The Kind Worth Saving (Henry Kimball/Lily Kintner, #2)(87)

“Do you remember what you said when you did it?”

“Of course, I do. I told you that I was sorry.”

We started walking again, continuing our story. “When did you decide to forgive me for that?” I said.

“You think I’ve forgiven you? How do you know I’m not just waiting to get my revenge?”

“You have a pretty good opportunity right now. You have a weapon on you?”

“Nah, it’s not the right time. Your parents know we went on this walk together. I’d have to walk back and kill them, as well.”

“No, really. When did you decide to forgive me?”

He was quiet for a moment. Although we’d played this game before we didn’t usually give one another too many details.

“I think it was the third time I came to visit you, when you were in the lockdown unit. After I’d lost my job. Do you remember? You told me that you’d done bad things, but that you did them for good reasons. And you told me that you were pretty sure that you were going to get caught, that there was a construction project next to your house, and that a well was going to be uncovered, and that was where you put all your secrets.”

“I did tell you all that, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“It felt good. Like I was taking it out of my hands, giving you all this information that you could have used against me. Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I don’t know, honestly. Some of it was that I was no longer a police detective, that they’d fired me and I didn’t owe them anything, but maybe most of it was that I was a little bit in love with you. I guess I wanted to save you, because, even though you’d clearly done some bad things, you needed saving. I’m getting embarrassed so I’m going to change the subject. You heard that Joan Grieve is dead?”

“I did hear that. How did she die?”

“She had a massive brain hemorrhage. That’s what I heard.”

“Are you glad about it?”

“I am glad. I don’t think she was a good person, exactly . . .”

“Not someone worth saving,” I said.

“Right. Not someone worth saving.”

We were at the pond now, a pair of crows on the other side talking to one another in strangled caws, and Henry was leaning against a tree, still breathing a little hard from the walk.

“Do you remember what I asked you when it looked like you were going to be released without a trial?”

“I do,” I said. “You asked me if I was ever going to kill again.”

“And you said?”

“I said that I would make every effort to never hurt another living soul.”

“Uh-huh,” Henry said. “It just seems amazing to me that Joan, after suffering the tragedy of what happened to her husband, would suddenly die from a brain hemorrhage.”

“She was a rotten apple, Henry. To the core.”

“I know she was.”

“And maybe if she were still alive that would mean that your life was in danger.”

“I’ve thought of that, as well. I did know things about her.”

We walked back, quiet at first, but when we reached the meadow, Henry said, “Did you know that I came down here, when you were still in the hospital, back when they were digging up this meadow?”

“I thought you might have, but you never told me for sure.”

“I came here on a weekend, and I found the meadow. There were bulldozers and diggers but nobody was working so I walked all around, looking for that well.”

“You didn’t find it?”

“Actually, I did. It had caved in a little, but I dropped a rock down and it seemed as though it was about twenty feet deep. I stood there for about half an hour trying to decide what to do.” He was quiet and we kept walking. Eventually he said, “There was a pile of dirt near the well and I found a shovel and pushed some of that dirt over to cover it up. It was a very strange experience.”

“Strange because you’d made a strange decision,” I said.

“That’s right. I don’t suppose you want to tell me what I covered up that day.”

I thought for about thirty seconds and then said, “There were two bodies in there. One was a man who came and stayed at this house when I was fourteen years old. He was a predator. The other was the man who murdered Ted and Miranda Severson.”

“Thanks for telling me that much,” Henry said.

“They’re just skeletons now,” I said, “but they’re my skeletons.”

Henry laughed dryly. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I said.

“I don’t know, exactly.”



Henry left that night, a little before dinner. My parents were both bitterly disappointed, especially my father. But they said their goodbyes, and I walked Henry to his car in the early dusk.

“My father is desolate. You’ll come back, I hope.”

“I don’t know if I will.”

“I’d understand that, too.”

“Remember that game we played last night, authors who can see the world and authors who can only imagine it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s the same with love, I think. Some people fall in love because they are excellent observers and they can see what is in front of them. And some people fall in love because they only imagine what is in front of them. They construct something that isn’t there.”