Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

flashed. “And why would that be? You were with that woman yesterday, and now you’re wanting to play hooky with her today as well? I need time with you, too, Cammie. And so does God.”
    Cameryn couldn’t possibly tell her grandmother all the reasons, so she kept quiet, slowly eating her banoffee so she wouldn’t have to speak. The kitchen, a small room brimming with Christmas decorations, smelled like coffee and winterberry, the latter from the candles her grandmother loved to light. Cameryn could hear herself chew as the clock on the wall marked time, every sound amplified in the silence. The swallow, the slurp of coffee, the clink of her fork on her plate—Cameryn ate and drank, all the while avoiding her grandmother’s eyes. Finally, she did look up. But the condemnation she’d been expecting wasn’t there.
    "Mammaw? ”
    “I’ve raised you since you were small,” her mammaw murmured in a distant voice. “All that time I’ve fought against that woman and . . . we, me and Patrick, we’ve been doing our best. It may not have been good enough, but it has been our best. Cammie, we’re scared for you.”
    “Don’t be. I know all about Hannah. She explained the accident with Jayne and I told her I understood. We should forgive—that’s what Father John would tell you to do.”
    The lines around Mammaw’s mouth seemed even deeper this morning. "Typical. Hannah gave you a cleaned-up version of reality. Smoke and mirrors is what that woman does best.”
    “But, Mammaw—”
    “Listen to me, girl.” She took Cameryn’s hands in hers. Sunshine poured through the window, the light shadowing the blue veins that snaked across the back of her grandmother’s strong hands. “You know about your mother’s illness?”
    Cameryn nodded.
    “Then you understand the woman has always been . . . weak.”
    Was Mammaw reading her mind? Earlier that morning, when she’d slipped out of bed to look out her window, Cameryn had noticed the way the night wind had smoothed the top layer of snow into a delicate, shimmering crust. From experience she knew that crust would crumble beneath the smallest bit of pressure. As she’d pulled her blanket up under her chin she’d sat, staring out that window, thinking of Justin, her father, her mammaw, Lyric. They all had one thing in common: they were strong. Each of their souls was tenacious enough to stand without help. But Hannah seemed different, needier than anyone Cameryn had ever known. Like that crust of snow—beautiful, yet delicate. It was impossible to walk away from that fragility.
    Again Cameryn felt the grip of her grandmother’s hands tighten against hers. “You have to understand, we knew Hannah was ill back then, back before Jayne died. We knew she needed help. Your father took her to a doctor. Medicines were prescribed. But without telling us, your mother stopped taking her pills. Instead, she began smoking marijuana as a sort of self-medication. She thought it was a ‘natural’ remedy. She refused to listen to reason.”
    “What?” Cameryn asked, incredulous. “But Hannah hates drugs. She told me so. The first week she was here she said to stay away from drugs because they were poison. ”
    Nodding tersely, Mammaw said, “Nevertheless. The truth is, your mother got high every day, trying to treat herself instead of listening to the ones who knew best.”
    The bite of pie turned sour in Cameryn’s mouth. Pulling her hand away, she protested, “But Hannah’s not smoking pot—”
    “I’m talking about then , not now ,” her grandmother interrupted. “Please, just listen to the story, girl. You may think your father and I have been too harsh with her, but there is a reason. At the time, your mother’s moods got worse and worse, and yet she refused all reason. I suspected—oh, I suspected—but Hannah lied and lied and lied to my face. She lied to both of us.” She sighed. “In the end, your father believed her, but I knew better. Patrick loved Hannah, right up until that day . . .”
    Mammaw faltered. Shutting her eyes, she waited a moment, swallowing so hard Cameryn could see the faint undulation in her neck. “On the day your sister . . . died . . . your father found Hannah alone inside the house. She was smoking a joint, while you and little Jayne were all by yourselves outside.
    “Patrick just lost it. He called her a bad mother. Hannah didn’t want to hear it. She jumped in her car and raced out of the driveway so fast she didn’t