Page 34 of Echoes in the Storm

She sighs, her hands on the vanity as she hangs her head between her shoulders. “How long has the roast got to go?”

Fucking woman.“Don’t ignore the question.”

“I’m not,” she snaps before sighing and repeating the words a lot softer. “I’m not. I’m just hungry, and quite frankly, this whole thing is upsetting enough; you don’t want to add ‘Hangry Cammie’ to the mix.”

Damn woman makes me chuckle, as much as I’d rather not. “Fair enough. Let’s go check.”

She fluffs around, fixing her eyeliner or some shit while I head back to the kitchen and check the rolled beef. Sure enough, the thing’s ready to go—too much longer and it would have been tough as an old gumboot.

“So?” Cammie asks as she finally re-joins me.

“You were right to ask. It’s ready.”

She gives me a smug rise of one eyebrow, and then moves across to the far side of the living room as I pull the stainless-steel tray from the oven and set it down on top of the sink. After what feels like an hour of searching in what I thought would be the obvious places, I give up trying to locate a carving fork and use two knives: one stabbed through the roll to keep it in place, and one to cut it.

All the while, Cammie ferrets around in the sideboard cabinets, pulling things out in her mad search for something. I keep a cursory eye on her as I plate the meat and vegetables, transferring the tray to the stovetop to make gravy from the juices.

The look on her face when I set the plates on the table makes every ounce of the effort worth it.

“I should keep you on,” she says with a smile, despite the fact her eyes are puffy and red, her pinked cheeks giving away how she really feels. “I thought you said you couldn’t cook?”

“Cook? No. Can’t add anything together without it tasting nothing like it should. But make a mean as roast? Easy.”

“Says you.”

I chuckle as I pull out her seat.

Cammie takes her place at the table graciously, reaching up to set some papers on the surface beside her place setting. I take my seat opposite her, and indicate for her to start.

“I don’t usually say grace or anything,” she announces as she slices into the meat.Straight for the best parts.“So I hope you’re not offended.”

“Neither.” I take a mouthful of roast potato drenched in gravy and groan. I haven’t had a roast in what feels like forever. “Damn that’s good, if I do say so myself.”

Cammie nods in agreement, her eyes closed. “Mm-hmm.”

I wait until she’s looking at me again and jerk my chin at the papers. “What are they?”

She pops a carrot in her mouth and then sets her knife down to unfold the top sheet. With her palm flat over the contents, she slides it across the table to me, gesturing for me to read it as she picks up her knife and continues to eat.

I take a bite of the meat and chew it slowly as I look over the newspaper article. It’s short—probably a bare mention halfway through their local rag, but it’s to the point, that’s for sure. The headline reads:Local woman under investigation after tragic accident.

“Jared saved it for me,” she explains between mouthfuls. “At the start, I couldn’t face anything that would remind me of it, so I’d bin the paper when it was delivered before I even unrolled it from the plastic. He fished it out and clipped that for when I was better.”

I run my eye over the column as she speaks.

“He said he saved it at first because he thought it might make me see that I did everything I could.” She pauses, waiting for me to finish.

The article outlines in brief detail the events that led to her daughter, Taylah’s, death. An innocent enough day, by the looks of things, that ended in tragedy when her daughter ran down the driveway to the open road and was struck by a car. The woman under investigation wasn’t Cammie, as I’d first assumed; it was the driver of the car that hit her little girl.

“But then this one came out.” She slides the next sheet of newsprint across to me. The article’s a fair sight longer. “He never looked at or spoke to me the same after that.” Her eyes fixate on the printed letters, her thoughts clearly somewhere else. Or maybe they’re here, trapped in a nightmare that came to life a long time ago.

Mother accused of neglect after toddler’s death

“Shit, Cam.” I pull the article closer, setting my fork down on the side of my plate.

She continues with her meal in silence as I read the words that damn her involvement beyond any shadow of a doubt.

“It was an accident,” she whispers as I reach the end. “It’s not as though I set it all up, planned it, or did any of it knowing what would happen. How was I to know?”

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