CHAPTER 31

The bathroom was a disaster, a swamp of steamy water and warping chocolate tiles, like squares of Hershey left out in the sun. Water dripped from ceiling tiles that would never be the same color again. The battered faucet of the Day-Glo orange sink clogged its porcelain bowl.

Roz, now standing in the hallway hanging her head, had wisely closed the door when she ran out. I was sorry I’d reopened it.

“Shit,” I said, plunging my hand in the sink and yanking out the chunk of faucet. The water drained with a vengeful sucking noise. I went to dry off my hand but the towels were all soaked.

My hand may have been dripping hot water, but the rest of me was freezing. At Roz’s shouted warning, I’d run out of the house without my coat, searching for Valerie. In the dark my neighborhood of close-together houses and hearty oaks could have hidden an army. “Valerie,” I shouted, imagining her silent, scornful laughter as she hid behind a bush or in the shadow of a nearby porch or tool shed.

“Goddammit.” I said, wiping my hand on my jeans.

Abandoning the bathroom, I ran to get my outdoor clothes, my shoulder bag, a strong flashlight. The girl couldn’t have gotten far. With my car …

That’s when I heard the motor start, and the character and direction of the noise made my heart stop. I stared at the front door and realized what I hadn’t noticed before. Valerie had left the door swung wide on its hinges. I’d closed it on my first fruitless return. My keys, left in the lock, were gone. I ran to the front door fast enough to see my car, my dear red Toyota, my first and only car, drive away without me.

“Shit,” I said.

So I was wet, freezing, angry, and feeling pretty dumb to boot. I thought about calling the cops to report my stolen car but couldn’t bear the monumental indifference with which the Cambridge Police would greet the news.

Car theft is a misdemeanor in this state unless the owner can prove that whoever stole the vehicle did so with intent to deprive said owner of use on a permanent basis. A kid taking a joyride isn’t really a car thief under Massachusetts law.

I sent upward a brief but fervent prayer that Valerie, underage though she was, had some rudimentary knowledge of the driving process.

I grabbed my handbag to get the car registration. It felt unusually heavy, and I remembered Valerie’s purse, her wallet-sized shoulder bag, stuffed deep into its nether regions.

I found it and tumbled its contents onto the kitchen table. Two lipsticks rolled to the floor. Subway tokens joined them. There was a package of condoms in among the wadded Kleenex, and a pack of cigarettes. Virginia Slims. Two matchbook folders, both from Zone bars. No address book. There were various keys, but none with an ID tag. I’d been hoping for a hotel key. A rich little bitch like her would have rented a room.

Folded up small was a piece of paper, lined notebook paper torn at the margin, a page filled with round childish writing. I read it. I sat down. I read it again.

The page had been ripped in two. The top half was lost so there was no lead-in to the meat of the paragraph.

… so I dream about running away. To places where they know what I am, where the girls are like me. Or I dream about telling Jerry. Or telling you. Telling everybody. Just walking to the front of the stage someday and saying in my quiet voice that I haven’t ever been a virgin. I don’t remember being a virgin because my father is my lover and he has always been since I can remember. And if I say no he says he will do it to Sherri and that I’m the oldest and I can take it best. And if I say I’ll tell my mother he says it will kill her and if I tell anyone else he will kill them and if anyone finds out no boy will ever want to marry me and I care about that even though I don’t know why because I don’t want to marry anybody like my father ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever …

She’d written that one word over and over, maybe a hundred times. It took up a third of the page and ran over and filled up the back getting heavier and blacker. A cry even a self-centered man like Geoff Reardon couldn’t ignore.

He hadn’t ignored it. He’d sought out Valerie. He’d promised her money. Money from where? And he was going to stop teaching, maybe have the money to produce his play.…

I rubbed my hand across my dry lips and caught myself wondering if I’d shaken Prescott Haslam’s hand, if I’d touched his hand with mine.

Valerie hadn’t known about Reardon’s death until I told her.

I reread the notebook page, found the fragment I remembered:

… if I tell anyone else he will kill them …

Valerie hadn’t returned home the day of Reardon’s death. Reardon had promised to help the girl financially.

And now Valerie had taken my car. Why? Here in Cambridge, she could catch any Red Line train back to the Zone.

“Roz,” I yelled.

Then I ran into the living room, unlocked my bottom desk drawer, and hurriedly unwrapped my gun. The sharp, oily smell hit me like icy water, and I hoped I was wrong about where Valerie was headed. I hollered for Roz again as I finished loading and tucked the .38 in the pocket of my coat.

I hadn’t heard her come down the stairs. She was barefoot in a white terry robe, with a big maroon towel wound around her head.

“They’re coming over,” she said defensively, before I had a chance to speak. “They’re on their way. It won’t be five minutes.”

“Who?” I said.

“The Brothers. They don’t understand how it could have happened. They’ll fix everything.”

“Sure they will,” I said.

I was pacing by the time the truck finally squealed to a halt in front of the house.

Roz convinced them to let me borrow it. After the fact, I just snatched their keys and took off.