“You think maybe you should call Ben?” Racine asked, again almost a whisper.
“I don’t know what to do about Ben,” Maggie said, a bit surprised with herself for letting her guard down. She discussed her personal life with only two people—Ben Platt and Gwen Patterson. Julia Racine was nowhere near the list of possible additions. At the moment she was too exhausted to care. “Ben wants kids.”
“Just because his ex-wife started a new family.” A statement, not a question. Racine had met Ben’s ex. Maggie shrugged, even though Racine couldn’t see it. “You don’t want kids?”
“I never imagined myself a mother.”
“Me either,” Racine said, easily and without hesitation. “Rachel says it’s because I never got a chance to be a kid.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s because I hate kids.”
Maggie smiled and contained a laugh because she knew Racine was serious.
“Doesn’t Rachel have a daughter?”
“Yeah, CariAnne. She’s a pain in the ass. Always has too many questions. Always on my case about using the fucking f-word. Last fall she puked all over my favorite shoes. Cole Haan, driving loafers. I loved those shoes. Couldn’t get the smell out of the leather. Had to throw them out.”
“So what happened?”
“Bought a new pair.”
“No, silly. I mean what made you change your mind?”
Racine’s turn to shrug. “She’s a part of Rachel. How can I love Rachel and not love her child?”
A man appeared, filling the doorway. He was dressed in khakis and a sports jacket.
“Are you Kathleen O’Dell’s daughters?”
His voice was deep and authoritarian but his eyes gentle. His hands were the size of catcher’s mitts and Maggie caught herself staring at them, thinking they could have easily clasped around her mother’s wrists and stopped the bleeding.
“I’m Maggie,” she finally said, standing. “This is Julia.”
She didn’t bother to correct him, that they weren’t both Kathleen’s daughters. After stopping one suicide attempt and witnessing the aftermath of a second, Julia had earned the right to be called Kathleen’s daughter, though it came wrapped in burden rather than honor.
She offered her hand to shake his and immediately saw his eyes take notice of the scars on her own wrist.
“No, it doesn’t run in the family.”
He didn’t look convinced, but Maggie didn’t think she needed to explain how months ago a killer had tied her hands together with zip ties. How the plastic had cut deep into her skin while she tumbled down rock ledges and ran through a dark forest at night. So deep had the ties cut into her wrists that when she finally sliced herself free she had to dig the plastic out of her flesh. Of course, it left scars and she didn’t need to explain.
“How is she?” Racine asked, standing up beside Maggie.
“I gave her something to help her rest. She asked not to see anyone right now. She’ll be groggy, but in an hour or so I think it would be a good idea for one or both of you to sit with her for a while. You’re welcome to stay here in the meantime or go home and come back. There’s coffee in the reception area outside of the ICU. Cafeteria’s downstairs.”
He went on to tell them how to contact him and what to expect. Maggie tuned him out. She’d heard the litany too many times before.
He left and Maggie and Racine had just sunk back into the sofa when a dog—a brown-and-white corgi—sauntered in.
Maggie looked up to find Dr. James Kernan with two foam cups, which he handed toward them, arms stretched out in front of him.
“Coffee’s awful,” he told them, “but it helps pass the time.”
CHAPTER 72
Sam had the camera set up on a tripod. It made interviewees less nervous when she stood beside a stationary camera than when she held it and pointed it at them. She and Jeffery had found the door unlocked and the house empty except for some trash in a corner, a stack of newspapers, and something that looked like a tray of rat poison on top.
Only one lamp on a timer lit the interior from the middle of the living room floor.
Sam had switched on a ceiling light only to have Jeffery flip it off immediately.
“We’re going to need more light. I didn’t bring backup lighting.”
Still, he insisted she keep it off.
She finished the rest of the coffee Jeffery had brought for her. She hadn’t needed the caffeine. Her adrenaline was enough to keep her going. But for some reason she felt a bit blurry, unfocused. It was funny she hadn’t even noticed Jeffery’s pacing. It was odd that he might be nervous to the point of a sweaty forehead and a tie let askew. This would be a big interview but the two of them had done bigger—several prime ministers, a congressman on the eve of his resignation, and a couple of Taliban leaders.
“I know that you figured it out, Sam.”
Her hands stopped. She thought her heart may have, too.
“Nadira told me about you taking the tapes from the warehouse fires.”