Locust Lane(86)

“That just means they got to him.”

“Or it means that he killed my daughter.”

“Danielle…”

“They think you’re a crazy drunk, Patrick.”

“Yeah, I sort of got that.”

“How wasted were you that night? Was it as bad as Saturday?”

“I know what I saw.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Christopher’s father and Hannah’s mom? You saw that this morning, didn’t you?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

She nodded toward the building.

“It does to them.”

“I know what I saw.”

“Like you know what you hear?”

It was a cruel remark that landed heavily. For an instant it looked like she regretted it, but then her expression grew even harder. They drove in silence back to his condo.

“I’m going to go home now,” she said after he’d pulled into his numbered parking place. “Please don’t call me.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do. We both do.”

She got out and walked to her car. She didn’t look at him as she drove past. It was just after ten in the morning. In two hours it’d be noon and then, after that, the rest of his life. He went inside and woke his computer. Griff’s email was still on the screen.

Patrick—

I know you were there when I came by this morning. Whether you heard me or not is irrelevant. Obviously we’re going to have to cut you all the way loose. Everybody’s gone the extra mile but we simply can’t have you associated with the fund anymore. Lance will be in touch about compensation. It’ll be fair. I wish you luck. I really do.

G

Cut loose. He checked the news but there was nothing about an impending guilty plea. Not that there would be. Things would be happening behind the scenes from here on out. He read some of the reaction to the news about the affair between Michel Mahoun and Alice Hill. Public opinion had whiplashed. Jack Parrish was innocent now. He’d been a scapegoat, a straw man. Christopher Mahoun was the guilty one.

He had a drink. The alcohol hit him hard, like it sometimes did. He’d reached the point where he couldn’t be sure how that was going to go. He poured himself another and settled into the recliner. He thought about how Danielle’s body had felt last night, smaller than he’d imagined, more fragile. He remembered what the detective said. You’re not helping her. He drained the second glass and poured himself a third.

And then it was afternoon. He drove to Whole Foods. A car honked at him at an intersection but he didn’t know if it was for something he’d done or something he hadn’t done. As he parked there was a deep scraping sound. The curb.

In the store, he bumped into a sloped tray of limes. A few fell. He watched them spread out across the polished floor and then he kept on walking. Clean up on aisle P, he thought, or maybe said. He didn’t bother with the bins of redolent food. He just plucked a random sandwich from the refrigerator unit. The cellophane felt like the skin of something dead. He’d almost made it to the door when he heard the voice behind him.

“Excuse me?”

It was a woman, timid but insistent. He kept walking.

“Sir?”

She was next to him now. There was no avoiding her. He turned. She was young. The name tag on her smock read Rae. She had a round face; her hair was dyed crayon green and shaved around her left ear. There were tattoos on her bare arms, geometric shapes, sporadically placed, like the doodlings of an early astronomer who was still trying to figure out how it all fit together up there.

“I already paid for it,” Patrick said.

“What? No, I just … are you okay?”

Patrick struggled for words. It wasn’t an easy question.

“You’re Gabi’s dad, right?”

“Did you know her?”

“We were in the same year. It’s just so…”

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

“Anyway, you looked like you could use some help.”

Others were watching him now, employees and customers. A face he recognized, a woman, a mother or client or neighbor. Everyone had the same expression. He looked like he could use some help.

“No, it’s just … bad day.”

Rae released a pent-up breath, as if he’d just explained everything. He offered her the sandwich. After a confused moment, she took it. It was Cranberry Tuna, something he’d never eat.

At home he drank. Time boomeranged. Hours passed and then it was only a few minutes later. He remembered the way Danielle had looked at him as she emerged from the station; he remembered the limes rolling on the polished floor, little green moons escaping gravity’s pull. He remembered the two silhouettes staring at him as he stood in front of the Parrish house. Oliver and Celia. Or maybe it had been Celia and Jack. Afraid, perhaps, but also knowing they were safe inside.

He must have slept, because suddenly it was dark. Things had changed again. A process of separation within him that had begun when his daughter died was now complete. The last time he’d felt this way was when he’d been concussed running a crossing pattern back in college. A linebacker lowered his head; helmet struck helmet. He knew he’d just been hurt, maybe badly, but there was a sort of elation in it, a freedom. This time, it felt permanent. He was no longer of his life. The parts of his body that spoke and felt and moved were beyond his control. He was just a passenger. All he could do was watch and wait to see what was going to happen.