“Well, Barbara, if you feel that way, you can always call Jared Garrett, send him the other letter that Walter dictated to you, release it to the world at large. Why haven’t you?”
“It’s not what Walter wanted.” Said stiffly, grudgingly. “But I might, one day. I do what I think is right, not what’s easy or expedient.”
“That’s a nice way to be,” Eliza said, meaning it.
She began walking again. A few seconds later, Barbara’s car drove past, as round-shouldered and dejected as a car could be. Eliza wondered why principled Barbara, whose license plate exhorted others to save the bay, hadn’t chosen a hybrid. Everybody wants to rule the world-but only according to his or her own ideas about what mattered. There wasn’t a principled position that couldn’t be followed to an extreme where it then clashed with someone else’s equally fervent beliefs. Eliza studied the stars above her, wished she knew the constellations, as Peter did, that she could identify more than the Big Dipper and the North Star. To her, the stars were simply random points of light. Some bright, some dim. Some far, some relatively near. Some lucky, some unlucky.
She let herself and Reba in through the kitchen door, listened to the cheerful beep-beep-beep of the security system, which signaled that a door had opened. They used the system religiously, but it wouldn’t be enough if anyone was determined to do them serious harm. There would never be enough alarms and walls and dogs and gates and spyware to protect one’s self and one’s family. Beep-beep-beep. It was like being guarded by the Road Runner.
But then-the Road Runner was pretty resilient.
“You know what I would like to do tonight?” she asked Peter, who had barely glanced up at the door’s chime, so intent was he on his laptop, the work he had brought home.
“Find a Rita’s that serves this late in the season?”
“No.” She laughed, thinking of Rita’s scarlet neon promise. ICE * CUSTARD * HAPPINESS. Could happiness really be that simple? Maybe it could be, if she only would let it. Certainly, if unhappiness came for her family again-when it did, because no one got a lifelong pass, no one, even Trudy Tackett would discover now that all life’s banal tragedies were waiting for her-there would be little solace in having been on guard all along, wary and pessimistic. She would just feel stupid for having missed so many custards.
“No, I’m not hungry. Plus, I have my secret stash of biscuits if I need a treat.”
“I thought Iso found them. Again.”
“She did. And I hid them. Again.”
“What, then?” Peter pulled her into his lap. “Name your heart’s desire and I’ll give it to you.”
She did not feel the need to tell him she could do this for herself. And, in fact, she might need his assistance, given what paint and humidity could do to a house over the years. Did they have a straight razor? A paint scraper to use as a pry? Her mind inventoried the contents of various drawers, then spread to every corner of the house. Iso would be in her room, doing lord knows what, Reba at her feet, enthralled by Iso’s contempt for her. In the next room, Albie should be in bed, radio on, night-light off. Indifferent to baseball throughout the summer months, he had decided suddenly and arbitrarily that he was a fan of the Arizona Diamond-backs. He now listened to something called “hot stove baseball” as he fell asleep, then came to the breakfast table with breathless tales of pitchers and free-agent signings. From T. rex to A-Rod in the blink of an eye. Here was Peter, warm beneath her, capable of holding her weight without complaint. But she could hold his, too, if it came to that.
“Tonight-tonight, I’d like to sleep with the windows open.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THIS BOOK, LIKE MANY I'VE written, was inspired by a true crime. But this time I’m not going to mention it. For one thing, the real case is unrecognizable, even to those who know it well, in this particular incarnation. And it involved the sexual abuse of a minor. There are many other key differences, but to enumerate them would be to make this a guessing game, which is not my intention. The bottom line is that there once was a man who raped and killed his victims, with one exception, and that man was put to death for his crimes. One day I got to thinking about the exception, the sole living victim. That’s all you need to know about the book’s origins.
As always, many generous people helped me in my research. My old friend Kathryn Kase opened doors for me among defense attorneys who represent prisoners on death row. Virginia attorney Jon Sheldon, who saw two clients put to death in the final months of 2009, was incredibly helpful and generous with his time, providing me with details about the sights, sounds, and daily life at places I would never be allowed to visit-Sussex I, Virginia’s Death House and execution chamber. (The Mayberry comparison belongs to him.) He also helped me puzzle out how I could credibly keep a man on Virginia’s death row for two decades, as Virginia moves more swiftly than almost any other state in putting people to death. The commonwealth of Virginia has excellent online resources about its correctional facilities, with details about everything from corresponding to inmates to visiting hours. I have my own definite ideas about the death penalty, but this is a novel, not a polemic, and I did my best to make sure that every point of the triangle-for, against, confused-was represented by a character who is recognizably human.
Thanks, always, to Vicky Bijur, Carrie Feron, and everyone at Morrow, including but not limited to Tessa Woodward, Liate Stehlik, Sharyn Rosenblum, and Nicole Chismar. Thanks to Alison Chaplin. Ethan Simon was an invaluable informant about public schools and their current policies. However, the version of North Bethesda Middle School used here is completely fictitious, although its rules and procedures are consistent with guidelines on the Montgomery County school’s website. And while I’ve stolen many, many friends’ anecdotes over the years, I feel that Lisa Groves deserves a special shout-out for the way I pilfered that Stuckey’s peanut log from her childhood.
This book is unusual for me in that most of the geography is fudged, although there is a Sucker Branch in Patapsco State Park. Roaring Springs will probably be mistaken for Oella, but it’s really another version of my beloved Dickeyville. The action is set in 2008 and is consistent with the calendar, although not necessarily the weather. But, mainly, I sat in front of my computer and made stuff up. That’s what novelists do. And I watched a lot of music videos, circa 1985, at MTV.com, which I believed at the time to be vital to the process. But maybe I’m just another person who likes to rationalize what I do.
Baltimore, Maryland
January 2010
About the Author
LAURA LIPPMAN grew up in Baltimore and returned to her hometown in 1989 to work as a journalist. After writing seven books while still a full-time reporter, she left the Baltimore Sun to focus on fiction. She is the author of ten Tess Monaghan novels, including Baltimore Blues, The Sugar House, and Another Thing to Fall; five stand-alone novels, including Every Secret Thing, To the Power of Three, What the Dead Know, and Life Sentences; and one short story collection, Hardly Knew Her. She is also the editor of another story collection, Baltimore Noir. Lippman has won numerous awards for her work, including the Edgar, Quill, Anthony, Nero Wolfe, Agatha, Gumshoe, Barry, and Macavity.
