An unmarked police cruiser was screeching to a halt at the curb, Duckworth throwing open the door and getting out. He’d managed to block in the black Audi, where a nervous-looking Bill Gaynor was sitting behind the wheel, looking like a cornered mouse.
There was someone in the passenger seat of the cruiser.
Marla.
Duckworth, seeing the smoke, ran toward us. “Is there anyone still in the house?”
“Sturgess,” I said, propping up my father. “But he’s dead.”
Duckworth blinked. “From the fire?”
“No,” I said. “We need an ambulance for my mom. She can barely walk. My dad may be hurt, too.”
Duckworth whipped out his phone, barked out an address, demanded fire engines and paramedics. Neighbors were pouring out of nearby houses to see what all the commotion was.
Up the street I saw Ethan, backpack over his shoulder, walking home from school. He began to run.
I saw Agnes walking toward Gaynor’s car. She said something to him briefly, pointed a finger of judgment at him, then walked around to the rear passenger door.
Gaynor did nothing to stop her.
Marla was coming out of the passenger side of Duckworth’s cruiser, looking at the smoking house, more with wonder than anything else. She was so busy taking it in, she didn’t notice her mother prying Matthew from the safety seat in the back of the Audi. Once she had the boy in her arms, she started walking toward the unmarked cruiser.
“Dad! Dad!” Ethan cried, running into my arms, a look of horror on his face. “The house!”
“It’s okay,” I told him. “It’s okay.” I wrapped my arms around him, held on to him tightly as I watched a different drama play out before me.
“Marla,” Agnes said.
Marla turned, saw her mother approaching with Matthew in her arms.
“Mama?” she said, her voice breaking.
“You know Matthew, of course,” Agnes said, and held the child out to her.
“What are you doing?” Marla asked.
“Take him. Hold him. He’s yours.”
Marla hesitantly took the boy into her own arms. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s your baby. He’s the baby you carried. The baby you gave birth to.”
“How . . . how . . .”
Marla’s eyes filled instantly with tears. Her expression was one of joy mixed with total bafflement.
“Don’t worry about that right now,” Agnes said, putting her arms around Marla and the child.
“Oh, my God,” Marla whispered. “Oh, my God, it can’t be true.”
“It’s true, child. It’s true.”
Weeping, Marla said, “Thank you, Mom! Thank you so much! Thank you! I love you so much! You’re the best mother in the whole world! Thank you for finding him! I don’t know how you did it, how it can be possible, but thank you! Thank you for believing me!”
Agnes ended the hug, looked at Marla, and said, “I have to go. You take care.”
“Mama?”
I watched Agnes return to her car, the door still open. She got behind the wheel, slowly backed out onto the street, and drove away as Marla took hold of Matthew’s tiny wrist so that he could, along with his mother, wave good-bye.
THE NEXT DAY
SEVENTY-ONE
David
“SO, you ready to get started?” Randall Finley asked me.
When I’d seen his name pop up on my cell I should have let it go to message. But like a fool, I answered.
“It’s only been twenty-four hours,” I told him.
“Yeah, but from what I hear, your sister’s in the clear.”
“Cousin,” I said.
“Cousin, sister, whatever. She’s innocent, right?”
“Right. But there are a few other things we still have to deal with.”
“Like?”
“A funeral for my aunt, for one,” I said.
“Oh, shit, yeah,” Finley said. “Fucking hell, I heard about that. She jumped off the falls?”
Right after she drove away from my parents’ house.
“Yes,” I said.
“My condolences,” the former mayor said.
“Plus, I have to find a place to live. There was a fire at my parents’ house.”
“That might be a blessing in disguise. Living with your parents at your age, that’s not good.”
“They’ll be moving in with me while they rebuild the kitchen,” I said.
“Ouch. Man, you are the poster boy for shit out of luck. So, what do you think? A couple of days? Because soon I want to announce that I’m running. I need to put together a platform, shit like that. About how empathetic I am, how I feel for the common man.”
“It seems so self-evident,” I said.
“Yeah, but some people don’t pick up the signals. You have to spell it out for them. You know what I’m saying.”
“I think so. Why don’t I call you toward the end of the week.”
Finley sighed. “I suppose. It’s a good thing I’m a soft touch. Most employers, they might not take it so well, someone taking time off before they’ve even started the fucking job.”
He ended the call.