The Bones Will Speak by Carrie Stuart Parks Page A

city. Copper Creek is . . .” She waved her hands in the air. “Backward. They’re showing a Disney flick.” She stood and moved to the sink.
    â€œBackward, huh? Well”—I combed my fingers through my hair—“maybe your dad will pick you up and take you . . . to the Disney, not the vampire show.”
    â€œI tried calling him already.” She kicked the dishwasher door shut with a well-aimed blow. “He’s not answering.”
    â€œCall again.”
    â€œI could hitch a ride to Missoula. I’m almost fifteen.”
    â€œNot in this or any other lifetime.” Heading down the hall to my studio, I paused at the open door of Robert’s office. Divots in the oatmeal-colored carpet, his battered desk, and a folding chair bore the only remaining evidence of his presence. I closed my eyes and pictured him bent over the computer keyboard, his lips pursed in concentration. The desk lamp backlit his profile with an exquisite chiaroscuro. His flannel shirt draped over his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled from his lean wrists. He had beautiful hands, musician’s hands.
    Hands that hadn’t touched me since the doctor said, “You have breast cancer.”
    I’d been trying to turn Robert’s office into my own, with mat board stacked against the wall and case boxes stacked in the closet and next to the desk, but somehow his presence was still imprinted on the room. Taking a deep breath, I silently closed the door and continued down the hall to the studio. After blowing my nose, I moved to the mirror above the sink. Today was the granddaddy of bad days, but then again, what did I expect? I’d been unable to work on any forensic cases for almost a year because of my cancer, then picked up the project in Utah. That made me both out of state and out of mind for law enforcement. Of course Missoula would find a replacement.
    I was damaged goods to Robert. I’d endured the surgeries; the lumpectomy, then the double mastectomy, the port inserted just below my collarbone, the months of chemo and radiation, and the premature onset of menopause; just as long as I defeated cancer.
    But cancer claimed our marriage. Robert served the divorce papers before the doctors performed my first surgery.
    Robert was a successful author, hailed as the next Hemingway. After our marriage and the birth of our daughter, his creative well dried up, which, of course, he blamed on me. Once divorced, he found his voice by writing an e-book, fictionalizing my life and cancer battle. It’s been on Amazon’s top ten e-books for almost a year now.
    Moving closer to the mirror, I studied my face. Did it show? Maybe around the eyes? The hair, definitely. My supershort bangs looked like twenties retro. Or Mamie Eisenhower, if you were old enough to remember. My best friend, Beth Noble, said they were the height of fashion. I tugged at my bangs until they straightened to my eyebrows, then let go. They curled up at the top of my forehead. Stupid hair. Chemo hair.
    The Scripture verse posted on the wall reproached me. “. . . run with endurance the race that is set before us.” Beth brought me a biblical quote once a week. I leaned closer to the mirror. At least I wasn’t bald anymore. Even if I were, I still had a closet full of hats and wigs people gave me.
    Don’t knock baldness . I saved a bundle on hair-care products. Not to mention the justification in buying a killer pink camo rifle. Ha-ha . Stand-up comedy at the cancer support group at church. They loved me. I washed my face, then applied mascara and lip gloss.
    Aynslee stomped into the room. “Still no answer from Dad. Where do you think he is?”
    â€œDid you check his schedule? Maybe he has a book signing.”
    â€œHe’s supposed to be free this weekend.”
    â€œWe’ll call again later.” I grabbed a sweater, a garbage bag, and a paper sack. “Give me a minute.” Aynslee