Mary, Mary

Chapter 95

“MARY DO YOU REMEMBER ME from yesterday?” I asked as soon as the guard was back out in the hallway I had pulled up a chair and sat across from het The plain four-by-eight table between us was bolted to the floor. It was chilly in the small room, with a draft from somewhere.

“You're Mister Cross,” she said dully "FBI Agent Cross.

Excuse me, I'm sorry"

“Good memory Do you know why you're here?”

She tensed, though it was barely discernible from her other- 'wise flat affect. "They think I'm that woman. They're accusing me of murder.“ Her gaze fell to the floor. ”Murders.

More than one. All those Hollywood people. They think I did it."

I was actually glad she said “they” It meant I could still be a potential ally in her mind. Maybe she'd tell me some of her secrets after all, and maybe not.

“We don't have to talk about that if you don't want to,” I said. She blinked once, and seemed to focus a little. She squinted her eyes at me, then looked down at the floor.

“Would you like anything? Are you thirsty?” I asked. I wanted her to feel as comfortable as possible with me, but I was also feeling an urge to help this woman. She looked and sounded so terrible, possibly impaired.

Now she looked up, her eyes searching mine. “Could I have a cup of coffee? Would it be too much trouble?”

The coffee arrived, and Mary held the paper cup with her fingertips and sipped at it with an unexpected kind of delicacy. The coffee seemed to revive her a little, too.

She kept sneaking glances at me, and she absently smoothed her hair against her head.

“Thanks.” Her eyes were a little brighter, and I saw a shade of the friendly woman from the day before.

“Mary do you have any questions about what's going on? I'm sure you must.”

Immediately, a pall came over her. Her emotions were palpably fragile. Suddenly, tears welled up in her eyes, and she nodded without speaking.

“What is it, Mary?”

She looked up to the corner of the ceiling, where a camera was watching us. I knew that at least a half-dozen law enforcement personnel and psychiatric specialists were tucked away less than ten feet from where we sat.

Mary seemed to guess as much. When she did speak, it was in a whisper.

“They won't tell me anything about my children.” Her face contorted as she fought back more tears.