And then he came to Ruth.
He dug up all the garbage again: the liquor bottles found in the apartment; the number of male friends she’d had; the way she’d shopped for a new dress the day after she discovered the children were missing. The day after Cindy’s body was found.
As Pete listened to Hirsch’s version of Ruth’s story, he felt his face flush, felt the tension in his jaw. He glanced at her and saw her head was bowed, as though in supplication. He felt a fullness in his throat and swallowed, forced his attention back to Hirsch, who was winding down.
“Gentlemen of the jury, I say to you now that you must find the defendant guilty as charged. The murder of two young children, by the one person they should have been able to trust absolutely, is the most monstrous crime there is. Frankie and little Cindy”—here his gaze went to the blown-up photographs of the children that had presided over the courtroom since the first day, and he raised his arm to them—“are calling out for justice.”
He let his arm fall slowly and his expression became earnest, almost noble, as he faced the jury.
“Please, gentlemen. Don’t ignore the cries of those poor children.”
Once the judge had turned the case over to the jury and they had filed out to begin their deliberations, Pete hung around the courtroom for another couple of hours. Eventually, the bailiff came back with the news that the jury wasn’t going to reach a verdict anytime soon and was retiring for the night. He walked outside and stretched, working out the kinks in his shoulders, tasting the cool evening air.
He got in his car but didn’t feel much like going home. He rolled down the windows and just drove for a while. Thinking about Ruth. Wondering how she was feeling. Thinking about Scott and his defeated expression.
Pete found himself turning toward the Malones’ old neighborhood and decided he may as well go on to 72nd Drive. He parked—and then he noticed there was a light on in the Malones’ apartment. A shadow moved behind the blind.
Adrenaline hit him like a wave of cold water and he felt his heart pounding. Then he made himself take a shuddering breath.
Stupid.
It was just a neighbor, checking everything was okay. Or maybe Frank had sublet it.
There were no ghosts.
Yet as he got out of the car and forced himself to walk up the path, fear crawled up his back and down his dry throat.
He took another breath and tried to steady his heart, straightened up and stuck his hands into his pockets, needing the hot comfort of his fists, knowing that any watching eyes wouldn’t be able to see his hands shake.
The front door was unlocked, and the apartment door ajar. As though whatever was in there knew he was coming.
He tapped the door and watched it swing slowly away from him into a long black yawn. And then he heard the awful mechanical laughter of a children’s wind-up toy.
He crept toward the noise and when he reached the doorway of the room and saw a hunched shape low against the wall, he heard a rushing in his ears and thought he would faint.
Then his eyes adjusted to the shadows and he realized who was sitting there. On the floor between the twin beds, leaning against the wall, turning the key in the back of a laughing doll over and over again, the neon streetlight outside giving his hair, his skin, an unholy glow.
“Mr. Malone.”
Frank turned his head as coolly as though this was just a regular meeting in a bar. Squinted at him.
“Oh, hey. You’re that reporter. Womack, is it?”
“Wonicke. Pete Wonicke.”
He extended his hand and Frank shook it without getting up.
“I was passing by and I saw the light.”
Pete took out his cigarettes, offered him one, sat down.
“Mr. Malone, I know this is none of my business, but what are you doing here? Are you okay?”
Frank turned to him and smiled, but it was a smile without humor or warmth.
“Wonicke, my kids are dead and my wife is facing life inside for killing ’em. Do I look like I’m okay?”
“Sorry, I . . .”
“It’s okay. I know what you meant.”
He sighed.
“It must seem weird, me being here.”
“Well . . . a little.”
“I guess it’s as good a place as any to wait. I’m too wound up to sleep and whatever happens in court tomorrow, I got to wait somewhere, right?”
“Sure.”
Frank looked around the empty room, his hands plucking at the rug.
“I knew it’d be empty, anyhow. They can’t rent it. People take on the lease—families, with kids—then they find out what happened here, and they move on. Even though the police say nothing did happen in here, in the apartment.
“But, you know. They say there’s an atmosphere. Ghosts. Bad feeling. All that. All the same thing, isn’t it?”
Pete nodded. “I guess so.”
Frank shrugged. “I don’t seem to mind the ghosts.”