More cops arrived. The phone rang often. Devlin was still there. He came into the living room, asked to speak to Ruth, ushered her into her own bedroom. She came in, still clutching Cindy’s toy rabbit. He stood with his back against the door. Her legs were shaking and she sat on the bed, pressed them together so that he wouldn’t see.
She tried to speak but was afraid that when she opened her mouth, the tears in her throat would spill out. Something inside her, something instinctive and ancient, kept her from letting go. Instead, she hunched over, holding the rabbit against her, holding in the sickness and the fear, bent double with the effort. Her mouth wanted to open and she had to clench her jaw to keep it shut. She had to keep the wrong part of her, the messy part, hidden.
Devlin took out a notebook and started to ask questions. At first she couldn’t hear. All she could feel was the soft, worn fur under her hands.
“She doesn’t have her rabbit.”
Her voice was too quiet.
“Mrs. Malone?”
“Cindy didn’t . . . she doesn’t have her rabbit. She’ll be scared without him.”
She looked up. He was frowning at her.
“Mrs. Malone, I need to ask you some questions. Please try to focus.”
She nodded at him to go on, and her voice was flat and rasping when she answered.
“Midnight. I checked them at midnight. I took Frankie to the bathroom. He was half-asleep but he needed to use the bathroom. I tried to wake Cindy but she just rolled over. So I let her sleep.”
“I told you, I bolted the door afterward.”
“No, I don’t remember doing it, but I always do.”
Devlin went back to the living room, asked Frank to come into the kids’ room. Curious, Ruth moved to the doorway of her own room, watched them cross the hallway.
Heard, “What do you think, Mr. Malone? What do you think happened here?”
There was a pause. She could almost hear Frank thinking, could see him looking around the room, wondering what to say.
“I don’t know. How would I know?”
“Mr. Malone, I’ve got five kids myself. I understand how you feel. Is there anything you can tell us—anything at all? The smallest thing might be important.”
Frank again, slowly. “The window’s open. Whoever took the kids . . . that must be how they got in.”
“Why do you say that?” Devlin’s voice was sharp.
“Well, Ruth wouldn’t leave it open like that without the screen—she was always worrying about bugs. Frank Jr. got stung once—his arm swelled up and we had to take him to the emergency room. Whoever took them, they came in there.”
“Mr. Malone—are you sure your wife didn’t hide the kids somewhere?”
Another pause. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”
She was in the living room, lying on the sofa, a blanket over her despite the heat. Frank kept telling her to get some rest. She was holding Cindy’s rabbit to her face, stroking the threadbare fur over and over, breathing in the smell of Cindy’s skin, Cindy’s hair, Cindy’s sleeping breath. When she got up to pee, she saw that the door of her bedroom was ajar. She pushed it, saw the young cop with the pink face kneeling on the floor.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He jumped, turned. He was holding a blue overnight case that he’d found under the bed.
“What are you doing with that?”
He looked down at the case and blushed, and for a moment she thought he was going to apologize. Then he remembered what he was doing and the mask fell back into place.
“It’s just routine, ma’am.”
“Routine? That’s my case. That’s nothing to do with my kids. Why aren’t you out looking for my children?”
There was a shadow behind her and a smell of Players. Devlin.
“What’s the problem, Detective Quinn?”
“Mizz Malone was just . . .”
“I’m sure Mrs. Malone wants to cooperate fully, don’t you ma’am?”
She let her hands fall from where they were balled into fists, let her shoulders drop, and took in the wreckage of her privacy: the underwear strewn on the bed, the open drawers, the bags and shoes pulled out of her closet.
“We know what we’re doing.” Quinn unzipped the case.
A waterfall of postcards, letters, cards. He picked them up one by one and read the signatures. Dozens of them. All from men. Some from Frank, before they were married. A year’s worth from Johnny Salcito. A few from Lou Gallagher, going back to March or April. And some from other men, men she could barely remember.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. He looked up and his eyes went past her to Devlin.
She lifted her chin and permitted herself a small smile. Then she turned, and Devlin was watching her.
She dropped her eyes. Dropped the smile.
4