Locust Lane(53)

And then Cantor arrived and he was brought crashing back to reality. Apparently, the interview with his son hadn’t started well. It took Christopher a while to understand that Cantor was an ally. He was also worried about getting his friends in trouble. But after Cantor painted him a graphic picture of what his life would look like if he was found responsible for Eden’s death, the story came tumbling out.

“Turns out the gatherings at the Bondurants’ were a regular thing,” Cantor explained. “It started as an open house, but the owners got suspicious, so by Tuesday night it was basically just the four of them.”

He took a slow, dramatic breath and explained that Eden had accused Jack of sexually assaulting her.

“What does that mean? Assault?”

“Rape.”

The two men were momentarily silenced by the enormity of the word.

“And Christopher let this happen?”

“He and Hannah were apparently in no fit state to intervene.”

“Christopher said there was marijuana.”

“I think it was a lot more than pot. Anyway, Eden becomes hysterical and attacks Jack. This rouses Christopher and he gets involved—this is where he sustains his neck wounds. Jack flees the house, Hannah goes with him. Christopher stays behind to deal with Eden. He settles her down, although she’s making it clear she intends to make Jack pay for what he did. Your son eventually leaves and the next thing anybody knows she’s dead.”

“So what does Christopher think happened?”

“Jack came back to the house to shut her up.”

“But how exactly did she die?”

“She hit her head falling. Cerebral hemorrhage.”

“So it could it have been an accident.”

“No. She was propelled backward. With force. There were marks on her upper chest consistent with a hard shove. She was definitely killed.”

“But why didn’t Christopher say any of this during the first interview?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe because you were there and he didn’t want you to know about the drugs. Maybe because he’s scared of Jack.”

“So what happens now?”

“Christopher and I talked to the cops.”

“Did they believe him?”

“Impossible to know. They’re going to reinterview Jack and Hannah first thing in the morning. That goes right, we wind up in a better place.”

“So what do I do?”

“Stay put. I’ll let you know the second there’s any news. We’ll know where we are soon. Oh, they got your cell number, don’t they? I’ve been hearing it buzz. Either that or your takeout’s doing big business.”

“Yes. They have it.”

“Okay. Turn it off.”

“But how will we talk?”

He reached into his satchel and took out a flip phone, the sort Michel hadn’t used in years.

“Is that necessary?”

“If you’ve been doxxed, then we have no idea who’s listening to your old phone. The cops, the press, some asshole in Latvia. Have you looked at Twitter? People are invested in this.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me too much. It’ll be on your bill.”

The relief Michel felt at Cantor’s news soon gave way to anger at his son. Why had it taken Christopher so long to reveal the truth? Why hadn’t he told him? Shame about the drugs didn’t explain it. No, he’d been protecting Jack. Because he was afraid of him. He knew the right thing to do, and yet he was too weak to do it. For almost twenty-four hours, he’d kept quiet. What would have happened if the police hadn’t come for him? Would he still be protecting his friend? Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.

Michel didn’t sleep all night. He turned off his old phone, unable to bear the hate being directed at his son. He was tempted to call Alice on the new one, to ask her to return to him, but that would be insanely reckless. By dawn, he’d entered a sort of limbo. Time no longer existed. He no longer existed. It was just Christopher, behind a locked door.

Strange to think that there was a time when he would have prayed for help. He’d had faith before Maryam’s death. Absolute and unshakable, or so he thought. It had been born during his boyhood in Beirut, where he attended Saint Georges several times a week. Some of his first memories were from that massive cathedral. The stern saints on the wall; the smell of incense and the echoed voices from the choral platforms. God was always there, a deep and lulling hum, a constant gentle breeze.

But then Maryam fell ill, and when he asked for mercy God showed his true face. Just after she died, he’d walked out of Salpêtrière, down to the Jardin des Plantes, and then to the river. A ragged man, a drug addict, had tried to sell him stolen flowers. Michel reached for his wallet, then remembered she was dead. Thinking he’d been mocked, the man cursed him, his face transforming into something terrible. Bloodshot eyes and sharp, yellowy teeth; thick lips and a flat nose. His gray beard chaotic; his rough skin leathered and filthy. And Michel suddenly knew that this was the true face of God. One that cursed you and brought only death. He made you believe in mercy and hope and then he left your wife screaming in delirium and pain, unable to see anything but the greasy walls of the abyss she was sinking into; her skin turned to brittle parchment, imprinted with the calligraphy of her bones. From that moment on, there was no consoling presence in Michel’s life, no gentle breeze. It was just him and his son, whom God wouldn’t protect any more than he did Maryam. That was on Michel.