*
Elizabeth took the truck and drove ten-hour stretches. Sunglasses covered her eyes. A white Stetson rode her head. She stayed in inexpensive motels, though money was not a problem. On the eighth hour of the third day, she crossed the county line and was back. Nothing had changed, but an ill wind pressed against her as if she were somehow different and every living creature in the county sensed it.
She drove the side streets, then went to her mother’s house, stopping first at the boarded-up church. The clapboards were dirty and peeling. Windows were broken, and someone had used black paint on the walls, spelling words such as killer and sinner and devil. Circling to the back, she found the parsonage little different than the church. Shattered glass. The same paint. The door was locked, but she took the tire iron from the truck and forced it. Inside, she found bare floors and dust and difficult memories. She stood for a while at the kitchen window, thinking of the last time she’d had a drink there with her mother. Had she known, then, the depth of her husband’s evil? Had she ever sensed it? Elizabeth wanted an answer and found it on the mantelpiece above the small fireplace in the empty living room. The envelope was yellowed and dry. The name Elizabeth was written in her mother’s hand.
Liz, my darling girl. I can’t imagine a daughter’s pain in learning such darkness dwelled in her father’s heart, or in knowing the death and suffering he’d caused so many for so many years. Please know I share your bewilderment. Your letters have been so helpful—life-affirming, actually—and it pains me that you live in some secret place to which I can neither respond, nor seek you out. I’ve never doubted your assurances, the promise that we would once again be together. But I can no longer live in this place. The hatred of your father overwhelms me, and I find myself bereft. I leave this letter in hopes you’ll discover it when you deem it safe, at last, to return. I’ve gone to stay with my old friend in the north. You’ve met her, the one from college. I won’t leave her name or address for obvious reasons, but trust you will seek me out, in time. I miss you so much, my lovely child. Please do not let this path lead you to self-doubt or your own dark place. Be strong and of good heart. I wait for you in patience and in love, your friend and trusting ally, your mother for all time.
Elizabeth read the note twice, then folded it with care. She’d ached for her mother, but in a way was relieved. As much as they loved each other, how could the horrors her father had wrought not thrive in whatever place they shared? Too many shared looks and memories, childhood and holidays, and a thousand different nights. They both needed to find their way first, some manner in which to meet each other’s eyes without drowning in the guilt of their long and mutual ignorance. The time would come, Elizabeth knew, but not soon and not easily. In the meantime, she’d write again and let her mother know she’d found the letter, and that time, at least, remained their friend.
Beckett came next, and the meeting would be hard. She’d spent long nights concocting theories of why he’d done the things he’d done. She had one or two, but theories weren’t answers, and she needed to understand so many things.
Parking near his house, she saw him on the porch in a wheelchair. He couldn’t walk anymore and wasn’t a cop. He taught criminology at the community college, and in the pictures she’d found online, he seemed well enough, though sad. She watched him for a long time, realizing as she did that, in spite of everything, she’d missed him. They’d been partners for four years, and he’d saved her life more than once. Was the wheelchair a large enough price for whatever mistakes he’d made? She didn’t know, yet, but planned to find out.
He didn’t move when he saw her. He didn’t smile, either. “Every day.” He nodded when he said it. “Every day I’ve waited for you to come.” His eyes were dark and troubled, his legs wasted beneath a quilt.
Elizabeth stepped onto the porch. “I’ve tried very hard not to hate you.”
“There’s that, at least.”
“Why’d you do it, Charlie?”
“I never thought anyone would die.” His eyes filled as he said it. “Please believe me when I say that.”
“I do. Now, help me understand. What did he have on you?”
“Elizabeth…”
“I want to know what leverage was so strong you’d put those children and me in danger. No bullshit, either, Charlie. You owe me the truth, at least.”
He sighed and watched the street. “If I do this, I’ll never repeat it again, not to you or anyone else.”
“You understand I can’t make the same promise.” Elizabeth couldn’t hide the way she felt. She was angry and frustrated.
Beckett seemed to accept that. “My wife is an educated woman. College degree. A master’s. She didn’t always cut hair.”