“You mean Detective Kimball.”
“Yes. I hear he barged into an interrogation room. You shouldn’t have been there alone, in the first place. You can always request to have me present for questioning.”
“I know.”
“What did he say?”
“He wanted to know if I remembered what I’d said before I stabbed him, and I told him that I didn’t remember anything about it, which is true. And he said he was going to find out what I was trying to hide.”
Now my lawyer really was smiling, and I noticed, for the first time, that she had those almost invisible plastic braces along the bottom row of her teeth. “Sorry,” she said. “I know it must have been upsetting for you, and it never should have happened. Henry Kimball has been officially suspended from the police department. It was going to happen anyway, believe me.”
“So, he was definitely acting alone in following me?”
“Oh, yeah. We knew that already. His partner was keeping an eye on him because she was worried about his mental health—he’d admitted to her the night before that he was following you in his spare time. She thought he was getting obsessed. So the next day she drove over to see him, and wound up following him herself. That led her to Concord.
“Not only that, but apparently they found some things he’d written about you when he was taken to the hospital. Poetry.”
“Really? Like what?”
“It’s pretty incriminating. I don’t think Detective Kimball will ever work for a police department again.”
“So what does all this mean?” I asked.
Her cell phone must have vibrated because she pulled it out of her blazer pocket, punched a button, and put it away again. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, Lily, but I think we can make some sort of deal here. I need to ask you how you’d feel about a psychiatric evaluation, and maybe spending some time in a hospital working on anger management issues.”
I told her that I’d be happy to agree to that.
“Good,” she said. “We’re moving forward here.” She looked up at me, smiled again. “One way or another, I don’t think you’ll be spending much more time in here.” She stood, then dug into her bulging briefcase. “I almost forgot, you got another letter. They gave it to me upstairs.”
She slid the envelope through the slot where my meals were delivered to my cell. It was another letter from my father. In the three days since I’d last seen him, he’d sent me three letters. “Thanks,” I said.
My lawyer left and I sat back down on my cot, not opening the letter immediately. I took a moment. The news was so much better than I thought. I was going to get my life back. Maybe not right away, but eventually. I opened the letter, looking forward to reading it. My father had been writing me letters since I was a little girl, and they always cheered me up.
My dearest Lil,
Your mother is off teaching her adult ed class (her only bloody income!) this evening so I’m here at home microwaving a frozen lasagna. Apparently this takes fifteen minutes so I’ll jot down another letter. I spoke with your lawyer this morning and she said all sorts of hopeful things that made it sound as though you might be free to return to your life sooner rather than later. We can hope.
It feels as though it’s about ten at night but it’s only five! The nights get dark early here. I’m enjoying a lovely cocktail I’ve just invented. One tall glass of water topped up with about two fingers of scotch. In essence, a whiskey-flavored water. Very tasty, and I can drink it morning to night without ever getting in any way impaired. On the plus side, I am also never completely sober at any point during the day, yet I wake up the next day feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I wish I’d discovered this drinking method years ago. I would have patented it and made a fortune.
The microwave has dinged at me, and my drink needs refreshing. Your mother mentioned something about her driving us up this weekend to see you. Until then—“HANG IN THERE,” said the kitten dangling from the branch.
Cheers darling,
Daddy
Oh, PS. I forgot to tell you in my last letter, but I have some bad news. The old Bardwell farm next door has been sold to a teenaged hedge fund manager from the city. He’s leveling the place and building a sort of weekend flophouse with about fifty-seven rooms. The bulldozers have begun to arrive. I’m only telling you because I know you loved that little meadow next to the farm and I’m afraid they’re going to tear the whole thing up tomorrow. Your mother has suddenly become an outraged environmentalist. Sorry for the bad news. For all I know you’re wondering what the hell I’m even talking about. See you soon, Lil. Daddy loves you, and always will, no matter what.
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