Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(98)

Mack tries to speak, but can’t.

“You didn’t kill her, Mack. You didn’t do anything wrong. The two of you weren’t supposed to be together. Anyone could see that. But even when you were a little boy, you were drawn to stray dogs, and underdogs, and wounded souls. You always wanted to save animals, people.”

“I couldn’t save her,” he says hoarsely.

“No one could. Thousands of people died on Tuesday morning, and no one could save any of them.”

Mack nods. Intellectually, he knows that.

Emotionally—that’s another story.

“In time, you’ll forgive yourself,” Lynn says. “I promise.”

“I hope you’re right.”

She smiles and pats his arm. “I am. And this is the wrong time to be telling you this, I know, but someday, you’re going to find the right woman, Mack, and you’re going to have that family you deserve.”

For some reason, he finds himself glancing at Allison—and then, quickly, guiltily, away.

Jerry’s back aches and his head aches and his legs ache, and he can’t take it. Can’t take sitting on this hard chair in this small room at the police station, can’t take these two people, Detective Manzillo and Detective Brandewyne, talking to him, yelling at him, in his face.

“Please,” he begs yet again, “please stop!”

“Just tell us the truth, and we’ll stop!” the woman shouts back at him.

“Easy, Brandewyne.” Detective Manzillo leans in close to Jerry. “I know you’re tired, kid, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I know you just want this to be over with, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And I know you never meant to hurt anyone, did you?”

“No.”

“Your mother—she was terrible to you, wasn’t she? She hurt you. That’s what Jamie says, right?”

Jerry nods. So they do finally believe him about Jamie. All this time, they’ve been telling Jerry that Jamie is dead, and Jerry keeps telling them they’re wrong.

“And those two girls—Kristina and Marianne—they weren’t nice to you, either, were they?”

“No.” Jerry shakes his head fast.

“I bet that made you feel bad, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And mad.”

“Yes.”

“I understand, Jerry. We both understand, don’t we, Detective Brandewyne?” He looks at her, and she nods.

“It’s okay, Jerry,” she says. “They were mean to you, weren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t deserve that, did you? You’ve never been mean to anyone, have you?”

“No,” Jerry sobs. “No. I’m never mean.”

“When you hurt those women and your mother, you weren’t trying to be mean, were you?” Detective Manzillo asks. “I bet you didn’t even realize what you were doing—what you had done. Maybe you forgot all about it, because you wanted to block it out, because it was terrible, wasn’t it, Jerry?”

He nods. It was. It was terrible, what happened to them. But . . .

He remembers the phone calls.

“They said they were sorry,” Jerry tells the detectives. “They said they loved me.”

“Who did?”

“Kristina, and Marianne. They told me.”

He thinks about how surprised he was when Jamie said that Kristina wanted to talk to him that night. Surprised, and happy. And then sad when he had to say good-bye. “Jamie said Kristina had to die anyway. She had to be punished.”

“Because she hurt you, Jerry. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“She hurt you, and so Jamie hurt her.”

“Yes. Jamie did. But I didn’t.”

“Jerry, you did,” the lady, Detective Brandewyne, says. “Jamie is a part of you, isn’t she? You don’t want to let her go, and she’s a part of you. Isn’t she? You love her, no matter what she’s done, don’t you?”

“Yes. I love Jamie. Please—can we stop talking? Please . . . I need to go.”

“We’re going to sit here all night,” Detective Brandewyne says, “and then we’re going to sit here all day, and we’re going to sit here for a week or a month if we have to.”

“No, please . . . I have to get up. I can’t sit here anymore.”

“You can get up, Jerry—we can get you out of this room—just as soon as you tell us what we need to know. But this isn’t going to be over until you do that. Do you understand?”

Jerry nods miserably.

“Okay. Good.” Detective Manzillo reaches out and holds Jerry’s hand. It feels good, having someone hold his hand. Jerry’s fingers are so cold, and the detective’s fingers are big and warm.

“So tell me, Jerry,” he says softly. “You’ll feel better. You need to get it out. That’s the hardest part. After you say it, this will all be over, and we’ll get you some help, and some food.”

Food. Jerry’s hungry. Really hungry, he realizes.

“What kind of food will you get me?”