have been long. The sound of the shattering glass still rang in his ears, the sight of Lexi's face crumpling in the cheap twisted frame the only thing he could see. With no glass to protect her, no frame to hold her straight, no gold shiny metal to make her pretty Lexi looked back at him as if he had punched her down then and there. He might as well have killed her and left her body lying on his living room floor for all the grief he felt.
Falling to his knees, Archer picked up the photo and ignored the small cut that bled when he brushed the glass against the wall with his bare hand. Sitting back on his heels he cupped the photograph in both hands. Lexi still smiled but her eyes looked through him knowingly, stoic in her acceptance of what he had become. There was a gash on her cheek where a shard of glass had cut through the color to the white paper beneath. The way the picture had crumpled and creased aged her.
Slowly Archer got to his feet, cradling the picture in his hands. Ignoring the frame and glass at his feet he frantically tried to smooth the wrinkles, work the shreds of paper to cover the cut. It was useless. The more he tried, the more insistent was the thing welling inside him. It felt like a cry. It felt like something living, like a huge thing that was growing and bringing with it a sense of doom. Archer wanted to be rid of that awful feeling, the premonition that his life had caught up with him. Maybe if he didn't look at Lexi, maybe he could put that feeling away, too.
Turning her face away, Archer wiped the photograph on the side of his hip, cleaning it up before he slipped it between two books on the shelf.
Better?
Not yet.
Carefully, Archer tapped the picture in until he couldn't see even the edge of it anymore. He had made a little tomb, buried Lexi one more time and this time it was easier. In a minute or an hour or a year Archer wouldn't even remember where he put it.
Better?
No, it was too soon. He knew Lexi was in there, damaged by his hand, exiled because of his fear, wedged between two books. In the dark. Alone. Archer put a hand on those books then his head fell onto his hand and his lips moved. The words reverberated in his head and he hated himself for speaking them, thinking them, meaning them right at that moment.
''Damn you, Lexi. Damn that kid.''
CHAPTER 10
Ruth Alcott went back to college before her third marriage. She graduated law school in time to handle her own divorce from a husband who had settled neatly into a routine she found boring. Now fifty-four and independent, Ruth made just enough money to keep herself in elastic waist pant suits, sensible shoes and yearly trips abroad to check out medieval churches. Her husband hated all three of her vices.
Ruth Alcott was a deputy district attorney who had no illusions that she would ever actually amount to anything under the generally accepted guidelines for success. She would never be the District Attorney - not enough media appeal. Private practice was out - not greedy enough. She would never marry again - too selfish. She was, however, a fine deputy because from nine to five, fifty weeks a year, Ruth Alcott was a rabid good guy. She believed if the cops brought it to her, and there was the slightest appearance of cause, it was her duty to pursue that matter to the bitter end. For Ruth that end was usually conviction. Today Archer was the bad guy and Ruth was seated high on the white horse of justice. In fact, that horse was so high she couldn't seem to hear a thing Josie Bates was saying.
''Look, Ruth, you guys have been messing with Archer six ways from Sunday.''
Josie stood up and planted her hands on Ruth's desk. She thought about swiping the desk clean to make Ruth sit up and take notice. Instead, she lowered her voice and picked up the pace of her argument.
''Using your own investigators to make the collar was bad enough, but it's been more than twenty-four hours and there hasn't been an arraignment. This whole thing
Falling to his knees, Archer picked up the photo and ignored the small cut that bled when he brushed the glass against the wall with his bare hand. Sitting back on his heels he cupped the photograph in both hands. Lexi still smiled but her eyes looked through him knowingly, stoic in her acceptance of what he had become. There was a gash on her cheek where a shard of glass had cut through the color to the white paper beneath. The way the picture had crumpled and creased aged her.
Slowly Archer got to his feet, cradling the picture in his hands. Ignoring the frame and glass at his feet he frantically tried to smooth the wrinkles, work the shreds of paper to cover the cut. It was useless. The more he tried, the more insistent was the thing welling inside him. It felt like a cry. It felt like something living, like a huge thing that was growing and bringing with it a sense of doom. Archer wanted to be rid of that awful feeling, the premonition that his life had caught up with him. Maybe if he didn't look at Lexi, maybe he could put that feeling away, too.
Turning her face away, Archer wiped the photograph on the side of his hip, cleaning it up before he slipped it between two books on the shelf.
Better?
Not yet.
Carefully, Archer tapped the picture in until he couldn't see even the edge of it anymore. He had made a little tomb, buried Lexi one more time and this time it was easier. In a minute or an hour or a year Archer wouldn't even remember where he put it.
Better?
No, it was too soon. He knew Lexi was in there, damaged by his hand, exiled because of his fear, wedged between two books. In the dark. Alone. Archer put a hand on those books then his head fell onto his hand and his lips moved. The words reverberated in his head and he hated himself for speaking them, thinking them, meaning them right at that moment.
''Damn you, Lexi. Damn that kid.''
CHAPTER 10
Ruth Alcott went back to college before her third marriage. She graduated law school in time to handle her own divorce from a husband who had settled neatly into a routine she found boring. Now fifty-four and independent, Ruth made just enough money to keep herself in elastic waist pant suits, sensible shoes and yearly trips abroad to check out medieval churches. Her husband hated all three of her vices.
Ruth Alcott was a deputy district attorney who had no illusions that she would ever actually amount to anything under the generally accepted guidelines for success. She would never be the District Attorney - not enough media appeal. Private practice was out - not greedy enough. She would never marry again - too selfish. She was, however, a fine deputy because from nine to five, fifty weeks a year, Ruth Alcott was a rabid good guy. She believed if the cops brought it to her, and there was the slightest appearance of cause, it was her duty to pursue that matter to the bitter end. For Ruth that end was usually conviction. Today Archer was the bad guy and Ruth was seated high on the white horse of justice. In fact, that horse was so high she couldn't seem to hear a thing Josie Bates was saying.
''Look, Ruth, you guys have been messing with Archer six ways from Sunday.''
Josie stood up and planted her hands on Ruth's desk. She thought about swiping the desk clean to make Ruth sit up and take notice. Instead, she lowered her voice and picked up the pace of her argument.
''Using your own investigators to make the collar was bad enough, but it's been more than twenty-four hours and there hasn't been an arraignment. This whole thing
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