She'd get it back after the trial. If there ever was a trial. If they ever found out what really happened to her.
She continued pacing. The headache got even worse as she tried to squeeze it out of her head with her hands. The reality was too terrible to bear. She needed someone to hold her and tell her it was all right, or just let her cry endlessly into his arms. When she stopped and stared at her husband, she shook her head in mute rage. He worked on his computer as if she weren't even in the room. He ignored her moans, her cries, the sound of her feet shuffling back and forth on the carpet.
Tap, tap, tap. Fingers on the keyboard. Her daughter was dead, and he was playing with spreadsheets.
How did she miss it? How did she fool herself into thinking she loved him, or that he could ever love her?
Her eyes burned into his back. She asked herself again how they had come so far. Rachel was gone, and all she could think of was that her whole life was hollow, starting with her marriage. Everything was gone.
Her silence finally attracted his attention. He turned around, catching her eye as she stared fiercely back at him. Her eyes were wild. She didn't know how to deal with all the grief exploding out of her. The cork had come out of the bottle. She stood there, trembling.
"Emily, sit down," Graeme said. "Relax."
Funny how he always said the wrong thing. How she hated the sound of his voice now. The calm delivery, each word without emphasis. She couldn't handle it anymore.
"Relax?" she hissed. "You're telling me to fucking relax?"
They stared at each other. His eyes were dead, staring right through her. He was patient and pleasant. A stranger.
"I know how you feel," Graeme told her, as if he were speaking to a hysterical child.
Emily put both hands on her forehead. She closed her eyes, grimacing. Tears streamed down her face.
"You don't know how I feel, because you don't feel a goddamn thing! You just sit there in your chair, and you smile at me, and you pretend like we're this loving couple, and all the while I know you don't feel anything for me."
"You're just being irrational."
"Irrational?" She squeezed her fists open and shut. "God, why ever would that be? What would make me irrational?"
He didn't answer.
She shook her head, not believing it. "She's dead. Do you understand that? She's really dead."
"They found her bracelet. It doesn't necessarily mean anything."
"It means everything," Emily said. "I don't have Rachel. And I don't have you, either, do I? I never did."
"Emily, please."
"Please what, Graeme? Please go away? Please don't bother you with my petty problems?"
He didn't reply.
"Why did you marry me?" Emily whispered. "You could have given me money. I wouldn't have told anyone the baby was yours. I would have left town if you wanted. Why marry me if you felt nothing for me?"
Graeme shrugged his shoulders. "Did you give me a choice?"
Emily barely heard him. But he was right. Her fault. Her guilt.
"I guess I should have had the abortion," she said. That would have been so much easier, a simple procedure, vacuuming away the life inside her. Easier than losing the baby months later in a river of blood.
"That would have made it all right, wouldn't it, Graeme? No need to marry me then. No need to marry anyone at all. You could be happy, playing with your little spreadsheets, dialing up your phone-sex girlfriends."
Graeme looked up sharply. This time she had struck a nerve. He was staring at her. He even looked a little afraid. Good.
"You didn't think I knew, did you? I followed you downstairs once. I saw you in here, on your knees, pumping your cock, panting into the phone. I heard you tell that girl how much you wanted to fuck her. That's better, isn't it? Better than having to pretend you enjoy fucking me."
Emily stared at the ceiling. "All of you would have been better off. You and Tommy and Rachel. I've done nothing but screw up all of your lives, haven't I? If only I'd had the abortion. If only I'd done it the first time, too."
She sank to her knees, then onto all fours on the plush white carpet. She pounded the floor over and over with her fist, then rolled over onto her back, pulling her knees to her chest, hugging them. "God knew what he was doing, didn't he? He didn't want me to have another baby. Look what a fucking mess I made of the first one."
She saw Graeme kneeling over her. He had pasted an expression of concern on his face. It was false, like everything else in their life.
"Don't touch me. Don't you touch me! Don't pretend, all right? Don't pretend!"
"Emily, why don't you go upstairs? Take a pill. It will help you sleep. This has been a terrible day, and you're out of your head."
Emily lay on the carpet. She had run out of fire and anger. She had run out of everything. They had won, all of them. Tommy, Rachel, and now Graeme. She had fought them all for so long, but it wasn't worth the pain and misery.
She could almost see them standing over her.
Tommy, next to Graeme.
Rachel, in the doorway, a child again.
Graeme, still kneeling near her. "Take a pill," he repeated. It wasn't a dream. He really said it.
Emily smiled. He was right, of course, because Graeme was always right, always exactly balanced. It was time to go upstairs, and she knew he wouldn't follow her. It was time to sleep. Asleep, she could forget all of it. All of them. She pushed herself to her feet and brushed by Graeme. In her imagination, Tommy and Rachel still lingered there. She could hear the echoes of their laughter.
"Okay," she said. "You win."
Take a pill, she thought. That's what she would do.
15
"You must be cold," the bartender said, casting an eye over the bar at Maggie's bare legs.
Maggie's black leather skirt extended to midthigh, and when she sat down, she kept her legs glued shut to avoid giving the world a glimpse of her bright pink panties. Her red wool coat was draped over the barstool next to her. She wore a sleeveless burgundy silk blouse.
Yes, she was cold.
"What'll you have? Cup of hot tea?" the bartender asked, smiling.
Maggie smiled back and ordered a tall mug of tap beer.
When the bartender returned, he laid the beer in front of her. Ice clung to the side of the glass and floated inside. "What are you, a model or something?" he asked.
Maggie laughed. "That's a good line. I like that one. In fact, I'm a cop."
"Yeah, right."
Maggie reached over and flipped the flap of her red coat on the bar stool. Her shield, pinned inside, gleamed up at the bartender. He raised his arms, surrendering. "Okay, you win. Isn't there something about cops not drinking on duty?"
"Who said I was on duty?" Maggie asked.
In fact, she was still on duty, but she needed a drink.
Maggie sipped the beer slowly. It was Monday night, and the bar was half empty. All day long, she had suffered under the leering stares of teenage boys. And it all resulted in nothing. Nada. Zip. She didn't find a single boy who would admit that he or anyone else had ever fucked Rachel behind the infamous barn. Each one of them had plenty to say when Maggie was casually crossing and uncrossing her legs, but they clammed up tight at Rachel's name. No one wanted to paint a target on his chest for the police.
She noticed a nervous teenager standing next to her.
"Are you Ms. Bei?" Kevin Lowry asked.
Maggie gave him a quick once-over. He was a solid kid, heavy and strong, with blond hair shaved almost down to his scalp. He wore the basic uniform of the restaurant's waiters, including black jeans and a red T-shirt that barely stretched around his barrel chest. Like all the other boys, Kevin let his eyes travel quickly up and down Maggie's body, taking note of her legs.
They chose a small table in the corner of the bar, away from the smoke and noise. Maggie brought her beer with her. She asked if Kevin wanted a soft drink, but he shook his head. Maggie relaxed, leaning close to Kevin with her elbows on the table. Kevin sat uncomfortably across from her.