Brian had closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He knew she thought he was sick, and he could hear her as she crossed the room. She’d put a hand to his forehead, feeling for a fever. After a minute, she’d crept out, closing the door behind her. In hushed tones, Brian had heard her speaking to his father. “He must not be feeling well,” she’d said. “He’s really out.” When he wasn’t sleeping, he thought about Miles. He wondered where Miles was, he wondered when Miles would come. He thought about Jonah, too, and what he would say when his father told him who had killed his mother. He wondered about Sarah and wished she hadn’t been any part of this.
He wondered what prison was like.
In the movies, prisons were worlds of their own, with their own laws, their own kings and pawns, and gangs. He imagined the dim fluorescent lights and the cold permanence of the steel bars, doors clanging shut. In his mind, he heard toilets flushing, people talking and whispering and yelling and moaning; he imagined a place that was never silent, even in the middle of the night. He saw himself staring toward the tops of concrete walls covered with barbed wire and seeing guards in the towers, holding guns pointed toward the sky. He saw other prisoners, watching him with interest, taking bets on how long he would survive. He had no doubt about this: If he ended up there, he would be a pawn.
He would not survive in a place like that.
Later, as the sounds from the house began to settle down, Brian heard his parents go to bed. Light spilled under his door, then finally turned black. He fell asleep again, and later, when he woke suddenly, he saw Miles in the room. Miles was standing in the corner by the closet, holding a gun. Brian blinked, squinted, felt the fear constrict his chest, making it difficult to breathe. He sat up and held his hands in a defensive posture before he realized he’d been mistaken.
What he’d thought was Miles was nothing but his jacket on the coat rack, mingling with the shadows, playing tricks with his mind. Miles.
He’d let him go. After the accident, Miles had let him go, and he hadn’t come back.
Brian rolled over, curling into a ball.
But he would.
Sarah heard the knock a little before midnight and glanced through the window on the way to the door, knowing who had come. When she opened it, Miles neither smiled nor frowned, nor did he move. His eyes were red, swollen with fatigue. He stood in the doorway, looking as if he didn’t want to be here. “When did you know about Brian?” he asked abruptly.
Sarah’s eyes never left his. “Yesterday,” she answered. “He told me yesterday.
And I was as horrified as you were.”
His lips, dry and cracked, came together. “Okay,” he said. With that, he turned to leave, and Sarah reached out to stop him, taking hold of his arm. “Wait… please.”
He turned.
“It was an accident, Miles,” she said. “A terrible, terrible accident. It shouldn’t have happened, and it wasn’t fair that it happened to Missy. I know that and I feel so sorry for you…”
She trailed off, wondering if she was reaching him. His expression was glazed, unreadable.
“But?” he said. There was no emotion in the question.
“No buts. I just want you to keep that in mind. There’s no excuse for him running, but it was an accident.”
She waited for his response. When there was none, she let go of his arm. He made no move to leave.
“What are you going to do?” she finally asked.
Miles glanced away. “He killed my wife, Sarah. He broke the law.”
She nodded. “I know.”
He shook his head without responding, then started down the hall. A minute later, outside the window, she watched as he got into his car and drove off. She went to the couch again. The phone was on the end table and she waited, knowing it would ring soon.
Chapter 35
Where, Miles wondered, was he supposed to go? What should he do, now that he knew the truth? With Otis, the answer had been simple. There was nothing to consider, nothing to debate. It didn’t matter whether all the facts had fit or that everything had an easy explanation. He’d learned enough to know that Otis hated Miles enough to kill Missy; that was enough for Miles. Otis deserved whatever punishment the law could fashion, except for one thing. That’s not the way it happened.
The investigation had unearthed nothing. The file he’d painstakingly assembled over two years had meant nothing. Sims and Earl and Otis meant nothing. Nothing had provided the answer, but suddenly and without warning, it had arrived at his doorstep, dressed in a windbreaker and ready to cry.
This was what he wanted to know:
Did it matter?
He’d spent two years of his life thinking that it did. He’d cried at night, he’d stayed up late, he’d taken up smoking, and he’d struggled, certain that the answer would change all of that. It had become the mirage on the horizon that was always just out of reach. And now, at this moment, he held it in his hand. With a single call, he could be avenged.
He could do that. But what if, on closer inspection, the answer wasn’t what he had imagined it would be? What if the killer wasn’t a drunk, wasn’t an enemy; what if it wasn’t an act of reckless behavior? What if it was a boy with pimples and baggy pants and dark brown hair, and he was afraid and sorry for what happened and swore it was an accident that couldn’t have been avoided? Did it matter then?
How should a person answer that? Was he supposed to take the memory of his wife and the misery of the last two years, then simply add his responsibility as a husband and a father and his duty to the law to come up with a quantifiable answer? Or did he take that total and subtract a boy’s age and fear and obvious sorrow along with his love for Sarah, thus bringing the number back to zero? He didn’t know. What he did know was that whispering Brian’s name aloud left a bitter taste in his mouth. Yes, he thought, it mattered. He knew with certainty that it would always matter, and he had to do something about it. In his mind, he didn’t have a choice.
Mrs. Knowlson had left the lights on and they cast a yellow glow over the walk as Miles approached the door. He could smell the faint odor of chimney smoke in the air as he knocked before inserting his key and gently pushing the door open. Dozing beneath a quilt in her rocking chair, all white hair and wrinkles, she looked like a gnome. The television was on, but the volume was low, and Miles crept inside. Her head tilted to the side and she opened her eyes, merry eyes that never seemed to dim.
“Sorry I’m so late,” he said, and Mrs. Knowlson nodded.
“He’s sleeping in the back room,” she said. “He tried to wait up for you.” “I’m glad he didn’t,” Miles said. “Before I get him, can I help you to your room?”
“No,” she said. “Don’t be silly. I’m old, but I can still move good.”
“I know. Thanks for watching him today.”
“Did you get everything worked out?” she asked.
Though Miles hadn’t told her what was going on, she’d seen how troubled he’d been when he’d asked if she would watch Jonah after school. “Not really.”
She smiled. “There’s always tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I know. How was he today?”
“Tired. A little quiet, too. He didn’t want to go outside, so we baked cookies.” She didn’t say he was upset, but then, she didn’t have to. Miles knew what she meant.
After thanking her again, he retreated to the bedroom and scooped Jonah into his arms, adjusting him so that the boy’s head was on his shoulder. He didn’t stir, and Miles knew he was exhausted.
Like his father.
Miles wondered if he would have nightmares again.
He carried him back to the house, then to bed. He pulled the covers up, turned on a night-light, and sat on the bed beside him. In the pale glow, he looked so vulnerable. Miles turned toward the window.