life.

  It baffled her now—the simplicity of it, the things she’d been missing. Why had she never realized that every person has a right to govern their own body and mind? How all-encompassing the church had been, how cancerous, growing in her from the moment of her birth until even the thought of free will seemed a sin.

  “Vanessa.”

  Tara Jane looked up, confused for a moment until the counselor smiled and repeated, “Please, call me Vanessa.”

  “Oh.” Tara Jane blushed. This was the second adult to encourage her to use her first name. It was one of the many things that would take some getting used to. “Okay. Thank you… Vanessa.”

  “So, how have you been?”

  “I’ve been good.”

  “Good?”

  Tara Jane smiled. “Better than good. I’ve been great.”

  Vanessa returned her smile. “No more episodes then? No more scares?”

  Tara Jane shook her head. She looked at the faint pink mark around her ankle and shivered a little. Though everyone insisted her encounters with her dead father had been imagined—her mind’s way of working through the trauma—she still recalled perfectly the feel of his red-hot hands on her body.

  “No.” She shook her head. “No more scares.” Her face brightened because it was true.

  Since the night she collapsed on the lawn, things had been calm. Day by day, her nerves grew less rattled until one day, she suddenly found herself able to relax and enjoy life. It felt incredible.

  She hadn’t seen any ghosts, or felt their eyes on her, or smelled their lingering stench on the breeze—not in weeks. It was as if the weight of some great outer shell had been peeled away, and underneath was another Tara Jane, fresh and ready to start anew. Whether or not anyone believed her account of what had happened that night was of no importance to her. She was free, shackled no more to the wreckage of her past. Jackson and Susie were free, too.

  “Well, if you need anything. Anything,” Vanessa stressed the word by placing both hands on her desk and leaning forward, “you know exactly who to call. I’ve grown very fond of you, Tara Jane. You possess a very tender heart for such a strong woman.”

  Tara Jane’s breath caught in her lungs. A woman? Maybe Vanessa had misspoken, but even still, she knew it was true. She was a girl on the verge of womanhood. She was free to decide her own destiny. All she had to do was tell her story.

  “Say hello to Rita for me?” Vanessa asked.

  Tara Jane smiled her response, feeling lighter, realizing that she was ready to testify in court. She would do it, open up and tell a room full of strangers her most painful memories. Because she never wanted to go back to Sweet Springs again.

  She would draw strength from her foster parents, who provided the comforting security she needed. She’d draw it from new friends like Vanessa. But most of all, she’d find the strength within herself, where it had always been, locked away and waiting for escape.

  They exchanged a final goodbye as she grabbed her bag and left the office. Birds chirped from the wispy branches of a young fir tree as she made her way to where Rita was parked, the soft murmur of her afternoon talk show wafting through the open windows of the car. The sun was beginning to sink in the western sky but still bright and warm on her skin.

  Tara Jane threw her bag in the back and climbed into the passenger seat. Their eyes met, and a smirk tugged at the corners of Rita’s lips. She was helpless to fight the full-on smile that came next.

  “What is it?” Tara Jane asked, thinking there was something she must have forgotten. Something special about today, maybe?

  “Happy birthday,” Rita said. She lifted a gift bag she had stashed by her feet and set it in Tara Jane’s lap. It was violet, dec
orated with curled pink ribbons.

  “Well, thank you, but… it’s not my birthday—”

  “For another six weeks. I know. I’m sick of waiting! I’ll get you gifts on your real birthday, too.” The woman’s smile grew. “Go ahead. Open it.”

  She removed the tissue paper and set it aside. Inside the bag were several CDs. Their cases caught a beam of sunlight and gleamed. Rita smiled and laughed. “You told me you wish you hadn’t missed out on so much music. Well, I thought we could start a collection. I wasn’t sure what you might like, so I got a little of everything.”

  Tara Jane lifted them from the bag and flipped through them, stopping when she got to Van Morrison.

  “Oh, and that one.” There was a short pause, and Rita cleared her throat. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought you could put it on sometimes, you know, when you need to think of her. When you need to remember the happy times with your mother.”

  She sniffed. A patch of pale skin blossomed on her lip as she chewed it, still looking down at the CD.

  “I can’t and won’t try to replace her, Tara Jane.”

  “I know,” Tara Jane said. “Thank you.”

  Rita reached out and squeezed her hand, and a thought occurred to Tara Jane. Rita had once asked to call her TJ. She wasn’t sure why the nickname had sounded so wrong before. Maybe she had just needed time.

  “Rita?”

  “Yes?”

  “You can call me TJ if you want.”

  The woman laughed a little, then touched a hand to her foster daughter’s cheek. Their eyes met as a nest full of baby birds chirped from a nearby tree.

  “Now why would I want to do that when I’m just now getting to know Tara Jane?”

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you so much to Bed Eads for all the hours you spent reading this book and helping to strengthen the story. Thank you, as well, to my editor, Kate Jonez.

  Ashes of Another Life is my first full-length book, a very special milestone, and I’m certain I’ll never forget everything you’ve done to help make this a reality.

  About the Author

  Lindsey Goddard embraces the dark side of life. Over the past decade and a half, her short stories and poems have been published numerous times. Recent credits include Dark Moon Digest, Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing, James Ward Kirk Fiction, and Sirens Call Publications. Don’t be fooled if you spot Lindsey in the suburbs of St. Louis, MO. She’s only half there. The other half is anywhere and everywhere else—in the realm of her imagination. Lindsey loves her husband, three children, and crazy cat, and she hopes to make them proud of her weird gift (especially the cat). For more information, please visit: www.LindseyBethGoddard.com

  Table of Contents

  Ashes of Another Life

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author