He reaches for the pen. He takes a notepad from the bedside table. Glancing at the guard, he scratches the ballpoint across the paper. He takes the top sheet off, folds it, and hands the sheet and pen back to me. I put both of them in my pocket, patting the front of my jacket to show they’re safe.
“You’re not conning me, right? You will talk to her? All I want is for them to come back. To visit again. It’s not right I can’t see my daughter, March. You’ll tell her that and make sure she comes.”
“I will.”
“You swear to God?”
I smile. “Would that make a difference to you?”
He holds my gaze, then snorts again. “You’re something, you know that? I don’t know what it is about you. If you say you’ll do it, I guess I have to trust that.”
“I guess you will.”
The guard opens the door for me, then follows me out. In the hallway, Roger Lauterbach leans against the wall, arms crossed, his thumb and forefinger stroking his Fu Manchu mustache. As I walk, he pushes away from the wall, falling into pace beside me.
“Whelp,” he says. “Did I just waste my afternoon or what?”
“I wondered if you’d come.”
I reach into my pocket for the folded sheet. I open it and stare at the name. I refold the paper and hand it to him.
“Follow this up and you’ll find out if the trip was worth making.”
He glances inside. “I know this name. He was a person of interest in one of the murders-Mary Sallier, I think.”
“Seriously? Then I think Fauk just made your case.”
He gazes down at the writing, the paper trembling in his hand. Then he folds it and slips the note into his jeans pocket. “All right, then.”
We emerge into the sunlight together, a charged silence between us, heading for the parking lot and the concentric ring of perimeter fences. When the time comes to part ways, Lauterbach lingers, rubbing the pavement with the toe of his boot.
“I suppose this is where I apologize.”
“For what? Doing your job?”
“No,” he says. “For misjudging you. I got my impression from the wrong sources, and maybe I didn’t give you a chance to correct it.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I tell him. “You just happened to catch me on a good day.” I nod toward the note in his pocket. “Let me know how it pans out.”
I head for my car.
“Will do,” he calls after me. “Tell me one thing. What did you have to promise him to get this name?”
“Nothing I won’t deliver.”
He nods.
“And, Roger? Tell the sheriff I’m sorry about his conference table.”
It’s past dark when I get home. I slip my new key in the dead bolt, letting myself inside. The lights are on inside, but everything’s still and silent. I call out. Nothing. I climb the stairs and pass through the bedroom door to find the side-table lamp on, the covers turned back. But no Charlotte.
The bathroom door is ajar, the wood still fractured from the week-old blows. A soft light filters through. I pause to listen, but only silence.
I peel my father-in-law’s jacket off and toss it aside. Unconstricted. I unsnap my holster, twist the weight of the gun away. Drop my cuffs, my tiny flashlight. All the ballast weighing me down. And finally my badge. I untuck my shirt, undo a few buttons, and pull it over my head. I drop it on the floor, then undo my belt, letting my pants drop, stepping clear.
I feel weightless. Free.
I imagine her, sliding in the water. Lifting a hand perhaps, drops falling from her outstretched arm. I think of her hair pinned up, her skin flushed from the heat of the tub. Eyes closed and a smile on her lips. I picture her in the water, no one but her.
No thought of knives or pools. No thought of patterns cut into skin.
Or flesh consumed by fire.
I stand naked outside the door. I press my hand against the fractured wood and listen for the sound of her breathing. I imagine her turning in the water, moving to face me.
I push the door wider. The tile cold on my feet.
But in the soft light, the room stands empty.