The Drowning Child

77

Ren sat in the office of Dr Leonard Lone, watching how the icy gray sky over Denver was draining the life from the painting that hung behind his desk.

Aren’t there guidelines for psychiatrist office art? Couldn’t the wrong image push someone over the edge? Especially when forced to view it while trying to avoid eye contact?

‘Why did you move your desk?’ said Ren.

‘I wanted to have the window to my right, to have the light come in that way,’ said Lone.

But I loved staring out the window behind you. I don’t like your painting. You’re waiting for me to answer your question – I know.

‘It did feel good, yes,’ said Ren.

‘Because you’re used to Gary berating you at the end of an investigation...’

‘Going nuts,’ said Ren. She smiled. ‘Berating sounds very... civilized.’

‘Gary is civilized...’

‘No, you’re right – he is,’ said Ren. ‘I was kidding.’

‘Well, good job on all this,’ said Lone. ‘You didn’t go off on your own, you followed the rules.’

Griiiim.

Lone sat back, opened his arms in a generous gesture. ‘This was a case you didn’t take any risks on.’

‘Correct,’ said Ren. Correct.

Ren sat down that evening with her laptop and a glass of wine.

Still not getting Alice Veir helping John. All her talk of why she studied the law, how she wanted to make a difference. Is that it? Do we all just aspire to be one thing, the best person who ever lived, when really, as we move through life, we realize that all we can be is the best flawed human being under the circumstances. Alice Veir was so convincing in her belief in justice. Why would she throw it all away? Was there something in particular about Anthony Boyd Lorden? Was there a personal connection? Did she know him? Weren’t they around the same age?

Ren’s heart started to pound.

Her thoughts shifted to Alice Veir’s words about Anthony: ‘I’ve had my life. What has he had?’

I’ve had my life?

She’s forty-five years old. Isn’t she still having her life?

She thought about Alice Veir. She thought about Patti Ellis.

How could John Veir have gotten access to Patti Ellis’ medication? Oh my God. It wasn’t have gotten Patti Ellis’ fentanyl: it was Alice Veir’s. Alice Veir is sick. She must be terminal.

Ren pictured Anthony Boyd Lorden in the interrogation video: young, handsome, clean-cut. Then she pictured the police sketch in Emma Ridley’s file.

That’s why it was familiar: the photo of John Veir in the living room. At thirty years old, he looked a lot like Lorden at seventeen. And it was a pitch-dark night. Flawed eyewitness testimony.

‘You’d want a pretty tight relationship with a sibling – or anyone, for that matter – to be able to call them up and say ‘I killed my child, what do I do next?’

But it would be a whole hell of a lot easier if they owed you.

Kevin Dunne’s death was an accident.

And it was Alice Veir who hit him that night. Maybe she was drinking and she couldn’t throw her whole future away, everything she had worked for. She called her brother for help. And he came. And they let an innocent man go to jail.

Then Alice’s conscience kicks in when she knows she’s going to die. She wants to carry out an act of repentance.

But John calls her when he discovers what Caleb has done. He tells her his plan, reminds her of how he helped her out of a predicament when she was in law school – how his actions meant that she got a second chance too.

She tells him that was a very different situation. She tells him that was an accident. But he reminds her that yes, it was an accident that she knocked down and killed a boy called Kevin Dunne, but it was no accident to drive drunk or recklessly or whatever she did. It was no accident when she called her big brother to help her move the body, and to lie for her. It was no accident that she allowed a man to go to jail for twenty-one years until she found out she was sick, and wanted to do something good to redeem herself, wanted to set him free, so she could set herself free.

She thinks that he is making a fair point.

Ren called Emma Ridley and gave her the new information.

That night, Ren sat on her bed, holding her cell in her palm as if it was a fortune teller fish that would curl up at the edges and reveal her future. She started scrolling through her contacts.

She stopped at Joe Lucchesi.

Be brave.

She called his number.

He picked up on the second ring. ‘Hey!’

He sounds cheery. I wonder wh—

‘It’s great to hear your voice,’ said Joe. ‘Really great.’

Ren felt her heart jump. Oh, no. No. ‘Hey. It’s good to hear yours. How are you doing?’

‘Good, good,’ said Joe. ‘Are you home?’

Home... ‘Yes.’

‘How did it all go?’

Ren filled him in on the case.

‘Good for you guys,’ said Joe.

‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch in a while.’ I am falling for you, Joe Lucchesi. And it’s fucking unbearable.

‘It’s OK – you’ve been busy.’

‘Thanks,’ said Ren. ‘Anyway – I better go. I’ve got some things to do...’

Silence.

Ugh.

‘Well, I better let you get back to it,’ said Joe.

‘Thanks,’ said Ren. ‘Look after yourself. And... thanks for Denver. I had a great time.’

But I realize now: it isn’t what I thought it was. You’re not falling for him. You’re staggering out of some hellhole looking for purchase. Someone familiar. It felt intense because we were drunk and because we’re broken. I was confusing intensity with the need to attach to something.

‘Me too,’ said Joe. ‘I was thinking maybe—’

His voice was distant. She was already ending the call.