Long Bright River(95)

My father says he will talk to her. Try to convince her.

—You girls need each other, he says.

—You don’t have to convince Kacey of anything, I say stiffly. If she doesn’t want to see me, that’s just fine.

—Okay, says my father. All right. I hear you.

But I can tell, from his voice, that he doesn’t believe me.



* * *



—

After I drop him off, I wait for a while, watching as he runs up the steps. The shades on the house have been lifted, and I can see inside it. Each lit-up window contains within it the possibility that Kacey will pass by.

But she doesn’t, and doesn’t, and finally I drive away.



* * *



—

My phone, after a long day of being out of the house, has died completely, which adds to my sense of unease. I don’t like being out of contact with Thomas.

No one is on the road. It’s snowing lightly. A fat yellow moon sits in the sky. I try to picture Thomas and Mrs. Mahon, and I try to tell myself that they are tucked in and cozy, watching something to do with Christmas on television. Maybe, I think, Thomas will still be awake when I get home. It will make me feel better, less guilty for leaving, if I can at least say good night to him.



* * *



—

When I park the car and walk up the back stairs, I see a low flickering light through the window next to the door. I turn my key as quietly as I can, in case Thomas is sleeping already. But the door stops an inch from its threshold. I push it again, more frantically. There’s something blocking it.





Through the window at the top of the door, I see Mrs. Mahon’s round concerned face. She looks past my shoulder for a moment, too, as if making certain I haven’t been followed.

—Mickey? she says through the door. Is that you?

—What’s going on? I say. It’s me. Are you all right? Where’s Thomas?

—Just hold on, she says. Hold on one second.

A scraping sound as she drags something away.

At last, the door swings open, and when I enter the apartment I scan the room quickly for my son.

—Where’s Thomas? I say again.

—Asleep in his bedroom, says Mrs. Mahon. Then she says, Thank God you’re home. They’ve been looking for you.

—Who has? I say.

—The police, says Mrs. Mahon. The police came here about an hour ago and rang your doorbell. Poor Thomas was terrified. I was terrified, Mickey. When they turned up in your doorway, I thought they were going to tell me you’d died. They said they’d been trying to call you but couldn’t get through. They came to find you at home.

—My phone’s dead, I say. Who was it? What officer?

Mrs. Mahon fishes in her pocket, takes out a card. Hands it to me. Detective Davis Nguyen, it says.

—There was another one too, she says. Another man. I can’t recall his name.

—DiPaolo? I say.

—That’s the one, says Mrs. Mahon.

—What did they want? I say.

I move to the corner of the room, where I keep a charger on an end table, and plug in my phone.

—They didn’t tell me that, says Mrs. Mahon. Only said to have you call them when you got in.

—All right, I say. Thank you, Mrs. Mahon.

—I wonder, though, says Mrs. Mahon, if it has anything to do with the news.

—What news?

Mrs. Mahon inclines her head toward the television, and I follow her gaze. It’s not a Christmas movie playing in the background: a correspondent is standing on Cumberland Street, near an empty lot that’s been taped off. The same light snow that’s falling on Bensalem is falling there.

Christmas Day Murder, says a caption below the reporter’s pale face. She’s bundled into a purple parka. Into her microphone, she’s saying, Two weeks ago, the Philadelphia Police Department was assuring the public that they had a suspect in custody. Today, however, there is speculation that this homicide may be connected to the string of homicides that took place in Kensington earlier this month.

Mrs. Mahon is shaking her head, making small disapproving noises. Poor girl, she says.

—Who, I say. Have they named the victim?

—No, says Mrs. Mahon. Not yet. Only said it was a female.

—Anything else? I say.

—Said she was discovered around noon today. Seems like she’d only been dead a short time.

I’m still holding my phone in one hand. At last, it is sufficiently charged, and it comes to life at my command.

—Mrs. Mahon, I say. Would you mind staying here a moment while I make this call? I don’t want to send you away if they’re going to need to bring me to the station.

—That’s what I was thinking, Mrs. Mahon says. I don’t mind at all.





It’s DiPaolo I phone, not Nguyen. I know DiPaolo better.

He answers right away, sounding alert. He’s outside someplace: I can hear traffic in the background.

—It’s Mickey Fitzpatrick, I say. I heard you stopped by my house.

—Glad you called, he says. Where are you right now?

—At home, I say.

—And where’s your son? says DiPaolo.

I begin to answer, then change my mind. Why? I say.