A bad one.
Spreading his hands on the sink, he stared at the mirror until he found the right face staring back. If an ending was near, he intended to confront it without distraction or regret. It was a new day. He would not fear.
In the shower, he scrubbed himself not once, but twice. Afterward, he put on lotion and combed his hair. He shaved with great care and found the appearance appropriate. If the day was to be an ending, so be it.
Smooth and slick he’d come into the world.
Smooth and slick he’d leave it.
26
Channing was alone in the corner of a crowded cell when the guards came for her. They called her name from beyond the bars, and a dozen inmates looked at her when she stood. Some were apathetic, and others angry that she was leaving and they weren’t. No one moved or made it easy for her. One of them touched her hair as a bolt scraped in the lock, and a guard said, “Court.”
They put the chains on her then: ankles and waist, her wrists shackled in front. She tried to walk and almost fell. The chains were loud as she learned the shuffle that kept her on her feet and between the guards. She kept her eyes down and listened to the rattle as dim walls slid past and hard fingers dug into the bones of both arms. The guards spoke again and pointed, but she was adrift in a sea of faces. They put her on a bench, and she saw her father and lawyers and a judge. Voices rose and fell, and she heard them all, but from the depths of a haze. The talk was of money and terms and court dates to come. She missed most of it, but one thing stuck.
Manslaughter.
Not murder.
It was her age, they said. The circumstances. She saw pity in the judge’s eyes, and in the bailiffs who treated her as if she were four years old and made of glass. When the shackles came off, they took her through the back to avoid the media camped like an army out front. She rode in a long car and nodded when the lawyers spoke and then looked at her expectantly. “I understand,” she said, but did not. Court dates and criminal intent and plea bargains. Who cared? She wanted to see Liz and take a shower. Jail smell was all over her, the reek of it. She tried to be tough, but didn’t believe it. The guards called her prisoner Shore. The worst inmates liked to touch her skin and call her China.
“China…”
“Did you say something, sweetheart?”
She ignored the question and a block from the house met her father’s eyes by accident. He turned away when it happened, but not before she saw the revulsion. She was not his little girl anymore, but she kept her head up. “I killed them like I said.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
She couldn’t grasp that either, the denial and disbelief. He’d seen the autopsy photos. She’d confessed not once, but multiple times. The lawyers were making some kind of argument, she knew. Insanity maybe. But, if the judge asked, she’d say it again.
I killed them like I said.
There was comfort in that, but not the kind any man in a suit could understand. She hung on to all the things that made her different from them and kept her gaze level as they drove through the second army of reporters camped at her driveway. The car pulled around back, and even when her father opened the door and helped her out, he kept his gaze averted.
“Your mother will be happy to see you.”
She followed him inside and watched the lawyers peel off at the study. “Has she seen the photographs, too?”
“Of course not, no.” He looked at her then because it was the first thing she’d said that, in his world, felt normal. “She has a surprise for you. Why don’t you go on up?”
He stayed below as the staircase drew her from one floor to the next. Her mother was in a chair by the bedroom door. “Hello, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mom.”
A hug died stillborn and awkward. One smelled of white wine and lotion, the other of jail.
“I did something for you. It wasn’t easy, but I think you’ll like it. Would you like to see?”
“Okay.”
Her mother turned the knob and pulled Channing into the bedroom. “Don’t you just love it? Please tell me you do.” Channing turned a circle where she stood. Everything was as it had been before she’d burned it. Posters. Pink bedding. “I knew you’d want things to be just the way they were.”
“I can’t believe you did this.”
“Do you like it?”
“Like it?” Channing was speechless and close to hysterical laughter. “How could I not?”
“That’s exactly what I told your father. ‘She’s still our little girl. How could she not?’”
Channing looked from one wall to the next. She wanted to scream and run. The pillow beneath her fingers was slick and smooth and pink as a baby’s skin.
“Now,” her mother said, “how about some hot chocolate?”