Harvey drove him home from the station, both men silent. Harvey played country music while Gordon tried to block it out. He was not a fan of the twangy voices, the songs about lost love, the simplistic portrayal of life in the South. His life in the South had been far from simple.
He rested his head against the glass and watched the free world go by. He wondered how much longer he would be allowed to remain in it. Especially now that they had found that putty knife.
He could hardly claim it wasn’t his. He’d written his initials on it, an old habit from art school. Harvey had gotten the police to admit there was no reason to believe it had been used in any kind of crime. But the mere fact of its existence and the connection to Gordon only further cemented the cops’ original theory as to what happened to Davy Malcor: The kid had been playing on the same property Gordon lived on. Gordon had pedophile tendencies he’d repressed. But that night, he’d seen Davy and, unable to repress them any longer, he’d grabbed the boy, assaulted him, killed him, then hid him somewhere until he could dump the body. If he’d never seen the boy, the investigators wanted to know this time, then how did the kid end up with Gordon’s putty knife in his pocket?
Gordon couldn’t answer. So he’d sat, mute and reticent, for seven hours, as they took runs at him, separately and together, as they called in reinforcements, as they made threats against him and his family, his livelihood, his reputation. It seemed as though they’d forgotten he’d been through all of this before. He’d endured in the past; he would endure again. Or maybe he wouldn’t this time. The knife, he had to admit, was powerful evidence. The knife made him look guilty.
And he was guilty, just not of being the one to kill Davy. Gordon was starting to realize it didn’t matter; they could still take his freedom. With the right jury and a public demand for justice in any form, they could make a case for locking him up forever. A knot of emotion collected in his throat, then swelled, but he did his best to swallow it. He would not let Harvey see him cry.
Harvey parked the car and turned to him. “Want me to walk you in?” he asked, looking at Gordon’s house to assess any threats that might be lurking. Gordon shook his head.
He rested his hands on the dashboard, imagined handcuffs around his wrists, wondered if he could get used to the funny walk he’d have to do with his feet shackled at the ankles.
He thought of a courtroom, his sickly parents in attendance day after day, their faces hot with shame at hearing what the prosecutors would claim he did. If it went that far, he would, he decided, go ahead and plead guilty. He would spare his folks one last indignity.
“You can’t give up now, Gordon,” Harvey said. But even he sounded out of steam.
“They’ve got my knife in the kid’s pocket. It’s got my DNA on it. Hell, I even signed the thing for them. They’ve always wanted me for this, and this is just more proof. No jury is going to find me innocent once they lay it all out the way they will. You know that.” He gave Harvey a long look. “And so do I.”
They were silent as each thought about what he’d said. It was as if they’d been in this car together for decades and had finally reached the end of the road. After a moment, Harvey spoke.
“Get some sleep. Things always look brighter in the morning.”
That sounded like something Gordon’s mother would say, and he forced himself to nod in agreement. He knew things would not look brighter in the morning. Only a dark, sleepless night lay ahead of him, spent alone. He would be more tired in the morning than he was now. And that was all. But he said good night to his attorney, thanked him for trying, got out of the car, and walked toward his house.
Harvey waited until Gordon was safely inside before he put his car in Reverse to head to his own house, his own sleepless night.
He had poured himself a whiskey, neat, and turned on the computer to try to distract himself when he heard a hesitant knock at the door. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as he pictured Monica Allagash’s face, her eager, prying eyes boring into him. He wondered if she would have the cameraman with her at this time of night. He had to hand it to her: she didn’t give up easily.
He got up, tiptoed to the door, and looked through the peephole to confirm his suspicions. But it was not Monica’s face he saw on the other side. It was the young woman who had come into the interrogation room, the police spokesperson who was afraid he’d sue the department again. She had nothing to worry about. This time they had valid reasons for bringing him in, for questioning him. He could concede that. He opened the door and held it with his hip.
“Mr. Swift?” she asked. She touched her chest, her hand resting just above her breasts. “I’m Anissa Weaver, with the police department? We saw each other today at the station.”
“I remember,” he said.
He was still holding his whiskey, so he took a sip. He held it up to her. “Want one?” He knew it was a ridiculous thing to ask, but the night was already absurd. There was something freeing about knowing the end was near. After all this time, he could stop resisting his fate.
She gave him a polite, closed-lip smile. “No, no,” she demurred. “I just came by to check on you. Sheriff Lancaster wanted me to make sure you got home without incident.”
He felt the alcohol hit his bloodstream like a lubricant, emboldening him. “I’m happy to report there was no lynch mob waiting for me. And no member of the Malcor family hiding in the shadows, loaded for bear. It’s just me”—he held up the drink, took another big gulp—“Drinking alone. Unless, of course, that’s an offense you want to take me in for.”
“Oh no, not at all. After the day you’ve had, I can certainly understand.”
He looked down at his drink, which was already nearly gone with only a few sips. He planned to pour another just as soon as he got rid of his visitor. Then he would distract himself with work. He needed to decide what he wanted his last sculpture to be. Maybe they had art studios in prison, but he doubted they’d let him have the kinds of materials he was used to using—sharp things, dangerous things. Things little boys could put in their pockets.
He smiled and dipped his chin. “Well,” he said, “thanks for stopping by.” He stepped out of the way so that, without his hip propping it open, the door would swing shut and their encounter would be over.
Instead the woman reached out and prevented the door from closing. Their eyes met across the threshold, and he could tell from her expression that this move had required courage. Was she going to confront him? Grill him further? Hit him? His stomach clenched as they blinked at each other.
“I was there,” she blurted. “In the field that night. With the other kids.” She looked around as if someone might be listening, then lowered her voice. “I just wanted to tell you that. I wanted to tell you today, but . . . obviously, I couldn’t.”
He stood speechless as his mind offered up, then discarded, several reactions to her admission. He wondered if the sheriff knew this, and, if so, why he didn’t think it a conflict of interest to assign her to this of all cases. But Wynotte was a small town, and small-town politics—or lack thereof—were to be expected. Perhaps her father was someone important, or perhaps as long as she did a decent job, Pete Lancaster just didn’t care. But these things didn’t seem appropriate to say, so he said nothing. The two of them stood there as insects circled the lamp above their heads.
Finally, he asked, “Do you want to come in?” She nodded with a look of relief and followed him inside the house.
Wordlessly, he walked to the kitchen and refilled his glass, then took an old jelly jar from his cupboard and poured her some whiskey as well. He handed it to her, and they took a synchronized sip, both looking everywhere except at each other.
She took a second sip before speaking. “Our house was one of those across the street from the farm.”
“Used to be migrant housing,” he said, thinking of the row of four shanty houses in various stages of disrepair, leveled long ago.
She nodded and looked into her glass, but not before he saw the shame on her face. The tiny shotgun shacks that once housed the farm workers were no longer used as such by 1985, but the widow had restored them to some degree and continued to rent them to people who needed a place to live and couldn’t afford better. Residents rotated in and out with some regularity. He’d barely paid them any mind when he’d lived there. Those people, he had to admit, hadn’t concerned him. Not much had, back then. He’d been tunnel-visioned, intent on starting the life he was sure awaited him out there in a bright, exciting future.
“My mom said we wouldn’t be there long. But we were there till they sold the land and we had to get out.” She stared hard at her glass. He gestured for her to sit, and she sank into the nearest chair by the table. He did the same.
She turned her glass around and around in her hands. “I saw the car that night like you mentioned today,” she said to the glass. “I was one of the kids you were talking about. We all gave different descriptions, but I know there was someone else there, someone they never found, or even tried to find.”
She set her glass down and reached across the table to rest her hand on his. He jumped, a reflex. It had been a long time since he’d been touched in a kind way. He felt her soft skin and forced his eyes to meet hers. She took her hand away. He reached for the whiskey bottle and poured another round in both of their glasses without even asking if she wanted more. They each took a long pull, then grimaced in unison as the alcohol burned its way down.
“What I’m saying,” she said, then shook her head and started again. “What I’m trying to tell you is, I know—I’ve always known—that you were in your house when that car pulled in.”
She took a deep breath, like someone about to go underwater, then she plunged ahead. She told him how she’d met Davy that night, how they’d crossed the field together, how they’d spied on Gordon as he drew. She watched him warily as she spoke, clearly not sure about the wisdom of spilling her secret. And yet she seemed compelled to tell someone. He felt a warmth grow in his chest as he listened to her. She hadn’t asked him to keep her secret, hadn’t made him swear never to tell, but he never would. It was as if they’d entered an unspoken agreement, a bond springing up where once there’d been only secrets.
She talked until she came to the end, at least of her story—the moment she lost Davy in the field. “One minute he was with me, and then he was just . . .”
“Gone,” Gordon finished. He gripped his glass so tightly that he feared it would shatter in his hand. After a day of hearing what a guilty son of a bitch he was, how other inmates reserved special punishments for pedophiles in prison, how his life was over, her words were a balm.
Someone believed him.
He set down his glass. For a moment they were both silent. He listened to the hum of his refrigerator, the second hand on his wall clock ticking away the seconds as he recalled his selfishness, his lack of grace toward Davy Malcor, the shame surrounding that night he’d never wanted anyone to know about. But was that shame any worse than the shame he’d carried all these years?
There was the shame of what really happened, but there was also the shame of what people thought had happened. To shed one, he understood, he’d have to admit the other.
But not now, not here. He swiped at a tear that slipped from his eye. “Thank you,” he said. “For telling me.”
He heard the scrape of her chair as she dragged it closer to him, felt her hand rest on his knee. He sat frozen for a moment, then lifted his own hand and placed it atop hers as together they cried, each grieving a boy who graced their lives for mere moments, then disappeared forever, leaving them to question what they could’ve done differently, how they could’ve changed the outcome.
After some time he lifted his hand and without a word she rose from her chair, looking embarrassed and avoiding his eyes.
“I should go,” she said. He nodded and stood as well. She was so close to him that he could smell the whiskey on her breath when she exhaled. He found himself wanting to reach out and smooth her unruly curls, even though that was impossible. He would sculpt her, he decided; she would be his last piece. He would assemble each loop of her hair carefully, with intention, an homage to the person who believed him when no one else did.
“Did you really come here tonight because Pete Lancaster asked you to?”
She gave him a rueful smile and shook her head.
“I came here, at the risk of losing my job, to tell you the truth. It seemed important after today. I don’t want you to give up just because of what they found. I don’t think—I never have—that you had anything to do with what happened to Davy.”
He covered his face, trying to hide his reaction to her words. He felt her arms go around him, a hug so brief he would later wonder if it had happened at all. When he took his hands away from his face to look at her, she was gone.