Page 47 of 4th Silence
It’s part of why I love forensic sculpting. I start with a skull and, using charts and data that provide me with measurements for anatomic points, I begin to rebuild a face. I cut tissue depth markers, glue them to the skull, place prosthetic eyes into the sockets, and slowly layer clay over the markers.
Layer by layer, the person comes to life.
Talk about methodical.
It’s a process that takes hours upon hours, but there’s something about watching it develop that enthralls me.
As much as I love having a plan, sometimes Charlie’s way is better.
This time, I hope we’re not the ones in a jail cell.
As if on cue, Charlie’s phone rings and Mom’s name lights up the dashboard screen.
She’s probably tired of waiting for an update.
“Here we go,” Charlie mutters and taps the steering wheel. “Hi, Mom.”
“Where are you?”
Mom’s voice comes fast and breathy, putting me on edge. I know this voice. It’s the one that means something is happening, and it’s not necessarily good.
Charlie glances at me, then focuses back on the freeway. The blur of cars flying by like we’re standing still.
Adrenaline fires my system, so I do what I always do when Mom goes a little nuts. I draw a slow breath, lift my chin, and shove my shoulders back while I wait for whatever news she’s about to level us with.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You need to get back here.”
I close my eyes, force myself to stay patient with our drama queen mother, who hasn’t answered my question. “Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Well,” she says, “obviously, you’re not listening to the news.”
At this, my sister offers a grunt—one that usually leads to a smart-ass retort. Not today. I don’t have the energy for another round of their banter.
Between the Gordy meeting, the puzzle-piecing, and the general brain drain, I’m running on fumes. I need food and ten blessed minutes of silence.
Except…Mom.
“We just got out of our meeting,” I say, reaching for my phone to check the news.
A text from Jerome flashes across the screen.
Guilt hits me like a sledgehammer. I’ve been avoiding him—using the case as an excuse—but Jerome isn’t stupid. He knows I’ve been dodging him since he brought up marriage.
“Hello?” Mom asks.
I swipe the text away. “Hold on. I’m pulling up the local news.”
“Charlie,” Mom says, her voice direct, “you’re not going to be happy. And I’m sorry.”
Once again, my sister shoots me a look and then shifts her attention back to driving. “What did you do?”
“Ha!” Mom barks. “My eldest daughter. You’re a tough cookie. This time it wasn’t me. We’ve got a horde of press outside the office. Both front and back.”
We haven’t been gone that long. What in the hell could have happened?
Welcome to the world of Schock.
