Sharp_Objects

boy tempers. But they didn’t hit. They bit. Look.”
    She held out her right hand. Just below the thumb were three white scars that shone in the afternoon light.
    “That’s from Natalie. And this.” She pulled back her hair to reveal a left ear with only half an earlobe. “My hand she bit when I was painting her fingernails. She decided halfway through that she didn’t like it, but I told her to let me finish, and when I held her hand down, she sunk her teeth into me.”
    “And the earlobe?”
    “I stayed over there one night when my car wouldn’t start. I was asleep in the guest room and the next thing I knew, blood all over the sheets and my ear just felt like it was on fire, like I wanted to run away from it but it was attached to my head. And Natalie was screaming like she was on fire. That screaming was scarier than the biting. Mr. Keene had to hold her down. The kid had serious problems. We looked for my earlobe, see if it could be stitched back on, but it was gone. I guess she swallowed it.” She gave a laugh that sounded like the reverse of a gulp of air. “I mostly just felt sorry for her.”
    Lie.
    “Ann, was she as bad?” I asked.
    “Worse. There are people all over this town with her teeth marks in them. Your mother included.”
    “What?” My hands began to sweat and the back of my neck went cold.
    “Your mom was tutoring her and Ann didn’t understand. She completely lost it, pulled some of your momma’s hair out, and bit into her wrist. Hard. I think there had to be stitches.” Images of my mother’s thin arm caught between tiny teeth, Ann shaking her head like a dog, blood blossoming on my mother’s sleeve, on Ann’s lips. A scream, a release.
    A little circle of jagged lines, and within, a ring of perfect skin.

Chapter Eleven

    P hone calls back in my room, no sign of my mother. I could hear Alan downstairs, snapping at Gayla for cutting the filets wrong.
    “I know it seems trivial, Gayla, but think of it like this: Trivial details are the difference between a good meal and a dining experience.” Gayla emitted an assenting sound. Even her mm-hhmms have a twang.
    I phoned Richard on his cell, one of the few people in Wind Gap to own one, though I shouldn’t snipe, since I’m one of the only holdouts in Chicago. I just never want to be that reachable.
    “Detective Willis.” I could hear a loudspeaker calling a name in the background.
    “You busy, Detective?” I blushed. Levity felt like flirting felt like foolishness.
    “Hi there,” came his formal voice. “I’m wrapping things up here; can I give a call back?”
    “Sure, I’m at…”
    “The number shows up on my display.”
    “Fancy.”
    “Very true.”

    T wenty minutes later: “Sorry, I was at the hospital in Woodberry with Vickery.”
    “A lead?”
    “Of sorts.”
    “A comment?”
    “I had a very nice time last night.”
    I’d written Richard cop Richard cop twelve times down my leg, and had to make myself stop because I was itching for a razor.
    “Me, too. Look, I need to ask you something straight and I need you to tell me. Off record. Then I need a comment I can print for my next piece.”
    “Okay, I’ll try to help you, Camille. What do you need to ask me?”
    “Can we meet at that cheesy bar we first had a drink at? I need to do this in person, and I need to get out of the house and, yes, I’ll say it: I need a drink.”

    T hree guys from my class were at Sensors when I got there, nice guys, one of whom had famously won a State Fair blue ribbon for his obscenely big, milk-dripping sow one year. A folksy stereotype Richard would have loved. We exchanged niceties—they bought me my first two rounds—and photographs of their kids, eight in all. One of them, Jason Turnbough, was still as blond and round-faced as a kid. Tongue just peeking out the corner of his mouth, pink cheeks, round blue eyes darting between my face and my breasts for most of the conversation. He stopped once I pulled out my tape recorder and asked about the murders. Then it was those whirling wheels that had his full attention. People got such a charge from seeing their names in print. Proof of existence. I could picture a squabble of ghosts ripping through piles of newspapers. Pointing at a name on the page. See, there I am. I told you I lived. I told you I was.
    “Who’d have thought when we were kids back in school, we’d be sitting here talking about murders in Wind Gap?” marveled Tommy Ringer, now grown into a