Lacy Eye by Jessica Treadway Page B

important then: Should I think about reducing my hours at the clinic? Should she and Hugh spend all that money on a new garage? We sat with our faces turned up to the sun, taking our friendship for granted because we didn’t know any better, not anticipating—because who would?—the tragedy that would separate us in the end.
    Especially after Dawn left for college, the walks became a highlight of my week. But those days were gone now. Claire would never have said so, but I knew it was difficult for her even to look at me, because it reminded her of the horrific discovery she’d made that morning. Though the surgeons had worked for hours restoring most of the sight to my damaged right eye, the skin around the socket was misshapen, and one side of my mouth sagged where the mallet had split open my lip. On the rare occasions we sat across a table from each other, Claire tended to focus her gaze on a point at the side of my face, rather than directly into my eyes. And I could never quite ignore knowing that she was looking forward to the relief of being able to leave.
    The last time she’d come over, I could tell she had something to say. When she finished her tea, she put her cup down with trembling fingers, and I tried desperately to think of a way to avoid hearing whatever it was. “Hanna,” she said carefully, in the tone I’d learned to pay attention to over the years. “You can’t sit there and tell me you honestly believe Dawn had nothing to do with it, can you?”
    “Yes, I honestly believe that.”
    When she didn’t answer, I took a deep breath and added, “I know you’ve always thought she was involved somehow. I get that you think there’s something I’m not facing up to.” I could feel her skepticism in the air between us, and I knew that whatever I said, it would not convince her. Still, I went on.
    “But I know her better than anyone, Claire. The way you know your kids. A mother knows .” When she remained silent, I felt anger rise in my throat.
    “What kind of mother do you think I am, anyway? You think I could raise a murderer?” It was the sentence I’d wanted to spit at someone since I woke up in the hospital and, through Kenneth Thornburgh’s sympathetic questioning, realized that the police suspected Dawn of some involvement in the attack. I’d expected the words to taste vile on the way out. Now that I’d forced them into the air, I felt disappointed that there wasn’t more relief in releasing what I’d wanted to for so long.
    Claire looked away. “I’m not saying she swung the mallet,” she murmured, and I tried not to grimace at the image. “I’m not saying it was her idea—in fact, I’m sure it wasn’t.” She didn’t sound sure, but I tried to believe her anyway. “But Hanna, don’t some of the things still bother you, that came up in the grand jury? The stuff about the alarm being disabled by someone who knew the code? How the spare key was in the front door? And what about the dog?” She knew that the mention of Abby—the question Gail Nazarian had raised about why the dog hadn’t barked, if the intruder was a stranger—would hit home with me, so she saved it for last.
    She was waiting for an answer, but I couldn’t think. “Don’t you understand,” she continued, “that that… animal convinced her to help him kill you because he thought Dawn had a big inheritance coming? And that’s not even me talking. That’s evidence from the trial.”
    I said, “That wasn’t why.”
    “See? You said Dawn didn’t do it.”
    “She didn’t. I meant—”
    She waved my words away before I could finish. “We both know what you meant.”
    Though I knew it was a losing battle, I fought on feebly. “You’re forgetting something. She had an alibi. There was no physical evidence, or are you forgetting that, too? Trust me, they wanted to indict her. You remember Gail Nazarian; she was out for blood. If she could have done it, she would have.” My heart was beating too