Chapter 44

Divers found William’s body in the deepest part of the Saugus River the next day. Had it been elsewhere, low tide would have revealed it before crabs and bottom feeders had taken their toll. There’d be no long-box and silk pillow viewing for what was left of William.

Conley and Sage brought the news to William’s parents. Simon was inconsolable, but Sage did her best to comfort him, wrapping her arms around his moth-eaten sweater and holding his frail, shaking body. He forgot his prejudice for those few brief moments, suspending it for the comfort of a warm embrace. Mrs. O’Neil rocked ferociously in her chair, blissfully unaware of her son’s demise—or much else in the real world. A knife had been found on Vithu’s body that tested positive for William’s blood, but Conley withheld that bit of news. Parents rarely sought justice or closure when they learned of a child’s murder. That small comfort came later.

Conley closed Simon’s front door and descended the porch steps. The crying inside was muffled now and the silhouettes of Sage and William’s parents moved behind the window sheers like ghosts.

He drove back to the marina, window down. Spring had rejuvenated Ocean Park. Trees were in blossom, perfuming the air, and the day was sublime and hopeful—a stark contrast to the misery he’d just left. Good day to take the cabin cruiser out and christen the new boating season.

Thompson’s Mercedes sat in the marina parking lot. When he parked next to her, she looked up and smiled. She wore no makeup, but it had done her a disservice anyway, hiding her unblemished face and sparkling eyes.

“Hey, Conley,” she said, getting out and reaching into the back seat of her car. “Iʼve got something for you.”

She handed him an album, its cover decorated with oriental shapes and symbols painted in pagan colors. He ran his hand over the leather and resisted opening it.

“Beautiful. Not here, Thompson. Inside. I could use some beauty today.”

He led her down the dock ramp and held the book as she climbed onto the deck of his boat. Inside, he made coffee and they sat at the galley table. She opened the book—and he lost his breath.

A sketch of William O’Neil looked him in the eye. The tilt of his friend’s strong jaw and confident smile were captured perfectly. A full-size drawing of William was next to it. He looked ten feet tall, muscles rippling, one giant hand closed in a fist, the other open, as big as a catcher’s mitt.

Power and resolve.

He turned the album so they both could see. “Looks like Sage’s work.”

“Channary gave it to me before she left. She and Sage drew them in the safe house.”

He considered that collaboration and smiled—Sage’s wisdom and talent and Channary’s innocence and intuition.

Lloyd Kendricks’ portrait was on the next page, laughing. Lloyd’s bad eye looked more like a gift than a deformity, a portal to his goodness and humor.

Sheila murmured his name, not to identify him—the likeness was unmistakable—but out of affection.

Next page.

Stefanos—his serious expression seemed to disapprove of being made into a drawing.

Mazzarelli—smiling and jovial, a cherubic face full of mischief.

Her hand, soft as down, brushed his. She turned the page to the statue of Mary, its flowing robes drawn so well they looked three dimensional.

A cicada’s high-pitched whine broke the silence, birds warbled, and a breeze rustled the tarp.

Last page.

Sage and Channary had drawn the two of them, Conley and Thompson, close together, facing each other. Their identical expressions looked—expectant.

“Wow,” he said. “The girls have quite an imagination.ˮ

Sheilaʼs smile faltered. Was she expecting a different response? The moment passed and he felt a tinge of regret, a feeling that visited often these days, along with a gnawing disappointment with himself.

They finished their coffee. She nodded once, straight-faced, rose and tucked the book under her arm. She’d once again become the efficient social worker he’d first met. He held the door open for her and helped her onto the dock.

“Thanks for everything, Sheila. Nice job.” He offered a handshake and regretted it immediately. The gesture seemed demeaning after all they’d been through. The investigation into Victor Rodriguez’s murder had turned into horror and heartache, and the memories of the places it had taken them—dank basements, dangerous bars, The Paladin—were haunting.

She stared at the hand and frowned. “One more thing.”

She pulled a photo from her bag and showed him. Channary stood between an old woman and a man.

“Channary sent this. We did it, Matt. She found her mother and brother.”

Conley studied the picture. The woman was stoic and frail, and the brother looked proud and handsome, despite a distinctive half-moon scar that marred his youthful face. Channary’s ever-present smile shone brightly—all was finally right with her world.

Suddenly Thompson tucked the photo into the sketchbook and handed it to him. “Open this once in a while,” she said, her glistening eyes fixed on the cover. “They say art’s good for the soul.”