The Roses of May / Розы мая (by Dot Hutchison, 2017) - аудиокнига на английском

To the dangerous girls with sharp-edged smiles Her name is Darla Jean Carmichael, and she’s your first. But then, you don’t know that yet. What you know, on this fine spring day, is that it seems even God himself has gone out of his way to make her look more beautiful. She’s all innocent beauty, no artifice or vanity; it’s why you love her the way you do. Her shining blonde hair hangs down her back in heavy waves and she’s wearing her old-fashioned white Easter dress again, even has the lace gloves and starched lace hat on. Have you ever seen anything so wholesome? So pure? Even nature agrees with you today. Along either side of the bare, dusty path to the church, the grass is thick with jonquils, all yellow and white, like they could never aim higher than to match Darla Jean. Even the wild daisies are yellow and white, and most years they’re ribbons of pale lavender through the fields. This year there’s only Darla Jean. Except . . . not just Darla Jean. Her hand is looped through the arm of a young man, tucked into the crook of his elbow like it belongs there, and it doesn’t. Her hand doesn’t belong there because he isn’t you. Darla Jean is yours. Has always been yours. She’s never needed you to tell her before; she’s always just known it, the way she should, because the two of you are meant to be together, whatever others would say if they knew. Furious, heartbroken, you follow them to the small brick church, set against such an explosion of flowering trees it looks like a needlepoint. Somehow, despite the rush of emotions pounding in your ears as another heartbeat, you notice other things. In his free hand, the young man carries the basket of treats her mother asked her to take to the church, each individually wrapped for sale because the church needs a new roof before storm season. He leans into her every time she laughs. She’s laughing a lot. But that sound is yours, just like the rest of her is yours, and how could she share it with someone else? That laugh has always soothed you, teased you away from the rage that stays far too close to the surface. Now each time you hear it—high and soft, like the wind chimes on the back porch—you feel a sharp pain in your chest, a throbbing echo in your skull. They walk together into the church, and it takes you a minute or two to find a window that lets you see them clearly, without being seen in turn. She shouldn’t have to know you’re there to know what she owes you, how she ought to behave. The interior of the church is dim, full of shadows and starbursts after the bright sunlight, so you don’t immediately realize what’s happening. And then you do. All you see is blood. He’s kissing her, or she’s kissing him, faces tilted toward each other’s, the rest of them nearly a foot apart. It might be his first kiss. You know it’s hers. The first kiss that was supposed to be yours—that you’ve been waiting for all these years. But you’ve cherished her instead, knowing she’s too pure, too innocent to be sullied with such things. She was too pure. Was too innocent. You slide down the outer wall of the church, the bricks rough and painful, scraping and digging through your clothing. You’re shaking—you might be weeping. How could she? How could she do this to herself, to you? How could she let herself be tarnished? She’s worthless now, just like all those other whores out in the world, always flaunting their bodies and their smiles and their cruel, knowing eyes. You would have worshipped her to the end of your days. You love her, though. How could you not, even still? You love her enough to save her, even if you have to save her from herself. You hear the boy leave, an apology tumbling from his lips—he has to help his brothers get ready. You hear the pastor greet Darla Jean with good cheer. He tells her he has to run into town to buy cups for the lemonade—will she be all right alone? But of course she will. She’s grown up in this church. It’s never been anything but a safe place. She can’t imagine a world where that won’t always be true. As you watch the pastor walk down the path—away, and farther yet—you hear her start to sing. Her songs are yours, too, and there’s no one else to hear them now. She greets you with a smile and a laugh when you walk inside, her eyes bright. You can’t call them guileless. Not anymore. Not now that she’s lost her innocence. Her smile falters as you approach. She has the nerve to ask you what’s wrong. You know you don’t have much time—it’s less than two miles to town, and the pastor walks there and back frequently—but there’s time enough to show her. You show her everything. You promised her a life together, that you would always be there for her. You promised her the world. She threw it away. This is all her fault. You leave at a run, still seething with hurt and betrayal. Darla Jean stays behind, sprawled on the stone, her Easter dress just tatters and rags soaking up the pool of red. The jonquils you’d picked for her—a gift, and look what she’s done with it—lie scattered around her. Her eyes are wide and empty, an echo of confusion, and you’ve given her a jagged smile she can share with the world if she wants to. She can’t laugh anymore, can’t sing, can’t taint what’s yours. She can’t do anything anymore. Perhaps you didn’t mean to. Perhaps your hunting knife slipped and cut too deep. Perhaps you forgot there’s so much blood so close to the surface. Perhaps you did exactly as you meant to. She’s just another whore, after all. Now Darla Jean is dead. You didn’t know she’d be your first. You don’t know yet, but she won’t be your last, either. FEBRUARY Paperwork will, if left unattended, multiply exponentially, much like rabbits and wire coat hangers. Scowling at the newest stacks on his desk, Special Agent Brandon Eddison can’t help but wonder how they would look on fire. It wouldn’t take much. Just a flick of a match, the snick of a lighter, the corners of one or two pages in the middle so it would catch nice and evenly, and then all the papers would be gone. “If you set them on fire, they’ll just print them off again and you’ll have all of it plus the paperwork about the fire,” says a laughing voice to his right. “Shut up, Ramirez,” he sighs. Mercedes Ramirez—his teammate and friend—just laughs again and leans back in her chair, stretching into a long, slightly curved line. Her chair creaks in protest. Her own desk is covered in papers. Not stacks. Just covered. If he asks her for any specific piece of information, she’ll find it in under a minute, and he will never understand how. In the corner, facing their angled desks, is the lair of their senior partner, Supervisory Special Agent in Charge Victor Hanoverian. To Eddison’s disgust and amazement, all the paperwork on that desk seems to be done, sorted into colored folders. As the leader of their intrepid trio, Vic has more paperwork than either of them, and he always has it finished first. Thirty years in the Bureau does that to a person, Eddison supposes, but it’s a terrifying thought. He looks back at his own desk, at the newest stack, and grumbles as he reaches for the top pages. He has a system, one that baffles Ramirez as much as hers unnerves him, and despite the height of the pile, it doesn’t take him long to move the papers to the appropriate columns at the back of his desk, sorted by both topic and priority. They align neatly with the back edge and corners of the surface, alternating portrait and landscape within each stack. “Has a nice doctor ever talked to you about that?” asks Ramirez. “Has A