Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

gone?
    She
had
pined. She had ached. She had cried and moaned, not for him, but for the
idea
of him. For the idea of the two of them together.
    June turned her head away. The pillowcase felt rough against her face. Her hair clung to wet skin. She closed her eyes and thought of Grace’s silky mane of hair. So black that it was almost blue. Her alarmingly deep green eyes that could penetrate right into your soul.
    “We’re almost out of bendy straws,” Richard said, holding the glass low so that she could sip from the straw. “I’ll have to go to the store later.”
    She swallowed, feeling as if a rock were moving down her throat.
    “Does it matter to you if I go before or after lunch?”
    June managed a shake of her head. Breathing, normally an effort, was becoming more difficult. She could hear a different tenor in the whistle of air wheezing through her lips. Her body was growing numb, but not from the morphine. Her feet felt as if they were sliding out of a pair of thick woolen socks.
    Richard placed the glass on her bedside table. Water trickled from the straw, and he wiped it up before sitting back down with the paper.
    She should’ve written a book for wives who wanted their husbands to help more around the house.
Here’s my secret, ladies: twenty-one years in a maximum-security prison!
Richard cooked and cleaned. He did the laundry. Some days, he would bring in the warm piles of sheets fresh from the dryer and watch television with June while he folded the fitted sheets into perfect squares.
    June closed her eyes again. She had loved folding Grace’s clothes. The tiny shirts. The little skirts with flowers and rows of lace. And then Grace had gotten older, and the frilly pink blouses had been relegated to the back of the closet. What had it been like that first day Grace came down to breakfast wearing all black? June wanted to ask Richard, because he had been there too, with his nose tucked into the newspaper. As she remembered, he had merely glanced at June and rolled his eyes.
    Meanwhile, her heart had been in her throat. The administrator in June was cataloging Grace the same way she cataloged the black-clad rebels she saw in her office at school:
drug addict, whore, probably pregnant within a year.
She was already thinking about the paperwork she’d have to fill out when she called the young woman into her office and politely forced her to withdraw from classes.
    June had always dismissed these children as damaged, halfway between juvenile delinquents and adult perpetrators. Let the justice system deal with them sooner rather than later. She washed them out of her school the same way she washed dirt from her hands. Secretly, she thought of them as legacy children — not the sort you’d find at Harvard or Yale, but the kind of kids who walked in the footsteps of older drug-addled siblings, imprisoned fathers, alcoholic mothers.
    It was different when the errant child, the bad seed, sprang from your own loins. Every child had tantrums. That was how they learned to find their limits. Every child made mistakes. That was how they learned to be better people. How many excuses had popped into June’s mind each time Grace was late for curfew or brought home a bad report card? How many times did June overlook Grace’s lies and excuses?
    June’s grandmother was a woman given to axioms about apples and trees. When a child was caught lying or committing a crime, she would always say, “Blood will out.”
    Is that what happened to Grace? Had June’s bad blood finally caught up with her? It was certainly catching up with June now. She thought of the glob of red phlegm that she’d spat into the kitchen sink six months ago. She had ignored the episode, then the next and the next, until the pain of breathing was so great that she finally made herself go to the doctor.
    So much of June’s life was marked in her memory by blood. A bloody nose at the age of seven courtesy of her cousin Beau, who’d pushed her too hard down the slide. Standing with her mother at the bathroom sink, age thirteen, learning how to wash out her underpants. The dark stain soaked into the cloth seat of the car when she’d had her first miscarriage. The clotting in the toilet every month that told her she’d failed, yet again, to make a child.
    Then, miraculously, the birth. Grace, bloody and screaming. Later, there were bumped elbows and skinned knees. And then the final act, blood mingling with water, spilling over the side of