Cold Springs(25)

“He was supplying Mallory with heroin.”

“Race is no dealer.”

“Ann, he was armed again tonight. He almost killed me.”

“No. Race was a good student—angry, always struggling to fit in, but not a bad kid. When he was expelled—he took it calmly. He just left. Mallory broke everything in our house. She ran away to be with him.”

“And a few days later, Mrs. Montrose was murdered.”

“Goddamn you, Chadwick.” She hit his chest, but she wasn't Norma. She had no experience, no talent for hurting. Chadwick clasped his hand around hers.

“The police want to talk to Mallory,” he guessed. “That's why you called. You need to get Mallory away from the police.”

“Chadwick, she's only fifteen. She's gone through so much already. You of all people—you have to understand.”

“You weren't honest with me.”

“I didn't know where else to turn.”

“Do you think she saw the murder?”

“No. No, of course not.”

“But the police do?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You're scared.”

“Well, no shit—”

“Your hand is trembling.”

She looked up at him, those gray-blue eyes pressing on his heart with the weight of Niagara.

Then she wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck, and pulled him into a kiss—her lips unexpectedly bitter, like nutmeg. “Take my daughter away, Chadwick. Keep Mallory safe. You owe us that.”

“The police—”

“Trust your heart for once, you big idiot. What is the right thing to do for Mallory?”

She traced his jawline, stood on tiptoe to kiss the scratches Norma had put on his cheek. “I promised myself our senior year that I would never say I loved you. I would never sink a good friendship. I am such a damned fool.”

Chadwick had an unwelcome image of Mallory in the BART rail pit, her eyes those of the little girl, curled in the black leather chair on Mission Street.

Then he glanced into the locker area and saw someone there—David Kraft, watching them, just long enough to register what he was seeing. Then he was gone, back down the stairs.

Chadwick pulled away from Ann. “I should go.”

“Norma knows about the affair,” she told him. “In case you were wondering. She knows we were planning to break the news that night. After I told her, she didn't speak to me for almost two years. Now—it's funny. Over time, you realize how hard it is to really get someone out of your life.”

“I'll call you from Texas,” Chadwick muttered. “Dr. Hunter will send you a report.”

“Norma doesn't blame us anymore for what happened to Katherine, Chadwick. She's gotten over that. Why can't you?”

Chadwick closed the Japanese curtain behind him and walked downstairs. David Kraft and the after-school attendant fell silent as he passed, but neither acknowledged him.

On the tire swing, the last two children were chanting a jump rope rhyme—Cinderella, dressed in yellow—spinning in a circle of light and moths as they waited to see if their parents had truly forgotten them.

5

Until Race tried stealing his money, Samuel was having a good week.

The children at work would run up to him when he came in the gate, their basketballs scattering behind them. They would herd him toward the bench, plead for a story, push each other aside for the chance to climb on his knee—sometimes two on each leg, until he told them they were going to squash him like a jelly sandwich, and they would giggle. They'd ask for Anansi, or Brer Rabbit, or Pandora's Box. He would always oblige. Whatever they wanted.

After all, this was Samuel's dream. He'd gone to college so he could work with kids. Make a difference. And now here he was, doing what he'd always wanted.

Only sometimes the mask would slip a little. He'd be preparing his lunch in the staff lounge, watching the microwave, or chopping carrots—and he would find himself staring at his own hands, but they were not his hands. They were Talia's—long slender fingers, scarlet polish, gold rings.

He knew that was crazy. He would stare at the blade of the kitchen knife, and watch it cut through the orange flesh of the carrot, making little yellow bull's-eye targets, and he would remember the way Talia chopped vegetables for stew. You hold the blade like this, okay, honey? Cut away from your body.

He would imagine Ali, the worst boyfriend, between Talia's legs at night, banging the headboard and calling on the Lord as he cl**axed, her children giggling in the next room and trying to keep quiet, because they knew the man had fists—Ali could peel the metalwork off the side of their house, he could damn well peel their heads off.

Except in the vision, Samuel saw himself under that big man—sour breath against his cheek, his belly crushed under Ali's weight, a hipbone grinding into his thigh. And Samuel would have to put down the knife, very carefully, and talk himself back to reality, thinking, Come on, now. Samuel has made good out of his life. He has survived. Stop it.

Talia was dead. He was alive.

It didn't matter if he had trouble keeping that straight, now and then, or if he sometimes got distracted when the kids asked him questions, or if he let the smile slip a few too many times. He would be moving on soon enough.