Buried Evidence by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg Page A

a Monet print she’d purchased at the Museum Store on State Street. The other depicted a forest, dense with trees, a graceful deer standing next to a stream of shimmering water. This was the image she gazed at when pondering a complex issue. The fact that she had painted the picture herself made it even more meaningful. In the first year after the rape, her therapist had suggested she use art as a means of relaxation.
    Positioned in the front of the painting were two of the ugliest chairs Lily had ever seen, even if her coworkers swore they were genuine antiques. The wood was so hard, she was certain it must have petrified. Of course, everything in Santa Barbara was classified as an antique, including at least fifty percent of the residents. Ancient surfers staggered down the street with parched skin and stringy white hair. Scores of hippies and homeless people had migrated from San Francisco like birds flying south for the winter. The area was also home to hundreds of artists and craftsmen, many of them hawking their wares from concessions they were allowed to set up every Sunday on the sidewalk next to the beach. Then there were the retirees, dressed in their white linen suits, their bow ties, their straw hats, and carrying their walking canes. Mix in the college students with their tattoos, pierced body parts, and outlandishly colored hair, and a person might think they were on a lot inside a Hollywood film studio.
    Lily glanced at her watch, wanting to catch Shana before she left for the day. It wasn’t even seven o’clock yet, so she decided to dive into her work instead. After her daughter had hung up on her, she had attempted to reach her again, wanting to verify that she was okay. The answering machine had picked up, so she had to assume the girl had gone to bed. Lily had then called the police and learned that they had found nothing even slightly suspicious.
    Her thoughts turned to her ex-husband. Perhaps she had been wrong to tell Shana that her father could no longer afford to pay the rent on the duplex. She had told her, however, as a form of payback. When Marco Curazon had been paroled, she’d informed John merely as a precaution. She had never intended for Shana to learn that the rapist had been released from prison. John had terrified his own daughter for no other reason than to serve his own selfish needs. The only way he could keep Shana under his thumb was to make certain she remained dependent. The more fearful she was, the easier it was to accomplish his goal.
    Lily opened her purse and removed her checkbook. Staring at the meager balance, she knew she would have to transfer more money over from her savings account right away. As she had told Shana the day before, she would do whatever was necessary to take care of her needs, but it was insane for her ex-husband to demand that she support him as well. She’d been feeding him for the past year out of the allowance she sent to Shana. The girl denied it, but she knew it was true. In a way, she couldn’t blame her. No matter what he was, the man was her father.
    Now that it appeared that John was drinking again, Lily was determined to find a way to extricate him from their lives. He was clinging to Shana, turning her into a substitute wife, preventing her from forming bonds with people her own age. No decent man would purposely suck the life out of his daughter. Her own father would have jumped off a bridge before he dropped to such a disgusting level.
    Lily shook her head as if to clear it, finishing off what was left of her coffee. It was cold now, but when she forked over three dollars and change for a cup of flavored coffee, she made certain she drank every drop.
    Placing the cup next to her computer screen, she glanced at a white plastic laundry basket located to the left of her desk. When the clerk made her daily rounds with new case assignments, Lily would read through the particulars, make the appropriate notations on her computer, then toss the