She nodded at the stairs. Said, “Come on.” Began to climb.
When she opened the door of her own apartment, she surprised him again. He didn’t know what he’d expected—garish colors, maybe? A mess? Bottles everywhere? But it wasn’t like that at all. It was a little bare and the couch was sagging, but it was homey. The surfaces shone and there were plants on the shelves, a few pictures. Two tiny china figurines.
He turned and she was watching him, arms folded.
“Expecting something else?”
“I just . . . I’m sorry. I don’t even know you and I guess I assumed . . .”
She cocked her head to one side and waited for him to finish. He felt like even more of an asshole.
“I had no right to assume anything. I’m sorry.”
Something changed in her then: her brow cleared and her mouth twitched. She nodded and went into the kitchen.
She made coffee and brought a bottle of Scotch and two glasses over to the couch. Pete badly wanted a drink, but he shook his head when she offered him a glass, then shrugged when she held the bottle over his coffee cup. He had a feeling he might need something more than caffeine when he listened to what she had to say.
She splashed a measure into his cup, poured herself a large drink, and slumped back onto the couch.
“Christ. What a fucking mess this is.”
He looked down at the cup he was cradling and wished he could think of something to say.
“Had you been friends with Ruth for a long time?”
“Have.”
He looked at her.
“She’s still my friend.”
He nodded. “Well, have you? Known her long?”
She stared down into her glass.
“I met her—met all of them—the week they moved here. Two years ago.”
And all at once he was curious, the way he should have been from the beginning. He wanted to know what she was like, what kind of woman this terrible thing could happen to. He knew that logically Ruth Malone was the same person she had been three months ago, just with a layer of grief and horror laid over the top—but when tragedy strikes, there’s a tendency to assume that someone is different. Special. That there’s something about them that makes them the kind of person bad things happen to. Because the alternative—that bad things can happen to anyone, at any time—is unthinkable.
He wanted to know what made Ruth Malone the kind of person whose children could be murdered.
So he asked Gina, “What was she like—Mrs. Malone—before this happened? What was she like?”
She sighed. “Why? You finally want to write something about her that’s real? You going to write the truth this time?”
And now he saw himself clearly through her eyes, and he was ashamed of how he’d let himself be used by Friedmann and by Devlin, to write the story they wanted.
He lifted his chin and met her gaze. “That’s what I’m here for. To write the truth.”
12
Gina refilled their cups, lit a cigarette, and began. And as she talked, gradually she unbent, and her voice softened and slowed. It was almost as though she was talking to herself.
It was maybe a week or so after Labor Day. I was in here, sitting on the windowsill, smoking, watching the street. Just killing time before my shift started.
It was quiet, I remember that. Warm. And I saw the car turn onto the street. It had a U-Haul trailer attached.
It pulled up, and they all got out. Frank and another guy—I think his name was Ed, or Eddie, maybe—Ruth, the kids.
They all got out and the guys went to the back, set to unpacking. Ruth just stood for a minute. I remember the kids were pulling at her, yelling, and she just ignored them. She was . . . sometimes she goes into a place where no one can follow. It’s like she can’t hear you or see you. She’s alone.
Anyway, Frank and his buddy started taking stuff inside: boxes, a couple of tables. Little Frankie looked just like his daddy—dark hair, long legs, that serious frown. Could tell he was going to be well-built. Maybe a football player.
Christ.
Cindy was following him, like she always was. She was just toddling then. One hand on the railing, pulling herself up the steps. I remember Frankie shouted something from the top—“Slowpoke!”—something like that, and she looked at him and her face scrunched up. Remember thinking, “Uh-oh, there’s gonna be tears”—but he didn’t let that happen, Frankie didn’t. He ran down and took her hand and helped her up, and five seconds later she was laughing.
They weren’t like any kids I’d seen before. Most boys that age, they can’t be bothered with girls, ’specially younger girls. But Frankie was real good with her.
Then I heard them run down the hall and into the apartment. Heard them shouting when their daddy told them which room was theirs. Frankie yelling that he wanted to sleep by the window.