Good Girl, Bad Girl(62)

It’s a nothing answer.

“They found money in Jodie’s locker,” says Maggie. “Six thousand pounds.”

“Where did it come from?” asks the priest.

She shakes her head.

“I have to ask you about something else the police found in Jodie’s locker. Perhaps we should talk alone—outside.”

Maggie shakes her head. “I want Father Patrick to be here.”

“Jodie had a box of condoms in her locker.”

Maggie’s mouth drops open and her hand covers it instinctively as though a word might suddenly fly out.

“Our Jodie was a good girl,” she says defensively.

“Yes, of course, but there is evidence that she had sex with someone on the night she died.”

“She was raped.”

“Rapists don’t normally use condoms.”

Maggie’s voice grows strident and tears prickle in her eyes. “Why are you telling me this? You . . . you have no right!”

“I’m trying to understand—”

“My little girl was raped and murdered and now you’re doing it all over again.”

“I promise you—that’s not my intention.”

“I think you should leave,” says Father Patrick, stepping into my space, making himself large. The odor of him touches my face—a mixture of shampoo, aftershave, and mouthwash. Foamy bits of spit are clinging to his lips.

He puts his arm around Maggie’s shoulders. She leans against him, pressing her face to his chest.

The priest isn’t finished with me. “I have spent the past week telling Maggie she is not to blame for what happened to Jodie, that sometimes terrible things happen to good people. She thinks she’s a bad mother. She thinks she could have saved her daughter. Her only respite has been to come here and talk to me . . . and to God.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I want you to leave.”

My shoes echo on the flagstones as I follow the center aisle to the main entrance. As I pull open the heavy door, I turn back and see Father Patrick and Maggie sitting together. He holds her face in his hands and uses a handkerchief to wipe the tears from her cheeks.





34




* * *





ANGEL FACE




* * *



“Did you go out today?” Cyrus asks.

I nod and watch him unpacking the Chinese takeaway, setting out the cardboard cartons and plastic trays.

“Where did you go?”

“To the shops.”

“What did you buy?”

“Nothing.”

I’m wrestling with the chopsticks, unable to make my fingers wrap around them. A spring roll drops in the dipping sauce, making a mess.

“Would you like a fork?” he asks.

“No!” I snap, hating that I can’t do something when he makes it look so easy.

“Did you catch the number 22 bus?” he asks.

“Something like that.”

Instantly I realize my mistake. There won’t be no number 22 bus. He’s caught me lying again, which means follow-up questions or accusations. Instead he acts like nothing is wrong.

“You should try the dumplings.”

I sniff at the container. “What’s in them?”

“They’re vegetarian.”

“How do you know it’s not dog? They eat dogs in China—and pandas.”

“I don’t think they eat pandas.”

I spear a dumpling with a chopstick and chew one corner before emptying the rest of the carton into my bowl.

Cyrus has poured himself a glass of wine.

“Can I have one?”

“You’re not eighteen.”

“Are we really still arguing about that?”

“I have it on the authority of a High Court judge.”

I take the last spring roll. Cyrus pours me half a glass of wine. I sip it tentatively—not liking the taste, but I don’t want him to know that.

“What did you do today?” I ask, not really interested.

“I interviewed some people.”

“About the Jodie Sheehan murder.”

“How did you know that?”

“You shouldn’t leave your shit lying around the house.”

“What shit?”

I shrug.

Cyrus suddenly realizes what he left in the library—the police interviews with Craig Farley.

“Did you find the DVDs?” he asks.

I admit to nothing. My silence says enough.

“Christ, Evie! That’s highly confidential material. It’s the basis of court proceedings. Evidence in a criminal trial.”

“Who am I going to tell?”

“That’s not the point.”

“You didn’t tell me the library was off-limits.”

“It should have been obvious.”

“Not to me,” I say. “I need the rules written down and posted on the wall. Staff only. Lights-out. Mealtimes. Chores. Lessons.”

Cyrus mutters something about putting a lock on the door, but I ignore him, spearing another dumpling with a single chopstick.

We eat in silence for a while.