Redemption Road

16

Beckett got two pieces of bad news in the first ten minutes of the new day. The first was expected. The second was not. “What are you saying, Liam?”

He was in the bull pen. Seven forty-one in the morning. Hamilton and Marsh were behind the glass in Dyer’s office. Liam Howe had just walked up from Narcotics. The place was a madhouse. Cops everywhere. Noise. Movement.

“I’m saying it sucks.”

Howe dropped into a chair across the desk, but Beckett was barely paying attention. He was watching the state cops, who’d left his desk sixty seconds ago. Now, they were giving Dyer the same earful they’d given him. No sound came through the glass, but Beckett knew enough to catch the big words like subpoena and Channing Shore and obstruction. Playtime was over. They were gunning for Liz and they were gunning hard. Why? Because she wasn’t talking to them. Because in spite of their attempts at understanding and moderation, she was still telling them the same thing, which basically amounted to fuck off. “You know what?” Beckett swung his feet from under the desk. “Let’s walk.”

He tossed a final, sour look at the state cops, then guided Howe out of the room and into the back stairwell. Outside, they stood in the secure lot, white sky going blue at the edges, heat stirring in the pavement. “All right, Liam. Tell me again, and give me details.”

“So, I did what you asked, right. I pulled some sheets; asked around. There’s no indication the Monroe brothers ever sold steroids. Alsace Shore may use them, but if so, he’s getting them somewhere else.”

Beckett chewed on that for a second, then shrugged it off. “That was a long shot, anyway. What’s the twist?”

“The twist is the wife.”

Something in the way Howe said it. “She’s a user?”

“Oh, yeah. Big-time. Prescription meds, mostly. OxyContin. Vicodin. Anything in the painkiller family. Cocaine on occasion.”

“Does she have a sheet?”

The drug cop shook his head. “Everything is scrubbed at the source: connections, favors, whatever. The few times she’s been implicated, the charges went away. I only know as much as I do because I took the question to some of the retired guys. Turns out a lot of wealthy housewives walk on the dirty side. The unspoken rule has been to look the other way. Too many frustrations over the years, too many powerful husbands, and too much weight.”

Beckett could see it because small towns were like that: connections and secrets, old money and old corruption. What’s the harm in a few stoned housewives? Forget the hypocrisy, that drugs were tearing half the city down. “Where did she get the dope?”

Howe shook his head, lit a cigarette. “The story doesn’t have a happy ending.”

“Tell me.”

“We’ll call it the story of Billy Bell.”

Beckett was at the Shores’ house by eight fifteen. Two kinds of bad news. Two different reasons. Alsace Shore knew about the first one. “I’ve already spoken to the state police, and I’ll tell you exactly what I told them. I don’t know where Channing is. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Fuck your implications and fuck your subpoena.”

The man looked huge in a tailored suit and glossy shoes. In the house beyond him, every light was burning. Beckett saw people in the study to the right: other suits, a woman, small and blond in pink Chanel.

“I’m not here about the subpoena.”

“Then why?”

Channing’s father leaked aggression like an old tire leaked air, but again, it was hard to blame him. State cops had a subpoena for his daughter and tried to serve it when the sun was still below the trees. It was a cheap trick. Beckett would be angry, too. “She’s really not here, is she?”

“Like I told the state cops.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“No.”

“Do you know, at least, if she’s safe?”

“Safe enough.” It was grudgingly offered, possibly sincere. “Her mother got a text saying she was okay, but wouldn’t be home for a while.”

“Is that normal?”

“The text, no. But, she’s left home before. Parties in Chapel Hill. Clubs in Charlotte. There’ve been some boys. Teenage stuff she thinks is dangerous.”

Beckett sifted the words, came up satisfied. “May I come inside?”

“Why not? Every other cop in the county has.” Shore showed his back, knowing Beckett would follow. In the study, he lifted an arm. “These are my attorneys.” Three different men stood. “You remember my wife.”

She sat on a sea of dark velvet as if she’d been weighted and sunk there. Pink suit rumpled. Makeup smeared. Stoned, Beckett thought. Numb. “Mrs. Shore.” She did not look up or respond, and from the reactions of everyone else in the room her condition was obviously no surprise. “I’m glad you’re here. This concerns you.”

That was a bomb in the stillness.

“In what regard?” one of the lawyers asked.

He had white eyebrows and ruddy skin. One of the big firms in Charlotte, Beckett guessed. Five hundred an hour, minimum.

“Let’s call it a story for now.” Beckett kept his voice level, though he was angry deep down. “A story about dead brothers, bored housewives, and a town full of dirty little secrets.”

“I won’t allow you to question her.”

“I’ll do all the talking, and right now we’re talking about stories.” Beckett pushed past the lawyer, the husband; towered over the wife, instead. “Like all good stories, this one revolves around a central question, in this case the question of how two low-life brothers like Titus and Brendon Monroe ever came into contact with a girl like Channing. Drug dealers. Kidnappers. Rapists. I suspect you know this story.” Beckett was unflinching. Mrs. Shore was not. “I’m guessing that it started with drinks over brunch. Five years ago? Maybe ten? Brunch became afternoon wine, then cocktails at five, more wine with dinner. Four days a week became seven. There would be parties, of course. Weed from a friend, maybe. A doctor’s prescription or two. All harmless fun until we get to the stolen pills and the cocaine and the low-life dealers who go with it.”

That was his hardest voice, and she looked up, bewildered. “Alsace-”

“You have a gardener,” Beckett interrupted her. “William Bell. Goes by the name Billy.”

“Billy, yes.”

“The last time Titus Monroe was arrested for dealing drugs, he was selling OxyContin to your gardener, Billy Bell. That was nineteen months ago on a Tuesday. Not only did your husband post Billy’s bond, he paid for the lawyer that helped him stay out of jail.”

“That’s enough, Detective.” That was Mr. Shore. Close. Physical.

Beckett ignored him. “Channing wasn’t plucked off a street, was she?”

“You said no questions.” Shore’s voice was loud, but had nothing to do with anger. He was begging, pleading, as his wife sank more deeply into the sofa.

“It’s a common enough story.” Beckett lowered himself before the broken woman. “Except for the ending.” She didn’t move, but a tear spilled down a sunken cheek. “Do you know the Monroe brothers, Mrs. Shore? Have they been to this house?”

“Don’t answer that.”

Beckett tuned out the lawyer. This was about truth, responsibility, the sins of the parent. “Will you look at me?”

Her head moved, but the lawyer pushed between them. “This is a temporary restraining order signed by Judge Ford.” The attorney snapped a paper in Beckett’s face. “It protects Mrs. Shore from police questioning in this matter until such time as her attending physician is brought before the court and the matter is heard.”

“What?”

“My client is under a doctor’s care.”

Beckett took the paper, scanned it. “Psychiatric care.”

“The type of care is irrelevant until a judge rules otherwise. Mrs. Shore is in a fragile state, and under the protection of the court.”

“This is dated the twelfth.”

“The timing is also irrelevant. You cannot pursue this line of questioning.”

“You knew about this days ago.” Beckett dropped the paper and squared up on Mr. Shore. “She’s your daughter, and you fucking knew.”

Outside, the day was too hot and blue for Beckett’s mood. The abduction was not random, the bad guys not some passersby who saw Channing on the street.

And the father knew.

Motherfucker…

“I didn’t know until after.”

Beckett spun on a heel.

Alsace Shore had followed him out. He looked smaller and shaken, a powerful man begging. “You have to believe me. If I’d known while she was missing, I’d have told you. I’d have done anything.”

“You withheld evidence from me, Mr. Shore. It wasn’t some accident your daughter was taken. What happened to Channing is your wife’s fault.”

“You don’t think I know that? You don’t think she knows that?” Shore stabbed a finger at the house, and Beckett remembered the man’s talk of grief and grieving and things forever changed. “I can’t undo what happened to my daughter. But I can try to protect my wife. You have to understand that.” Shore’s hands rose, clasped. “You’re married, right? What would you do to spare your wife?”

Beckett blinked; felt sun like a palm on his cheek.

“Tell me you understand, Detective. Tell me you wouldn’t do the same.”

Liz was on her second cup of coffee when the banging started. Beckett had left two messages, so she knew it was coming. Another day. Decisions. She opened the door after about the twentieth knock. She was in faded jeans and an old red sweatshirt, her face still pale from sleep, the hair loose and wild on her head. “It’s a little early, Charlie. What’s the problem? No coffee at the precinct?”

Beckett pushed inside, ignoring the sarcasm entirely. “Coffee sounds good, thanks.”

“Okay, then.” She closed the door. “Come on in.”

Elizabeth poured a cup of coffee and added milk the way he liked it. Beckett sat at the table and watched her. “Hamilton and Marsh got their subpoena. The girl will have to answer their questions about the basement. She’ll have to do it under oath.”

Liz didn’t blink. “Take this.” She handed him a cup and saucer and sat across the table.

“They tried to serve it this morning, but Channing was gone. Her parents don’t know where she is. She sent a text, though.”

“That was considerate of her.”

“They say that’s not her normal behavior. Sneaking out, yes. Not the texting.”

“Hmm.” Elizabeth sipped from her own coffee. “How odd.”

“Where is she, Liz?”

Elizabeth put the coffee down. “I’ve told you how I feel about you and this girl.”

“She doesn’t exist. I remember. Things are bigger, now. You can’t protect her. You shouldn’t.”

“Are you saying it’s wrong to try?”

“She’s a victim. You’re a cop. Cops don’t have relationships with victims. It’s a rule designed for your own protection.”

Elizabeth looked at her fingers on the china cup. They were long and tapered. The fingers of a pianist, her mother once said. If Elizabeth closed her eyes, though, she’d see them bloody and red and shaking. “I’m not sure about rules, anymore.” She said it softly and left out the rest. That she wasn’t sure about being a cop, either, that maybe-like Crybaby-she’d lost something vital. Why was she doing it if not for the victims? What did it mean if she became one? They were hard questions, but she wasn’t upset. The feelings were more of calm and quiet, a strange, still acceptance that Beckett-for all his abilities-didn’t seem to notice.

“If I take Channing in, I can keep your name out of it. No obstruction charges. Nice and clean.” He reached for her hand, and she watched his fingers on hers. “She can tell the truth, and this can end. The state investigation. The risk of prison. You can have your life back, Liz, but it has to be now. If they find her here…” He let that hang between them, but his eyes were deadly serious.

“I can’t give you what you want,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“And if I force you?”

“I’d say that’s a dangerous road to walk.”

“I’m sorry, Liz. I have to walk it.”

Beckett rose before the last word died. He moved down the short hallway, surprised when she didn’t try to stop him. He opened one door and then another, and at the second stared for a long time at tousled hair and pale skin and tangled sheets. When he returned, he sat in the same chair, his features still. “She’s asleep in your bed.”

“I know.”

“Not even the guest room. Your bed. Your room.”

Elizabeth sipped coffee, placed the cup on its saucer. “I won’t explain because you wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re harboring a material witness and obstructing a state police investigation.”

“I don’t owe the state cops anything.”

“What about the truth?”

“Truth.”

She laughed darkly, and Beckett leaned across the table. “What will the girl say if they find her? That she was wired on the mattress when it happened? That you shot them in the dark?”

Elizabeth looked away, but Beckett wasn’t fooled.

“It won’t work this time, Liz, not with autopsy results, ballistics, spatter analysis. They were shot in different rooms. Most of the bullets went through and through. There are fourteen bullet holes in the floor. You know how that plays.”

“I imagine I do.”

“Say it, then.”

“It plays as if they were on the ground, and no threat at all.”

“So, torture and murder.”

“Charlie-”

“I can’t have you in prison.” Beckett struggled, found the right words. “You’re too… necessary.”

“Thank you for that.” She squeezed his hand and meant it. “I love you for caring.”

“Do you?”

He tightened his grip enough to show the strength in his wide palm and in fingers that stopped an inch from her cuff. Their eyes met in a pregnant moment, and her voice caught like a child’s. “Don’t.”

“Do you trust me or not?”

“Don’t. Please.”

Two words. Very small. He looked at her sleeve, and at the narrow flash of china wrist. Both knew he could lift the sleeve, and that she couldn’t stop him. He was too strong; too ready. He could have his answer and, in its wake, find helplessness and truth and the ruins of their friendship. “What is it with you and these kids?” he asked. “Gideon? The girl? Put a hurt child in front of you and you don’t think straight. You never have.”

His grip was iron, his hand squeezed so tight she had little feeling left in her fingers. “That’s not your business, Charlie.”

“It wasn’t before. Now it is.”

“Let me go.”

“Answer the question.”

“Very well.” She found his eyes and held them, unflinching. “I can’t have children of my own.”

“Liz, Jesus…”

“Not now, not ever. Shall I tell you how I was raped as a child? Or should we discuss all that came after, the complications and the lies and the reasons my father, even now, won’t look at me the same? Is that your business, Charlie? Is the skin on my wrists your business, too?”

“Liz…”

“Is it or isn’t it?”

“No,” he said. “I guess it’s not.”

“Then let go of my hand.”

It was a bad moment that caught like a breath. But he saw her clearly, now. The children she loved. The string of broken relationships and the withdrawn, cool way she often held herself. He squeezed her hand-once and gently-then did as she asked.

“I’ll try to keep them away.” He stood and seemed every inch the clumsy giant. “I’ll do what I can to conceal the fact she’s here.” Elizabeth nodded as if nothing were wrong; but Beckett knew her every look. “Channing’s scores are public record,” he said. “You can’t hide that she’s a shooter. Sooner or later someone will figure it out. Sooner or later they’ll find her.”

“All I need is for it to be later.”

“Why, for God’s sake? I hear what you’re saying, okay? The kids and all. I get it. I see what it means to you. But this is your life.” He spread the same thick fingers, struggling. “Why risk it?”

“Because for Channing it’s not too late.”

“And for you it is?”

“The girl matters more.”

Elizabeth lifted her chin, and Beckett understood, then, the depth of her commitment. It wasn’t a game or delay for its own sake. She would take the heat for Channing. The murders. The torture. She would go down for the girl.

“Jesus, Liz…”

“It’s okay, Charlie. Really.”

He turned away for an instant, and when he turned back he was harder. “I want a better reason.”

“For what?”

“Look, I’ve made mistakes in my life, some really big ones. I don’t care to make another one now, so if there’s a reason you’re doing this-something beyond childhood wounds and raw emotion-”

“What if there is?”

“Then I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

Elizabeth measured his sincerity, then pulled up both sleeves and lifted her arms so he could take it all in: the fierce eyes and conviction, the raw, pink wounds and all they implied. “I would have died without the girl,” she said. “I would have been raped, and I would have been killed. Is that reason enough?” she asked; and Beckett nodded because it was, and because, looking at her face, he knew for a fact that he’d never seen anything so fragile, so determined, or so goddamn, terrible beautiful.

When he was gone, Elizabeth pushed the door shut and watched him all the way to his car. His stride was slow and steady, and he drove away without looking back once.

When she turned, Channing was in the hall. A blanket wrapped her like a package. Her skin was creased from sleep. “I’m ruining your life.”

Elizabeth put her back to the door and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “You don’t have that power, sweetheart.”

“I heard what you said to him.”

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

“And if you go to prison because of me?”

“It won’t come to that.”

“How can you know?”

“I just do.” Elizabeth put an arm around the girl’s shoulder. Channing wanted a better answer. Elizabeth didn’t have one. “Did you sleep okay?”

“I was sick again. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Elizabeth felt a stab of guilt. She slept so well with the girl warm beside her. “You should eat something.”

“I can’t.”

The girl looked as fragile as glass, the veins powder blue in her arms. She looked how Elizabeth felt. Even the skin beneath her eyes was smudged.

“Get dressed. We’re leaving.”

“Where?”

“You need to see something,” Elizabeth said. “And then you’re going to eat.”

They took the Mustang, top down. Heat was already spiking in the day, but dense trees shaded the streets, and the lawns in Elizabeth’s neighborhood were thick and green. It made for a pleasant drive out, and Elizabeth watched the girl when she could. “Why the desert?”

“Hmmm?”

“You said once that we should go to the desert. I found it odd,” Elizabeth said, “because I’d had the same thought just before that, and I’m not sure why. I’ve never considered the desert, never thought I’d want to live there or even visit. My life is here. It’s all I’ve ever known, but I lie awake at night and imagine wind like it came from an oven. I see red stone and sand and long views of brown mountains.” She watched the girl. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“It’s simple, isn’t it?”

“Not to me.”

“No mold, no mildew.” Channing closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun. “Nothing in the desert smells like a basement.”

They were silent after that. Traffic thickened. Channing kept her eyes closed. When they reached the commercial district, Elizabeth edged onto a ramp that spit them out six blocks from the square. They passed office buildings and cars and homeless people with loaded carts. When the square appeared, they circled the courthouse and turned onto Main Street, which was dotted with a few shoppers and people in suits. They passed a coffee shop, a bakery, a lawyer’s office. Channing eased the sweatshirt hood over her head and sank into the seat as if people frightened her.

“You’ll be fine,” Elizabeth said.

“Where are we going?”

“Here.”

“What’s here?”

“You’ll see.”

Elizabeth parked at the curb, then opened the door and met Channing on the sidewalk. Together, they passed a hardware store and a pawnshop. The door after that was glass with wood trim painted dark green. Letters on the glass said SPIVEY INSURANCE, HARRISON SPIVEY, BROKER AND AGENT. A bell tinkled as they pushed into a small room that smelled of coffee and hair spray and wood polish.

“Is he in?” Elizabeth asked.

No preamble. No hesitation. The receptionist stood, the gap of a sweater gathered in one hand, her soft face turning bright red. “Why do you come here?”

Elizabeth said to Channing, “She always asks me that.”

“You’re not a client, and I don’t think for a second that you’re a prospective one, either. Is it a police matter?”

“That’s between Mr. Spivey and me. Is he in or not?”

“Mr. Spivey comes in late on Fridays.”

“What time?”

“I expect him any moment.”

“We’ll wait.”

“Not here, you won’t.”

“We’ll wait outside.”

Elizabeth turned and left, Channing at her heels as the bell tinkled again, and the receptionist locked the door behind them. On the sidewalk, Elizabeth stepped into a shaded alcove. “I feel bad about that. She’s a nice enough woman, but if her boss won’t tell her why I come, then I won’t either.”

“If you say so.” The girl was still small, still sunken in the sweatshirt.

“Do you understand whose office that was?”

“You don’t need to do this.”

“You need to see how things can change. It matters. It’s important.”

The girl hugged herself, still doubtful. “How long do we wait?”

“Not long. That’s him.”

Elizabeth dipped her head as a car rumbled past. In it, a man tapped his hands on the wheel, mouth moving as if singing. Two hundred feet farther, he pulled into an empty spot and climbed out, a thirtysomething man, thick in the middle, thin on top. Otherwise, he was strikingly handsome.

“You don’t have to say a word.” Elizabeth started walking. “Just stay beside me. Watch his face.”

They moved up the sidewalk, and in spite of what she’d said to the girl, Elizabeth felt the narrow finger of her own shame. She was a cop and a grown woman, yet even at a distance suffered the memory of his weight and the taste of pine, the heat of his finger on the back of her hand. She’d had nightmares for years, come close to killing herself from shame and self-loathing. But none of that mattered, anymore. This was about life after, about strength and will and lack of compromise. It was about Channing.

“Hello, Harrison.”

He was walking head down and twitched as if her voice carried a live current. “Elizabeth. God.” His hand covered his heart as his feet dragged to a stop. He licked his lips and looked nervously at his office door. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing, really. It’s just that it’s been a while. This is my friend. Tell her good morning.”

He stared at Channing and flushed bright, hot red.

“Can you say hello?” Elizabeth asked.

He mumbled something, and sweat beaded on his face. His eyes flicked from Channing to Elizabeth, then back. “I really need to… uh… to… you know…” He pointed at his office.

“Of course. Business first.” Elizabeth stepped aside and gave enough room for him to edge past. “Have a nice day, Harrison. Always great to see you.”

They watched him shuffle to his office, open the door with his key, and disappear as if sucked inside.

When he was gone, Channing said, “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Was it cruel?”

“Maybe.”

“Should I be the only one to remember what he did?”

“No. Never.”

“What did you see when you looked at his face?”

“Shame. Regret.”

“Anything else?”

“I saw fear,” Channing said. “I saw a great, giant world of fear.”

That was the point, and it sank into the girl as Elizabeth drove them to an old diner on a stretch of empty road on the far side of the county. Blacktop ran off, unbroken, the sky domed above them.

The girl ate in neat bites, smiled twice at the waitress, but in the car, later, looked drawn. “If you tell me everything will be okay, I’ll believe you.”

“Everything will be okay.”

“Do you promise?”

Elizabeth took a left and stopped at a light. “You’re just wounded,” she said. “Wounds heal.”

“Always?”

“If you’re strong.” The light turned green. “And if you’re in the right.”

They rode in silence after that, and the day seemed brighter. Channing found a song on the radio; let an open hand drag in the rush of air. This would be a fine day, Elizabeth decided, and for a while it was. They returned to Elizabeth’s house, and the minutes folded around them. The porch was shaded, the silence between them easy. When they did speak, it was of small things: a young man on the street, a hummingbird on the feeder. But when Channing closed her eyes, Elizabeth recognized the tightness in her lids, the way her arms banded white across her ribs. Elizabeth remembered the feeling from childhood, and it was one more thing between them, this sudden fear of flying apart. “Are you okay?”

“Yes and no.” The girl’s eyes opened, and the chair stopped rocking. “Do you mind if I take a soak?”

“Take your time, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“Open the window if you like. Call me if you need anything.”

Channing nodded, and Elizabeth watched her enter the house. It took a minute, but the window scraped open, and she heard water run in the old porcelain tub. For long minutes she tried to find her own peace, but that, too, was impossible.

Her father made certain.

She watched his car ease down the shaded lane and tried to stifle the deep unease its presence created. He avoided parts of her life. The police station. This street. When they did meet, it was in her mother’s presence or on some neutral ground. The policy suited them both. Less resentment and raw nerve. Less chance of an argument. Because of that she met him now as far from the house as she could, and he seemed to want it the same way, stopping twenty feet from the porch and shading his eyes as he climbed from the car.

“What are you doing here?” Her words grated harshly, but they often did.

“Can’t a man visit his daughter?”

“You never have.”

Tapered hands went into the pockets of black pants. He sighed and shook his head, but Elizabeth wasn’t fooled. Her father did nothing without purpose and wouldn’t be at her home without some powerful reason.

“Why are you here, Dad? Why now?”

“Harrison called me.”

“Of course,” she said. “And he told you of my visit.”

Her father sighed again and fastened his dark eyes on hers. “Is compassion still beyond you?”

“For Harrison Spivey?”

“For a man who has known nothing but regret for sixteen years, for a decent man struggling to rectify the sins of his past.”

“Is that why you’re here? Because I’ve seen no struggle.”

“Yet, he raises his children and is charitable and seeks only your forgiveness.”

“I won’t be lectured about Harrison Spivey.”

“Will you talk about this?”

He pulled photos from the front seat and dropped them on the hood of his car. Elizabeth picked them up and felt a twist of sudden nausea. “Where did you get these?”

“They were given to your mother,” he replied. “Who is now heartbroken beyond any power to console.”

Elizabeth flipped through the stack, but knew what images were there. They came from the autopsy and the basement, full color and graphic. “State police?” She saw the answer on her father’s face. “What did they want?”

“They were inquiring about odd behavior, confession, expressions of regret.”

“And you let them show these to Mom?”

“Don’t be angry at me, Elizabeth, when your choices alone brought us to this place.”

“Is she okay?”

“Your vanity and need to rebel-”

“Dad, please.”

“Your obsession with violence and justice and Adrian Wall.”

The words were loud enough to carry, and Elizabeth glanced at the house, knowing Channing must have heard. “Please lower your voice.”

“Did you kill these men?”

She held the stare and felt the weight of his condemnation. It was like this between them and always would be. The old and the young. The laws of God and those of men.

“Did you torture and kill them as the state police claim?”

He was tall and straight and so ready to believe the worst. Elizabeth wanted to share the truth if only to prove him wrong, but she thought of the girl in the house behind her and remembered how it was to be helpless in the dark, to be a child again and nearly broken. Channing saved her from that fate, from monsters that go bump in the night and the emotion that wept like blood from every part of her. That mattered more than her father, her pride, or anything else, so Elizabeth kept her back straight. “I killed them, yes.” She handed the photos to her father. “I would do it again.”

He sighed deeply, frustrated and disappointed and sad. “Do you know nothing of regret?”

“I think I know more than most.”

“Yet, what you sound is prideful.”

“I am only what God and my father have made me.”

They were bitter words, and he looked away from them. His daughter was a killer, and unrepentant. That was the truth he accepted. “What shall I tell your mother?”

“Tell her that I love her.”

“And the rest of it?” He meant the photographs and Liz and her confession.

“You once told Captain Dyer that the cracks in me are so deep God’s own light can’t find the bottom. Do you really believe that?”

“I believe you are but a short fall from hell itself.”

“Then we have nothing to discuss. Do we?”

“Elizabeth, please-”

“Good-bye, Dad.”

She opened his car door, and the moment ended badly between them. He glanced a final time at her face, then nodded wearily and slipped into the car. Elizabeth watched him back onto the empty street and drive away. When he was gone, she looked at the bathroom window, then crossed the yard and sat again on the porch. When Channing came out, she was in the same clothes, but her hair was wet and her face flushed with heat. She kept her eyes on the dusty floor, and that’s when Elizabeth knew for sure. “You heard all that?”

“Bits and pieces. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

“It’s okay if you did.”

“I’m a guest in your house. I wouldn’t do that.” The girl sniffed and showed the big eyes. “It was your father?”

“Yes.”

“You lied to me,” Channing said.

“I know I did. I’m sorry.”

“You said you never told him what that boy did to you.”

“You’re upset.”

“I thought we were friends, that you understood.”

“We are. I do.”

“Then why?”

“Why the lie?” Channing nodded, and Elizabeth took a moment because some doors were hard to open, and others impossible to close. When she spoke, it was done softly and with care. “I came up in my father’s church,” she said. “Raised on prayer and abstinence and piety. It was a spare childhood, but one I believed in, God’s love and the wisdom of my father. I didn’t realize I was so sheltered, that I was naïve in a way kids today could never understand. We didn’t have television or the Internet or video games. I didn’t go to movies or read fiction or think about boys the way another seventeen-year-old girl might. The church was my family, and it was very close. You understand? Protected. Insular.” Channing nodded, and Elizabeth turned her chair to face the girl straight on. “After Harrison attacked me, I didn’t tell my father for five weeks, and only then because I had no choice. When I did it, though, I felt dirty and small. I wanted him to make it right, to tell me I would be okay and had done nothing wrong. Mostly, I wanted Harrison to pay for what he did.”

“Did he?”

“Pay? No. My father called him to the church and made us pray together, the two of us side by side. I wanted justice, and my father wanted some kind of grand redemption. So we spent five hours on our knees asking God to forgive the unforgivable, to fix a thing that could never be fixed. Two days later I tried to kill myself at the quarry. My father never did call the police.”

“That’s why you don’t get along?”

“Yes.”

“It seems like more. So many years. That kind of poison.”

Elizabeth stared at the girl, marveling at her perspicacity. “There is more. Why we don’t speak. Why I went to the quarry.” Elizabeth stood because, after so many years, this was the meat of it, the thumping, blood-filled core. “I was pregnant,” she confessed. “He wanted me to keep it.”