“Oh, so you know this man?” Fagbenle asked.
Luther’s eyes shifted left and right. “Uh...”
Fagbenle turned to Simon. “Mr. Greene?”
“Yes, he’s the man who shot my wife.”
“That’s a lie!”
“You’re certain?” Fagbenle asked.
“Yes,” Simon said, “I’m certain.”
“They shot me!” Luther shouted.
“Did they, Luther?”
“Yeah. He’s a liar.”
“Where did they shoot you exactly?”
“In the shoulder.”
“No, Luther, I mean geographical location.”
“Huh?”
Fagbenle rolled his eyes. “The place, Luther.”
“Oh, in that basement. In Rocco’s lot.”
“So why did we find you hiding in an alley two blocks away?”
You could see the dumb stamped all over him. “Uh, I ran. From him.”
“And hid in an alley even when the police came searching for you?”
“Hey, I don’t like cops, that’s all.”
“Great, thanks for confirming that you were at the shooting scene, Luther. Really helps us wrap this all up.”
“I didn’t shoot nobody. You got no proof.”
“Do you own a gun, Luther?”
“No.”
“Never fired one?”
“A gun?” He got a cagey look. “Maybe once, like years ago.”
“Man, Luther, don’t you watch TV?”
“What?”
“Like every cop show.”
Luther looked confused.
“There’s always the part where some moronic perp says, ‘I never fired the gun,’ you know, like you just did, and then the cop says they ran a gunshot residue test — this ringing any bells, Luther? — and they find residue, usually in the form of gunpowder particles, on the moronic perp’s hands and clothes.”
Luther’s face lost color.
“And, see, once they have all that, the cops — that would be me — have the guy dead to rights. We have witnesses and gun residue and scientific proof our moronic perp is a liar. It’s over for him. He usually confesses and tries to cut a deal.”
Luther sat back and blinked.
“You want to tell us why you did it?”
“I didn’t do it.”
Fagbenle sighed. “You’re really boring us now.”
“Why don’t you ask him why?” Luther asked.
“Pardon?”
Luther tilted his chin toward Simon. “Ask him.”
Simon took deep breaths. He’d been blocking since he entered the room, but now it all came crashing down on him. Ingrid, the woman he loved like no other, was nearby, in this very building, clinging to life because of this piece of shit. Without conscious thought, Simon took a step toward the bed, raising his hands to throttle the useless turd, this nothing, this worthless dung who had tried to snuff out the life of such a wonderful, vibrant being.
Fagbenle put an arm out to keep Simon in check, more a mental blockade than a physical one. He met Simon’s eyes and gave an understanding but firm shake of the head.
“What should I ask him, Luther?” Fagbenle asked.
“What were they two doing at Rocco’s, huh? Let’s say I did do it. Not really, but like pretend, like what’s the word... hypodermically, let’s say I did it.”
Fagbenle tried not to frown. “Go for it.”
“Maybe Rocco needs protection.”
“Why would Rocco need protection?”
“Don’t know. I’m talking hypodermically.”
“So Rocco told you to shoot Dr. Greene?”
“Doctor?” He sat up, wincing. “What are you talking about? I didn’t shoot no doctor. You ain’t pinning that on me.” He pointed at Simon. “I just shot his old lady.”
Simon didn’t know whether he should burst out punching or laughing. Again the sheer outrage of the situation — that even this worthless slice of nothing has the power to destroy something as vital and cherished and loved as Ingrid — consumed him, making him realize that there was nothing just in this world, no control, no center force, just random chaos. He wanted to kill this punk, stomp him out like the bug that he was, except no bug could ever be this callous and harmful, so yes, stomp out this nothing for the good of mankind — much gained, nothing lost. And yet he suddenly felt exhausted by the notion, that in the end there was no point in doing even that. It was all a big fucking joke.
“I was just protecting my boss,” Luther said. “Self-defense, you know what I’m saying?”
Simon felt his phone vibrate. He glanced at the screen. It was from Yvonne:
We can see Ingrid now.
When Simon first entered her room, when he first saw Ingrid on that bed, stiller than sleep, tubes everywhere, gurgling machines — when he first saw all of that, his knees buckled and his body fell toward the floor. He didn’t catch himself. He probably could have, probably could have reached out and grabbed the wheelchair accessibility bar on his right. But he didn’t. He let himself land and land hard and let himself have the silent scream, that moment, because he knew that he needed it.
When that was over, he rose and there were no more tears. He sat next to Ingrid and held her hand and talked to her. He didn’t will her to live or tell her how much he loved her or any of that. If Ingrid could hear, she wouldn’t want those words. She wasn’t big on melodrama for one thing, but more than that, she wouldn’t want him expressing thoughts like this when she couldn’t reciprocate or at least comment. Declarations of love or loss with no response were meaningless to her. It was like playing catch with yourself. It had to go two ways.
So he talked about general stuff — his work, her work, the remodeling of the kitchen that might one day happen (or more likely, not), about politics and the past and a few favorite memories he knew she liked to bathe in. That was also Ingrid. She liked when he repeated certain stories. She was the kind who listened deeply, with her entire being, and a smile would come to her lips and he could see that she was back there with him, reliving the moment with a clarity few people could experience.
But of course, there was no smile on her face today.
At some point — Simon couldn’t say how much time had passed — Yvonne put her hand on his shoulder. “Tell me what happened,” she said. “Everything.”
So he did.
Yvonne kept her eyes on her sister’s face. She and Ingrid had taken such different paths, and maybe that explained the rift. Ingrid had chosen something of a high life to start — the modeling, the travel, some experimentation with drugs that oddly made her less sympathetic to Paige, not more — whereas Yvonne had always been more the dutiful type-A daughter who studied hard and loved her parents and stayed on the straight and narrow.
In the end, Ingrid had discovered, as she put it, that searching the whole world just makes you find home. She’d come back and done a year of what was called “post-baccalaureate” at Bryn Mawr College, so as to cram in all her pre-med requirements. With the sort of determination and single focus that Yvonne would undoubtedly admire in another person, Ingrid excelled through med school, residency, and internship.
“You can’t stay here,” Yvonne said when he finished.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll sit with Ingrid. But you can’t just sit here, Simon. You have to go find Paige.”
“I can’t leave now.”
“You have to. You have no choice.”
“We always promised...” Simon stopped. He wasn’t going to explain to Yvonne what she already knew. He and Ingrid were like one. If one of them got sick, the other was going to be there. That was the rule. That was part of the bargain in all this.
Yvonne understood, but she still shook her head. “Ingrid is going to wake up from this. Or she’s not. And if she wakes up, she’s going to want to see Paige’s face.”