Back inside, past the porters who gaped at her and asked if she were all right. She caught her reflection in the apartment’s foyer mirror, noticing for the first time that her skirt and her cheek were stained red, as if she’d been out picking raspberries. Theo lay in a pool of blood, his mouth open, face white. A glint of metal caught her eye, lying on a litter of linen drawings splattered with blood. The knife’s sheath. In her haste, she’d missed it.
And next to it, a ghastly stump of a finger, covered in blood.
She picked up the sheath and dropped it into one of the leather tubes that held drawings. Drawings that would no longer come to fruition. All of Theo’s ideas, buildings. Lost.
The finger was soft, still warm. He’d drawn masterpieces with it, the sure, even lines issuing from the nub of the pen in its clasp. She had an irrational desire to put it back on his hand, to try to make him whole again. At a loss, she placed it in the tube as well, closing the lid tightly. The tube went back under his desk. She’d tell Mrs. Camden to dispose of it later.
Voices in the hallway. Men’s voices.
The door to the apartment opened. She’d locked it behind her, but Fitzroy had the master key. He and two policemen stepped inside. Carefully, politely, like they didn’t want to make a fuss, didn’t want to muss up the silk rug and shiny floorboards. Not expecting to see blood and mess and a body. A woman in a dress with red stains on it, red stains on her hands and face.
Fitzroy spoke for her when she didn’t answer any of their questions. Her name, who she was, who Theo was. That he didn’t know where the rest of the family was. One policeman had rushed off to search the other rooms, fearful at what he might find.
No, she wanted to say. Everyone else is safe. It’s just Theo who’s dead.
And Sara who was red. Red with blood.
“Sara.”
She was in the visitors’ room of the prison. Not sure how she’d gotten here, not remembering the walk from her cell to here.
Mrs. Camden stood before her. She looked pale and thin. Not good. She had to stay healthy for the children. For Christopher. She’d promised.
“I’m sorry it took so long to come. I didn’t want the newspapers to know. I had to wait.”
“Of course.”
They sat down on either side of a small wooden table. Once, Daisy had been the one in shackles and Sara had been free. Theo had brought everyone down with him that he possibly could.
But not Mrs. Camden. Nor the children. Sara had made sure they were all right.
“How is Christopher?” Her voice creaked from disuse.
Mrs. Camden smiled. “He’s lovely. We celebrated his first birthday two weeks ago. Growing fast, healthy. A good boy. You have a good boy.”
Sara nodded. She rarely spoke these days. Figuring out which words to say took too much effort.
“Sara, I should have confessed.” Mrs. Camden looked about the room, her eyes red and wet. “I should be here, not you. I should have taken the blame. You did nothing, nothing at all.”
“No. We agreed when you came to see me before the trial. It’s better that Christopher is raised by you. I wouldn’t have been able to give him everything you have. Such a chance at a grand life.”
“I will, I promise.” She trailed off.
Blinded by love. The phrase had always seemed silly to Sara, something poets invented. Yet nothing could have prepared her for the devotion she’d felt for Theo. He’d enveloped her in his intellect and his charm, making her feel she was an indispensable part of his life. And maybe she had been, for a time. He had needed her around, as a reflection of all the good qualities of himself, because his wife, by that time, reflected the worst. His irritability, his spite, and his thirst for success. Sara had refused to see the shadows in his temperament or question why his relationship with Mrs. Camden was so strained. Most likely, he’d lavished similar attention on Mrs. Camden early in their relationship, before turning on her when she failed to live up to his high standards.
But these regrets were no longer of consequence. The boy was what mattered most, and she was determined he be given every chance in the world to succeed, independent of the sordid story of his parentage.
“Did you find the drawing in my room?”
Mrs. Camden took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I’ve hung it over his crib as you asked. It’s the first thing he sees when he wakes and before he goes to sleep each night.”
Her dream cottage, so her child might also dream of lovely things. For all of Theo’s betrayals, he’d left behind many beautiful creations. Including the drawing. And their son. “What about my letter, you have my letter?”
“It’s in a safe place and I promise to give it to Christopher when he turns twenty-one. Then he’ll know everything, and he can come and visit you.”
Sara smiled. That was twenty years from now. She wouldn’t be around. She could feel it in her bones. Something inside her was eating away at her. Guilt, maybe. Anger at having been so misused. Anger at herself. Her insides were a stewy, nasty mess and would kill her eventually.
Nothing more needed to be said on the subject. They had an agreement. Mrs. Camden spoke of Christopher and Luther and the girls, telling her what they’d said and did, the words he spoke, the way he wobbled about on his fat little legs. Sara drank in every word, every image, to fill her library of thoughts for later use.
She would feed on them until the next visit. Until her energy faded and her soul dissipated into the night air. Her last remembrance was that of holding her boy, in his sailor suit, on top of the roof promenade of the Dakota, the city gleaming below her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
New York City, September 1986
A year after Strawberry Fields was officially dedicated, the hilltop had become a hive of activity most hours of the day, the gray-and-white “Imagine” mosaic strewn with flowers and candles.
To be honest, Bailey avoided the area if she could. It wasn’t a place she felt comfortable striding through, veering around the tourists wielding cameras. Doing so was like galloping through the Sistine Chapel to get to St. Peter’s. Covered in a canopy of American elm tree branches and lined with hollies and mountain laurel, the site demanded an air of reverence and respect.
She found a spot on an open bench vacated by a couple of college students in torn jeans, carrying backpacks. Red roses had been arranged in a peace symbol, and three guitarists sat together on a bench opposite, strumming out tunes to a receptive crowd. She watched as a little girl danced about, jumping and swinging her arms to the beat, unaware of the tragedy behind the music.
One year sober. She’d made it. Not only had she made it, she’d risen to the challenge, supporting others at meetings, newcomers who came in weeping and scared, or those who’d relapsed and walked in amid a cloud of self-hatred. Each time she’d helped someone else, she couldn’t help but reanalyze her own journey and mark her own progress, remember what it was like. And vow to stay healthy and strong.
Soon after the insanity in Fred’s office, Bailey had reached out to Melinda. She’d hated the way things had ended, and could only imagine what it felt like for Melinda to have lost everything, to be cast out from her own family history. To make Melinda suffer had not been her goal.
So Bailey and Jack had offered to buy the Dakota apartment from Melinda and Manvel. Melinda had demanded a princely sum, which they’d gladly paid, hoping it would bring Melinda some peace and help Manvel’s outsider artists. From what Bailey had heard, Melinda was on a rampage these days, partying hard in her white-brick condo on the East Side. Bailey had called several times, trying to make amends and explain her actions, but Melinda refused to return her calls. With time, Bailey hoped, they might be able to renew their friendship, but on more equal footing. But if not, at least Bailey had tried.