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Later she would wonder, what if she had waited just one more day?
—
“I need to speak with the sheriff,” B’Lynn Fontenot announced.
She sounded authoritative, in complete control of herself. What a joke. She was trembling inside like a terrified Chihuahua. Hermouth was parched. Her heart was pounding. She’d been accused more than once in recent years of having a loose screw. She felt as if that screw was about to fall free and let her come apart like a cheap watch, springs and gears flying to every corner of the Partout Parish sheriff’s outer office.
“Do you have an appointment?”
The woman on the other side of the counter—Ms. Valerie Comb, according to the nameplate on the countertop—was a very deliberately put-together package wrapped in too-tight clothes with a shellac of too much makeup and Aqua Net. Her hair was streaked white-blond with harsh dark lowlights and cut in a severe, angled style B’Lynn’s daughter, Lisette, referred to as the “Internet Karen,” Woman Most Likely to Demand to Speak to a Manager. A sure red flag for trouble.
Ms. Comb’s gaze ran down B’Lynn from head to toe like a cold shower of disapproval, taking in the dull brown hair that had barely seen a brush in days, taking in the dark circles under bloodshot eyes and the lines of strain etched permanently into her face. She looked like hell because she’d been through hell. She had given up trying to hide it long ago.
“No, I don’t have an appointment, as I’m sure you know,” B’Lynn started, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice. “But it’s imperative I speak with him—”
“Sheriff Noblier is a very busy man,” the secretary declared condescendingly. “If you’d like to make an appointment—”
“I don’t want to make an appointment,” B’Lynn snapped as the tension wound tighter inside her. “This is urgent. I—”
“If you have an emergency, I can direct you down the hall to the sergeant’s desk,” Ms. Comb said with maddening calm.
“I have been down the hall,” B’Lynn said, her small hands balling into fists at her sides. “Days ago. They didn’t help me. I want to speak to the sheriff.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you unless—”
“No,” B’Lynn interrupted curtly. “Youwon’thelp me.”
Valerie Comb arched a penciled brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“You have made no effort to help me,” B’Lynn said. “You haven’t evenpretendedto help me. The least you could do would be to pick up the damn phone andpretendto speak to the sheriff before you blow me off.”
Ms. Comb gave a little huff of offense. “Ma’am, I have no idea why you’re speaking to me this way.”
Because I’m terrified. Because I’m angry. Because I haven’t slept in days.
B’Lynn didn’t know if she was being unreasonable. Maybe she was. Maybe she was being rude and unfair. She knew she was beyond caring. Her frustration and her fear hadn’t just sprung up at the start of this conversation with the sheriff’s secretary. It had begun days ago, weeks ago, years ago. The pressure had been building all that time. Just in the last week alone she had been discounted, dismissed, patronized, and ignored by people she had gone to for help. Fair or not, Ms. Valerie Comb, with her overabundance of attitude and blue eyeshadow, was on the last shred of B’Lynn’s final remaining nerve.
“At any rate,” Ms. Comb went on, tipping her head back to look down her slender nose, “Sheriff Noblier is out of the office this morning.”
“I don’t believe you.” The words blurted out of B’Lynn’s mouth before she could even realize she was thinking them.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t believe you.”
She couldn’t believe the sheriff wasn’t in his office because she needed him to be in his office. She had nowhere left to turn.
Her heart was racing, her pulse pounding in her ears. Panic swelled in her chest like a balloon, making it hard to breathe. She went to the closed door of Sheriff Noblier’s office and banged on it with her fist. She tried the knob without success, twisting it, yanking at it, tears welling in her eyes.
“Ma’am! I’m going to have to call a deputy!”
Valerie Comb sounded faraway, in another dimension. The last of B’Lynn’s control crumbled. Tears spilled over, and she gasped for breath even as she pulled at the doorknob with one hand and pounded on the door with the other.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. He’s not here. He can’t help me. No one can help me.
“No, no, NO!” she cried.
“Ma’am! Ma’am!” the secretary shouted, rushing out from behind her counter.
