They had all ignored the screaming when it was happening to someone else.
“Jesus.” Andrew studied the next photo, the one that showed the deep gash in her leg. “Every time over the last few months, if I felt my nerve slipping, Nick would take these out to remind us both of what Father did to you.” He showed Jane the close-up of her swollen eye. “How many times did Father hit you? How many black eyes did we ignore at the breakfast table? How many times did Mother laugh or Jasper kid you about being so uncoordinated?”
She tried to make light of it, saying her family nickname, “Clumsy Jinx.”
Andrew said, “I will never let anyone hurt you again. Ever.”
Jane was so tired of crying, but she seemed incapable of stopping herself. She had cried for Laura Juneau’s broken family. She had cried for Nick. She had cried, inexplicably, for Martin, and now she cried from shame.
Andrew sniffed loudly. He put the rubber band back around the Polaroids and dropped them into the box. “I’m not going to ask you if you knew about the gun.”
Jane smoothed together her lips. She kept her gaze steady on the parking lot. “I’m not going to ask you, either.”
He took in a wheezy, labored breath. “So, Nick—”
“Please don’t say it.” Jane’s hand was pressed flat to her stomach again. She longed for Laura Juneau’s serenity, her righteousness of cause.
Andrew said, “Laura had a choice. She could’ve left when she found the gun in the bag.”
The same words from Nick had not brought Jane any comfort. She knew that Laura would never have backed out. The woman was determined, totally at peace with her choice. Maybe even glad of it. There was something to be said for being the master of your own fate. Or, as Nick had said, taking out a bastard with you.
Jane said, “She seemed nice.”
Andrew made himself busy closing the lid on the box, checking the lock.
She repeated, “She just seemed really, really nice.”
He cleared his throat several times. “She was a wonderful person.”
His tone spoke to his anguish. Nick had put Andrew in charge of handling Laura. He was her sole point of contact for the group. It was Andrew who’d walked Laura through the details, given her the money, relayed information on flights, where to meet the forger in Toronto, how to present herself, what secret words would open this door or close the other.
He asked Jane, “Why did you talk to her? In Oslo?”
Jane shook her head. She could not answer the question. Nick had warned them that anonymity was their only protection if things went sideways. Jane, ever-eager to follow his orders, had been hiding in the bar when Laura Juneau walked in. There was less than an hour before the panel. It was too early to drink and Jane knew she shouldn’t be drinking anyway. The piano had always worked to soothe her nerves, but for some inexplicable reason, she’d been drawn to Laura sitting alone at the bar.
“We should go,” Andrew said.
Jane didn’t argue. She just followed him silently down the steps and to the car.
She held the metal box in her lap as he started the engine and headed deeper into the city.
Jane struggled to keep her thoughts away from Jasper. Neither could she ask Andrew where they were going. It wasn’t just the possibility of hidden listening devices that was keeping her brother silent. Her gut told her that there was something else going on. Jane’s time in Berlin had somehow managed to remove her from the circle. She had noticed it in Oslo and it was especially obvious now that they were all back home. Nick and Andrew had been going for long walks, lurking in corners, their voices quickly dying down when Jane appeared.
At first she had thought they were managing her guilt, but now she wondered if there were other things that they didn’t want her to know about.
Were there more hidden boxes?
Who else was Nick planning to hurt?
The car crested a hill. Jane closed her eyes against the sudden, bright sunlight. She let her mind wander back to Laura Juneau. Jane wanted to figure out what had motivated her to approach the woman in the bar. It was exactly the wrong thing to do. Nick had repeatedly warned Jane that she needed to stay far away from Laura, that interacting with her would only make the pigs look at Jane more carefully.
He’d been right.
She had known he was right when she was doing it. Maybe Jane had been rebelling against Nick. Or maybe she had been drawn to Laura’s clarity of purpose. Andrew’s coded letters had been filled with reverence for the woman. He’d told Jane that, out of all of them, Laura was the one who never seemed to waver.
Why?
“Look for a space,” Andrew said.
They had already reached the Mission District. Jane was familiar with the area. As a student, she used to sneak down here to listen to punk bands at the old fire station. Around the corner were a homeless shelter and a soup kitchen where she often volunteered. The area had been a focal point for fringe activities as far back as when the Franciscan Friars built the first Mission in the late 1700s. Bear fighting and duels and horse races had given way to impoverished students and homeless people and drug addicts. There was a violent energy emanating from the abandoned warehouses and dilapidated immigrant housing. Anarchist graffiti was everywhere. Trash littered the street. Prostitutes stood on corners. It was the middle of the morning, but everything had the dark, dingy tint of sundown.
She said, “You can’t park Jasper’s Porsche here. Someone will steal it.”
“They’ve never touched it before.”
Before, Jane thought. You mean all of those times the brother you claim to hate drove down here in the middle of the night to rescue you?
Andrew tucked into a space between a motorcycle and a burned-out jalopy. He started to get out of the car, but Jane put her hand over his. His skin felt rough. There was a patch of dry skin on his wrist just under his watch. She started to comment on it, but she did not want words to intrude on this moment.
They had not been alone together since before they’d left the house. Since Laura Juneau had fired that last bullet into her skull. Since the politi had rushed both Jane and Nick from the auditorium.
The policemen had mistaken Nick for Andrew, and by the time they had figured out why Jane was screaming for her brother, Andrew was banging his fists on the door.
He’d looked almost deranged. Blood had stained the front of his shirt, dripped from his hands, soaked his trousers. Martin’s blood. While everyone was running away from the stage, Andrew had run toward it. He had pushed aside the security. He had fallen to his knees. The next day, Jane would see a photograph of this moment in a newspaper: Andrew holding in his lap what was left of their father’s head, his eyes raised to the ceiling, his mouth open as he screamed.
“It’s funny,” Andrew said now. “I didn’t remember that I loved him until I saw her pointing the gun at his head.”
Jane nodded, because she had felt it, too—a wrenching of her heart, a sweaty, cold second-guessing.
When Jane was a girl, she used to sit on Martin’s knee while he read to her. He had placed Jane in front of her first piano. He had sought out Pechenikov to hone her studies. He had attended recitals and concerts and performances. He had kept a notebook in the breast pocket of his suit jacket in which he recorded her mistakes. He had punched her in the back when she slumped at the keyboard. He had switched her legs with a metal ruler when she didn’t practice enough. He had kept her awake so many nights, screaming at her, telling her she was worthless, squandering her talent, doing everything wrong.
Andrew said, “I had all of these things I wanted to say to him.”
Jane yet again found herself helpless to stop her tears.