“Have you been in therapy?” I asked.
“That’s all bullshit,” she said. “Therapists, social workers—you just tell them what they want to hear. They check off their little boxes on their little forms, and they pass you on to somebody else.” Tracy bent down again and brought out her cell phone. She studied the display and frowned. “I have to go in a minute. But keep that card and use it if you want. Maybe you could talk to Susan. I’ve talked to her before, and she’s really helpful, you know, with life and relationships and stuff. She listens to me. Really listens to me. You know what it’s like when someone really listens to you?”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“Susan’s not a bullshitter. Not at all. She tells you the truth if you want to hear it. And if you don’t have a minister or a shrink or anything, you need someone to talk to. Right?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Think about it. Okay? She just . . . she knows things. A lot of things. Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself. And she’s comfortable talking about stuff that’s tough to talk about.”
“Is this what you came to tell me?” I asked, holding the card in the air between us. “Is this all?”
She squirmed a little in the chair, shifting her weight from one side to the other as though fighting off an unpleasant itch.
“Tracy? Is there something else?”
“Remember how I said I had a daughter?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was lower. “You know how kids are expensive to raise.”
“I don’t follow.”
She squirmed some more. Side to side, rocking like a metronome.
“Are you asking me for money?”
“You see . . .” She paused, let out a long breath. “I’ve been thinking about what I saw that night. Thinking and thinking . . .”
“And?”
She slumped a little, her body going slack in the chair.
“Tracy?”
“I want to remember more,” she said. “I want to help more.”
She stopped short. Somewhere outside, a lawn mower engine kicked to life, making a low rumble across the campus.
“What do you know?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
“If you think you can come in here and mess with me, toy with my emotions—”
She moved quickly and was up out of the chair, reaching for her bag and brushing her hair back out of her face. She didn’t even look at me, but turned for the door.
“Tracy, wait.”
My hand went to my back pocket. I never carried much cash. I dug around and found forty-two dollars. I held it out to her.
She turned and looked at me, looked at my hand and the money, but didn’t make a move to take it. I tossed it onto the desk.
“Take it,” I said. “I don’t care.”
She still didn’t move. Her top teeth rested on her lower lip.
“Buy diapers or something. But if you know anything else . . .”
She took two steps forward and picked up the money. She looked at it for a moment, then folded the bills in half and slipped them into the front pocket of her shorts.
“That man is very bad,” she said.
“Do you know him from somewhere? Have you seen him before?”
She backed away, her eyes averted from mine.
I started around the desk. “Tracy, if you know something and you don’t tell—”
She held her hand up between us, telling me to stop. I did.
“Tell Liann,” I said.
“I told the truth already,” she said. “I told my story.”
“Is there more?”
She nodded toward my desk. It took a moment for me to understand what she meant. Then I saw it—the card. Volunteer Victim Services.
“Think about calling Susan,” she said.
Then she slipped through the door and closed it behind her almost soundlessly.
Chapter Sixteen
Abby’s car sat in the driveway. It was filled with more boxes, more clothes, the remains of what she needed from the house.
Three boxes sat on the kitchen table with clothes on hangers draped over them. The clothes were from the winter—heavy coats and sweaters. I stood beneath the overhead fluorescents, a light fixture we’d always planned to replace but never did. I ran my hand over the fabric of her sweaters. I brought the sleeve of one up to my nose and took a deep breath. I always used to enjoy Abby’s scents—the fruity shampoos, the sweet soaps, even the smell of her sweat when she exercised or worked on something around the house. But this sweater smelled musty, the product of a closed closet.
“You’re home.”
I dropped the sleeve. Abby stood in the doorway, holding a canvas bag full of clothes.
“I was in the office most of the day,” I said.
“Good.” Abby came farther into the room and put down the bag. “This is the last of it,” she said. “I’ll take it out to the car.”
“Do you want me to help?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s my stuff. I’ll take it.”
“You’ll hurt yourself.”