Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

sat in his favorite reading chair. When she opened the kitchen door she heard Justin’s engine gun in reverse.
    “You’re finally back,” her mammaw called from her bedroom. “Would you like to come in for a chat, girl?”
    “Tomorrow,” Cameryn called back. “I need to go to bed. I’m wiped.”
    “Tomorrow, then.”
    “Yeah. G’night.”
    Cameryn climbed the stairs to her bedroom, which was still adorned with pink wallpaper she longed to get rid of. Stuffed animals lay scattered on her bed, and she picked up her favorite, a floppy-eared dog named Rags. The brown eyes stared back, blank bits of glass set above a plastic nose. But Rags was fake, like everything in Cameryn’s life. Fake, fake, fake! Fishing her BlackBerry from her purse, she punched her thumb into the keypad. Lyric—she needed to talk to Lyric.
    “Hey, sorry I missed your call. Leave a message—peace!” Too tired to leave a voice mail, Cameryn hung up. She went to her window and stared out at the stars that hung from the sky, bright now as Christmas lights. A sky that Benjamin Baker and Mariah couldn’t see.
    Downstairs she could hear her father’s old Simon and Garfunkel song that ended with the words, “an island never cries.”
    That was what she needed to be, an island, and yet the tears welled into her eyes. There were too many pressures, too many problems. Justin had reached out to her and she hadn’t let him. Fear about her mother choked her heart. She wanted to escape but there was no place to go—her problems were inside and therefore traveled with her.
    It was then she heard the tiny ping coming from her laptop computer. She’d left it on that morning, and the screensaver had gone to black. Plucking a tissue, she blew her nose, then sat down on her chair and flicked her mouse. An e-mail had just arrived.
    I’m in the office working late. I have just received an e-mail concerning the Kyle O’Neil case you were involved with. I have some questions. Please e-mail me at your earliest convenience. Jo Ann Whittaker.
    Cameryn stared at the blinking cursor. The black vertical line appeared and disappeared from the screen, like a tiny, beating heart. Her finger hovered an entire minute before she hit “Shut Down.” She watched her computer go through the motions until her screen returned to black. Jo Ann Whittaker could wait. They all could. The problems would still be there in the morning.

Chapter Ten
    “GOOD, YOU’RE DRESSED. I made banoffee, so here’s a slice to go with your coffee—you need to eat fast, but mind, don’t gulp it down. Your father’s already gone to Ouray. Mass starts in thirty minutes, so there’s still time for you to eat.”
    Her grandmother bustled through the kitchen in a pair of black knit pants topped by a red sweater embroidered with a Christmas wreath. Mammaw’s close-cropped white hair had been tamed with a curling iron, and she’d put on lipstick, a bright cherry to match her sweater. Earrings shaped like snowmen dangled from her lobes, swaying as she set the Irish pie on a quilted place mat. As she dropped a fork beside the plate, she said, “Hurry now. Eat! ”
    Cameryn walked across the kitchen to slide into the chair. “Thanks, Mammaw. That’s my favorite.”
    “Pure cream and a dash of coffee. The Irish know how to cook,” Mammaw answered, looking pleased. “You need to eat, child. You’re as thin as a traithnin.”
    “What’s a traithnin?”
    “A blade of grass.”
    Although her grandmother had emigrated from Dublin sixty years earlier, her soul had remained rooted in the green hills of Ireland. Her dream was to take Cameryn there, to the stone cottage in Dunshaughlin where Mammaw had been born. An Irish lilt still buoyed her words, brightening the syllables, and yet it was the only thing soft about her. A thick-bodied woman accustomed to hard work, and a fierce Catholic as well, Mammaw could fire up like no one else. Which would make what Cameryn was about to say that much harder.
    Taking a sip of coffee, Cameryn said, “I, um . . . I think I’m going to skip church this morning.”
    “And why would you be doing that?” Two tight lines appeared at the corners of her grandmother’s mouth. With her mug in hand, she sat down on a chair opposite. “Are you feeling sick?”
    “No.”
    “That’s the only reason you can miss Mass without it being a sin.”
    Bracing herself, she said, “I need to see Hannah.”
    Mammaw raised her chin. Her eyes, pale as Mariah’s,