Devlin’s voice broke into her thoughts, as he went on telling the story of this man.
“Maybe you stayed in the other room while he did it. While he silenced them. While he took them outside. Maybe all you’re guilty of is taking another hit from the bottle and turning the radio up. Is that how it was, Mrs. Malone?”
She bowed her head. He knew nothing about guilt.
He knew nothing about leaving your kids home alone or with a teenage sitter while you went out to work eight hours on your feet in a pair of heels that rubbed, serving drinks to assholes who thought they were buying the right to paw you with every round. He knew nothing about leaving your sleeping children while you went to meet a man who would pay you for your company because your daughter needed shoes. He knew nothing about sending your kids to bed on half-empty stomachs, trying to fill them up with water, adding a drop of whisky to make them sleep—because if you let them eat, there’d be nothing for breakfast and your deadbeat husband’s checks kept bouncing.
He knew nothing about coming home from a twelve-hour shift, having held the image of their faces in front of you the whole time, holding onto the sweet smell of their skin as you wiped vomit from your shoes, as you picked cigarette butts out of a half-full glass. And then stepping through the door and hearing the noise of them: the screams and shrieks and the endless demands, for food and for attention, and feeling that just the fact of them—their spilling, their pulling and grabbing and needing—made you want to hand the sitter all the money you had in your purse and beg her to stay. Or if there was no money, or no sitter, just walking out anyway because you were so damn tired, and you just needed a little time alone. A little peace.
This man had no idea about any of this. None of these men did. They got paid men’s wages and they had wives to deal with the noise and the mess, with Jimmy’s problems at school, with little Susie who wouldn’t eat her vegetables, with the baby who just wouldn’t stop crying.
They knew nothing of guilt. They were not mothers.
16
Ruth click-clacked along the sidewalk, heading for her car. She was showered, dressed, made up. She had rubbed lotion into her hands, hooked her earrings into place. She had drunk coffee, walked the dog, tucked a spare sanitary napkin into her handbag.
It was the week before Thanksgiving, a cold shining day. She lifted her head to feel the sun on her skin. She hadn’t heard from the cops in three days. No phone calls, no visits.
Then she heard a car door slam, footsteps behind her.
As she started her engine and reached out to close the door, a car appeared from nowhere to block her in. A hand appeared on top of her door. She looked up but the sun had turned the figure into a silhouette with no face. She focused on the hand. Clean clipped nails, a short thumb, a white scar on the forefinger. It was a very ordinary hand. It could have belonged to anyone.
“What do you want?”
“You have to come with us,” said Devlin.
“I don’t have to do a damn thing.”
“You have to come with us, Mrs. Malone. The grand jury has indicted you. You’re under arrest for the murder of your son and the manslaughter of your daughter.”
“I don’t believe this. I don’t believe it.”
“Mrs. Malone . . .”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Hands on the steering wheel. Tight.
“I suggest you don’t make a fuss, Mrs. Malone. People are watching.”
She let out her breath and then got out of the car, made to hand her keys to Quinn, who stood stolidly next to Devlin like a dummy. She dropped them and looked at him scrabbling in the road. It was all she had.
Ruth sat in the backseat of Devlin’s car, stared straight ahead at the morning going on without her.
Devlin shifted in his seat, making the car rock. She lifted her eyes to the mirror, saw him watching her.
“What?”
“You know, it would have gone much easier for you if you’d only told the truth from the beginning.”
She raised her head. Looked him in the eye and then let her gaze drift past him. She would not give him anything.
They didn’t speak again until they reached the precinct. Ruth stepped out and through the glass doors ahead of her she saw that the lobby was full. Cops in uniform, men in suits, secretaries: they all turned to watch her approach. They were all waiting for her.
She stopped. Took a long breath. Turned to Devlin.
“I want my phone call.”
He shrugged. “Sure. There’s no one who can help you, but why not?”
“Frank, it’s me.”
“Huh? Ruth? What time is it?”
“I’ve . . . I’m at the precinct. They’ve arrested me.”
A pause. “What? What for? What the fuck’s going on?”
“Yeah, I know. Christ, Frank. That bastard was waiting for me outside the apartment this morning. Brought me in with everyone staring.”
“Jesus . . . Ruthie. I don’t . . . Are you okay?”
“Listen, I don’t have much time. You need to call Scott for me. Tell him what happened.”
“Sure. Scott. Okay.”