Michael Malone - Weebly

press against his wound. Last night Chin Lam must have
soaked the wool in chemicals to bleach the blood away.
Now the stains flowed into a pattern, for the scarf was
one pastel flow of delicate hues run together. Judith
liked the way it looked.
She was thinking, waiting for sleep, about Winslow
Abernathy, who had sat with her again this afternoon,
coming back to tell her of Maynard Henry's response to
her statement about the shootings. He had told her,
also, suddenly, of his separation from his wife. He had
told her, in a rush, how he felt. The pretense about
Henry was like a barred window between them, she
felt. She'd thought she was being kind, not telling him
she planned to testify to a literal, though not a spiritual,
lie by saying Barnum had killed John. She'd thought it
was unkind to burden Winslow with that guilty
knowledge. Now she saw the unkindness in separating
him from a burden that was a gift as well. She would
ask him to share it. As she had chosen to share
Maynard Henry's act.
Not that Judith Haig ever would have herself killed
Barnum, or approved Henry's doing so. But she had