Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

friend Margaret,” Cameryn had shot back. “It wasn’t God who turned her hair blue.”
    “That was just a wee bit of a tint gone wrong. It’s not the same thing at all,” Mammaw had sniffed, but she’d said no more.
    Now Cameryn sighed. She reset her mind in order to receive whatever it was Lyric was about to say. In her rearview mirror she saw the slash of Adam’s face as his truck chugged behind them. “What is it? Are you having a psychic moment? Is my aura out of whack?”
    “As a matter of fact,” Lyric answered primly, “it is.”
    “ How is it out of whack?”
    “You’re not seeing something that’s clearly in front of you.”
    “Which is?”
    “Justin.”
    Cameryn’s hands tightened on the wheel.
    “Justin really cares about you,” Lyric said, twisting in her seat. She’d pulled off her hat, and her hair, full of static, crackled toward the roof of Cameryn’s Jeep. “And stop rolling your eyes when I say his name. When Justin called me, he was panicked. Totally panicked. I thought he was going to have a meltdown because he couldn’t drive down and be with you.”
    Instead of a negative feeling, a smile spread through Cameryn. “Really?”
    “Really.”
    Cameryn’s smile grew. Riding the day’s victory made anything seem possible, maybe even stepping out of her reserve. Opening up. With Hannah set free and taking her medication, who knew what lay in store?
    “That’s a wicked grin, Cammie,” said Lyric. “Seriously wicked.”
    It was a grin Cameryn wore all the way home.
    Although it was only three o’clock in the afternoon, the lights from their Christmas tree were already on. Through the window Cameryn watched them blink on and off, casting small orbs of colored light against the living-room wall. She stood on the front stoop as if treading water, half afraid to go inside, but aware that she had no choice. Bracing herself, she opened the door, and almost immediately found herself in the arms of her mammaw.
    “Good grief, child, what were you thinking ? Going down to Durango like you were a spy.” Mammaw hugged her tight, her hands like knots against Cameryn’s back. Her grandmother smelled of cinnamon and cloves. “You could have been killed . And you cut school. You cut school and took off. That’ll land you in trouble.”
    “I’m sorry, I was just trying to help.”
    “Your father’ll be here any minute. Oh, don’t look so worried, girl. We’re both so relieved you’re all right that nothing else matters. Have you seen Hannah?”
    “I tried to call but she hasn’t picked up. I thought maybe later I could go over to the Wingate and check on her.”
    “Let’s see what your father has to say.”
    Cameryn heard the tires crunch in their driveway, followed by the bang of the kitchen door. She could feel the coolness of the Silverton air waft through the room, although that wasn’t what made her shiver with goose bumps.
    She saw him then, filling the doorway, but he didn’t pause. Engulfing her in a bear hug, he yanked her to her feet and up into his arms, so that her toes barely touched the floor. As he kissed the side of her head roughly, he said, “Cammie, Cammie, Cammie, thank God you’re safe.”
    “I’m okay, Dad,” she murmured into his sweater. She could smell wet wool and the faint scent of his new after-shave, could hear the beating of his heart and feel the coarseness of his chin against her forehead.
    “You’re my only child,” he told her, swaying her in his arms. “What would I do if something happened to you? What would I do then?”
    Quietly, she answered, “I caught the killers.”
    He pulled away and stared. “You could have been shot. Come here. Sit down.”
    With his arm still around her, Patrick sank into the sofa, pulling her next to him. “I heard from Jacobs. He told me there’s a graveyard for Fundamentalist girls who try to run. So far, they’ve found three others buried in the sand. Esther would have been the fourth.”
    Cameryn thought about this. She could hear a Christmas carol playing in the kitchen, soft and sweet. It was almost impossible to picture a life so different from her own. And yet, somewhere in Arizona there was a graveyard with young girls who had attempted to leave a life of forced marriage. Young, blonde slaves from the twenty-first century. She felt herself shiver again. “Why were they so angry with Ruth?”
    “Because for a while she opened her home to the runaways. It was a safe house. That is,