Foghorn hopped off the hood of the car and followed as I trudged past the barn, gazed out over the field. The Charolais were there. I even did a quick count: twenty—and my bull was corralled, right where he belonged.

  Foghorn stayed with me, dashing back and forth and pecking at my shoes. He was bugging me, so I shut him out of the barn. I slipped off my courthouse shoes and tugged on a beat-up pair of chore boots I kept near the door.

  I went inside to Tornado’s stall, where she greeted me with a soft whinny.

  “Hey, girl! How you feeling? You get any bigger, I’m going to have to change your name. These days, you’re looking more like a hurricane than a tornado.”

  Her belly was swollen, getting ready to pop. I’d been giving some thought to names for the foal. As I stroked her along the neck and shoulder, I turned possibilities over in my head. Maybe Thunder, if it was a colt. Or Lightning if she had a filly.

  I talked sweet to her, speaking in a soothing tone. I told her to stay calm while I walked behind her and lifted her tail. It was light enough in the barn to get a good look, and Dr. Nelson had told me what I needed to watch for. There wasn’t any abnormal bagging up. A little vaginal discharge, but nothing major. I checked her belly. Didn’t find streaming milk.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and debated calling the vet, just to check in. Decided to do it later, when I got inside my house. I had a bottle of white wine in the fridge, and I intended to pour a medicinal dose as soon as I made it into the kitchen. I’d put the phone on speaker, talk to the vet while I loaded the dishwasher and sipped that cold wine.

  Sounded like a plan.

  I was already feeling better, like I’d escaped the grip of that courtroom drama, the unrest in the streets of town. The smell of the barn and the sound of my horse’s snuffling, it was a comfort. I mucked her stall out, since I was already in the barn, wearing rubber boots. Put fresh straw down for Tornado’s bedding, left her with feed and fresh water. Didn’t change into my overalls to do the chores. My courthouse shirt and pants could go straight into the washer.

  Before I left the barn, I grabbed a handful of seed for Foghorn. “Crazy bird,” I muttered. I remember thinking right then that maybe I was the crazy one. For putting up with a useless rooster, when I didn’t even keep hens anymore.

  When I exited the barn and walked onto the hard dirt, I could see him, sitting on the porch swing, waiting for me. As soon as he saw me coming, Foghorn started flapping his wings. I’d kept his wings clipped since he was a chick, but Foghorn still managed to fly. Short distances, if he was so inclined.

  I tossed that handful of chicken feed onto the hard-packed dirt. The rooster squawked at the sight, came running off the porch to get his supper.

  The late-afternoon sun cast a glow in the farmhouse, gilding it in golden light.

  Time slowed down for me as I stood in the side yard, watching the rooster. Seeing a strange sight.

  The setting sun illuminated a horizontal line, so close to the ground that I’d overlooked it at first. It stretched across the ground, all the way in front of the farmhouse. I could see that line where the steps led up to the porch and the front door of my home. When I squinted in the light, I could see something scrawled on my door in dripping red paint.

  A giant letter K.

  Foghorn hit that shining line before my brain was able to absorb what was happening.

  I heard it first, the explosion. The force of the blast lifted me up into the air and threw me backward on the hard dirt between the house and the barn. I landed on my tail, but my head slammed down and took a hit. I guess I blacked out for a time.

  When I came to, fire had erupted. I had to crawl away from the house, to distance myself from the heat and the flying ash. Stunned, I watched the flames burn like an inferno. I had my phone with me. My hands shook so violently, it took three tries to make the 911 call.

  Wouldn’t have made any difference, though, if I’d gotten through on the first try. The old wooden structure had been built one hundred years ago. I sat and watched my house—the house my great-grandparents had built with their own hands—burn like kindling.

  By the time the local fire truck pulled onto my property, with lights flashing and siren wailing, the entire house was engulfed, with flames eating through the roof, black smoke rising all around.

  There was nothing left to save.

  CHAPTER

  71

  BULLOCK COUNTY HOSPITAL UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  There’s always something to be thankful for.”

  My sister Jordan stood by the hospital bed, patting my hand. And making the kinds of observations that earned her the nickname “Saint Jordan” by the time she was a second grader.

  Nellie sat on the opposite side, in one of those unforgiving plastic chairs you see in hospitals and medical offices. “Jordan, you have lost your damn mind. Somebody just tried to blow Mary into a million pieces. This is not our lucky day.”

  “But that’s my point,” Jordan said. “Mary was targeted, but she’s alive. Not even hurt too badly.”

  I wouldn’t go that far.

  Yes, I was alive. And that was purely a result of luck. I was supposed to trip the wire when I walked up to enter the house. The trip wire had surrounded the house on all four sides, so it wouldn’t matter whether I came up to the front porch or went in the side entrance, by the carport.

  But despite Jordan’s rosy diagnosis, I was hurting. Physically, my back was killing me; my head felt like I’d been bashed with a baseball bat; my tailbone was so sore, I couldn’t sit upright. These were just the primary complaints.

  And my mental health? Oh, Lord. No blessings to count on that score.

  Jordan squeezed my hand too tightly for comfort. I made a face as I disengaged her fingers.

  “Oh! Sorry about that, Mary.” She looked so crestfallen, I thought I should have borne the pain. Then she tugged my hospital gown into place; it had fallen down on one side, exposing more of me than she was comfortable with.

  “And the barn was spared. The fire department couldn’t save the house. We’re all sad about that. But the barn’s still standing. Your horse is just fine, the animals are all right.”

  “Jordan’s got a point,” Nellie said. “Tornado was shut inside the barn. If that horse had died, you would’ve had a hard time with that.”

  I didn’t say it out loud, but I was having a hard time. Yes, I was thankful that my horse had survived. But in the aftermath of the explosion and fire, I felt despair raining down on me. Crushing me under its weight. A black hole was pulling me into the abyss, the gravity flinging me into an emotional nether land.

  There was a heavy tread of boots coming down the tiled hallway outside the door. Mick Owens walked into the room without knocking first.

  “How you feeling, Mary?”

  I glared at him, thinking it was a good thing my little sister had covered me up. “It’s a funny thing about hospitals. You forfeit your right to privacy when you check in.”

  He ignored the set-down. “Nellie, how’s she doing?”

  “Hard to say.” Nellie gave me a once-over. Her eyes were troubled. “I think they ought to give her something. She got blown across the side yard. I know she’s hurting. But she won’t accept it. Keeps telling the nurse her pain is at the zero to one level. Now, that’s a damn lie.”

  Mick walked over to the bed and stared down at me, frowning. “How bad is it, Mary?”

  I wasn’t going to detail my pain for him. He wasn’t a doctor.

  When I didn’t answer, Jordan piped up. “Mary is so strong!”

  “No pain meds. I’m keeping my head clear,” I said, biting off the words. Because it took an effort to speak. “I want to know what y’all are finding out there on my property.”

  “We’re still investigating the scene,” he said. “No conclusions yet.”

  “But what did you see? Did I tell you about the guardsmen, what they told me today?”

  I couldn’t remember whether I’d passed the information on to Mick. Everything that had occurred over the past hours was patchy. My sharpest recall involved impressions: the smell of smoke, heat of the fire on my face, sound of sirens, flashing red and blue lights. My horse screaming in the barn.

  I closed my eyes, trying to block it out. Someone started patting my hand. Not Jordan this time. It was the sheriff.

  “You ought to let the nurse give you an injection, or a pill. Or are you staying awake because of a concussion?”

  I couldn’t even remember. “What about the boy from the courtroom? The one Nova pointed out.”

  “His name is Elgin Frane. Seventeen-year-old dropout from Russell County. Bad seed. Already has a record.”

  “What about his pal? The other attacker?”

  “Elgin hasn’t given him up yet,” said Mick, “but he will. When we have ’em both, we’ll see which one cracks first.”

  “If they’re sixteen or older, they can be tried as adults, if juvenile court certifies them. Forcible rape is a Class A felony.”

  “I told you, Mary. We’re investigating. It’s being handled.”

  That wasn’t sufficient assurance, not for me. I knew Mick too well. “Damn it, Mick! You can’t let this shit slide!”

  My voice cracked when I screamed at him. He turned and made his way to the door. Without looking back, he said, “I’ll tell Dr. Thompson he needs to take a look at you.”

  Jordan sounded frightened when she said, “Dr. Thompson is supposed to get back to her soon. They sent the X-rays to the radiologist in Montgomery. It shouldn’t be that much longer.”

  Nellie said, “Hey, Mary. You sure you don’t want to talk to the nurse about the pain? I know you’re tough. You got nothing to prove.”

  Jordan picked up a plastic cup of ice water and dropped a hospital straw into it. “Mary’s so strong! I admire that so much. I aways have.”

  Nellie nodded. Standing on the other side of the bed, she said, “No matter what happens, Mary keeps on going. Never looks back.”

  Jordan held the cup out to me. “You want some water, Mary?”

  I pushed the cup away.

  Jordan set it on the tray table. In a hesitant voice, she said, “I’m sorry about your rooster.”

  The rooster. Why that did it, I can’t even say. Those were the words that broke me. Those tears started coming, wouldn’t stop. I tried to wipe them away—with my fingers, and then I used the bedsheet as a Kleenex.

  “Mary?” Nellie bent over the bed, looking scared. “You okay?”

  The crying intensified. Huge, gasping sobs that choked me. Made me struggle for breath.

  Jordan said, “Mary?” Her voice wobbled, like my breakdown was contagious.

  “Shut the door,” Nellie said. She grabbed the tissues, pressed the box into my hand. And then she stroked my hair away from my face. Like our mama used to do.

  When I managed to catch my breath, I said, “I’m so tired.”

  “Just close your eyes, then,” Nellie said.

  I shook my head. That wasn’t it. I raised my voice, so she’d understand me.

  “I’m tired of being strong!”

  Both sisters stood by the hospital bed. That was when I melted down again, big-time. Bawled like a baby. Because I was incapable of being strong anymore. I had to release the pressure or it would explode, blow me up just like my farmhouse. It felt dangerous, that grief.

  I could let go, with Nellie and Jordan. With my sisters, I was safe.

  CHAPTER

  72

  BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  Early the next morning, I sat behind my desk in chambers, slumped in my chair. A McDonald’s bag containing an untouched breakfast sandwich sat on the desk blotter. Nellie had ordered it at the drive-through window when she drove me to the courthouse. A big plastic cup rested by the bag, still half full of Diet Coke. I picked that up, sucked on the straw.

  Tried to figure out where I was going to find the stamina I’d need to make it through the day.

  Dr. Thompson released me from the hospital the night before, though he was reluctant to do so, once the X-rays ruled out a concussion. I didn’t think I’d ever fall asleep over at Nellie’s. I did, finally. Though I wished I’d stayed awake. Because as I slept, I dreamed, my brain creating terrifying snatches of sight and sound. I couldn’t remember all of it. But I know that I dreamed about my mama. She was at the farm, still alive. I heard her crying out, and I came running. I couldn’t find her, though I hunted for her everywhere. Suddenly, I was standing in the side yard when Mama came tearing out of the barn. She was screaming my name, calling for me to help her. I wanted desperately to rescue Mama, to save her. But I couldn’t move. I was frozen in place.

  I must’ve been making noise in my sleep, because Nellie shook me awake. She hugged me, held me. Begged me to stop crying.

  That was a shock; the statement penetrated the fog that nightmare left. What did my sister even mean—crying? Twice in a day? It wasn’t possible. I almost never cry, I’m no crybaby.

  But my face was hot, my nose running like a faucet. When I touched the pillow, it was wringing wet.

  For some reason, I tried to deny it. Needed to. “I wasn’t crying,” I said to Nellie. Like a fool. One look at me put the lie to my words.

  Nellie wiped under my eye with her thumb. “It’s all right,” she said. “You just need to release some pressure, like last night, at the hospital. Do you good. Then you can get some sleep.”

  Well, I didn’t let that happen. I was done with sleeping. No way I’d take a chance on drifting into another nightmare scenario: my mother screaming for help, and me powerless to provide it. That was no place I ever wanted to go again.

  I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling in Nellie’s spare room until it started to get light outside. Didn’t play games on my phone. I wasn’t in the mood for games. It was a relief when morning came and I could ease out of that bed.

  Sitting at my desk in chambers, I took another sip of that cold McDonald’s drink as a soft rap sounded at the door.

  I said, “Luna? Come on in.”

  It wasn’t Luna, though. It was Eleanor Lindquist, wearing a black suit and a somber expression. She clutched a file folder to her chest.

  “Judge Stone, I heard what happened. I’m so sorry.”

  Before I had a chance to respond, my throat closed up and I felt my nose sting. I had to blink back tears while I gripped the arms of my chair.

  It took a moment before I could trust my voice. “What can I do for you?”

  She slipped into the office and shut the door. Stepping up to my desk, she looked down at me with a sorrowful face. “Robert and I have been talking it over this morning, Judge. The burden on you. It’s too much to bear. Too much for anyone to bear, but especially someone in your circumstances.”

  The words were like a verbal slap. I sat up straighter in my chair. “Excuse me? Someone in my circumstances?”

  She let out a sympathetic sigh. “A single woman. Living alone, in the country. Now your home has been destroyed. Robert and I understand, Judge—really. There’s no way you can continue to preside over this case. Just pull out. Disqualify yourself. No one will think less of you. No political fallout, I guarantee it.”

  She was trying to put me in a spin. “We’re in the middle of a felony trial, Ms. Lindquist.”

  “Exactly. A very important case. The judge needs to be 100 percent present. And we understand, Judge. There’s no way you can perform up to your standards. Your house burned down last night! You lost everything!”

  She did it, then. Glanced down at my clothing. I was dressed in Nellie’s schoolteacher clothes. Because my entire wardrobe was reduced to ash.

  Nellie was taller than I was. Stouter, too. I was wearing a printed orange tunic over a pair of black jeans that were too long in the inseam. I’d rolled up the cuffs of the pant legs, pushed up the sleeves to my elbows.

  She couldn’t make me self-conscious about my borrowed clothes. Not after what I’d been through. “Ms. Lindquist, my house didn’t just burn down. It was blown up.”

  “Riiight,” she said, stretching the word out.

  I sucked down some more Diet Coke before I cleared my throat and spoke again. “So! Thank you, Ms. Lindquist, for your sympathy and concern. I appreciate that. But there’s too much at stake here for me to just quit. I can’t walk away. Do you want to make this proposal on the record? Because you know that ex parte communications between counsel and the judge are prohibited. You want to call defense counsel in here? Get the court reporter?”

  “No,” she said. “No, absolutely not.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Dropped her head, so I was staring at the part in her hair. She let out a long groan before she spoke.

  “Oh, God. I hate to have to do this.”

  CHAPTER

  73

  I tensed, waiting for the shit to fall. I didn’t even know what to steel myself against.

  One thing, though. They probably weren’t trying to take my property from me today. That was yesterday’s move.

  “I’ve been sent by the attorney general. To show you this.” She finally lifted her head. Opened the file folder she’d been clutching. She pulled out a document. Handed it across the desk to me.

  It was a copy of an old medical record.

  I recognized it, of course. From the first glance. Tried to keep a poker face as I looked at it. Total fail.

  My voice was hoarse when I asked: “How’d y’all manage to get ahold of this? What did Dick Winston do to get my medical information? You know that the AG’s possession of this record is a violation of federal law. It’s protected by HIPAA. People’s medical records are private.”

  She lifted her shoulders with a helpless look—that don’t blame me expression people try to use when they’re part of a group of wrongdoers.

  “I know,” she said.

  “So how’d you get it? Who turned this over, gave y’all access to my personal business, my medical history?”