“Maybe.”
“Should I be the only one to remember what he did?”
“No. Never.”
“What did you see when you looked at his face?”
“Shame. Regret.”
“Anything else?”
“I saw fear,” Channing said. “I saw a great, giant world of fear.”
*
That was the point, and it sank into the girl as Elizabeth drove them to an old diner on a stretch of empty road on the far side of the county. Blacktop ran off, unbroken, the sky domed above them.
The girl ate in neat bites, smiled twice at the waitress, but in the car, later, looked drawn. “If you tell me everything will be okay, I’ll believe you.”
“Everything will be okay.”
“Do you promise?”
Elizabeth took a left and stopped at a light. “You’re just wounded,” she said. “Wounds heal.”
“Always?”
“If you’re strong.” The light turned green. “And if you’re in the right.”
They rode in silence after that, and the day seemed brighter. Channing found a song on the radio; let an open hand drag in the rush of air. This would be a fine day, Elizabeth decided, and for a while it was. They returned to Elizabeth’s house, and the minutes folded around them. The porch was shaded, the silence between them easy. When they did speak, it was of small things: a young man on the street, a hummingbird on the feeder. But when Channing closed her eyes, Elizabeth recognized the tightness in her lids, the way her arms banded white across her ribs. Elizabeth remembered the feeling from childhood, and it was one more thing between them, this sudden fear of flying apart. “Are you okay?”
“Yes and no.” The girl’s eyes opened, and the chair stopped rocking. “Do you mind if I take a soak?”
“Take your time, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“Open the window if you like. Call me if you need anything.”
Channing nodded, and Elizabeth watched her enter the house. It took a minute, but the window scraped open, and she heard water run in the old porcelain tub. For long minutes she tried to find her own peace, but that, too, was impossible.
Her father made certain.
She watched his car ease down the shaded lane and tried to stifle the deep unease its presence created. He avoided parts of her life. The police station. This street. When they did meet, it was in her mother’s presence or on some neutral ground. The policy suited them both. Less resentment and raw nerve. Less chance of an argument. Because of that she met him now as far from the house as she could, and he seemed to want it the same way, stopping twenty feet from the porch and shading his eyes as he climbed from the car.
“What are you doing here?” Her words grated harshly, but they often did.
“Can’t a man visit his daughter?”
“You never have.”
Tapered hands went into the pockets of black pants. He sighed and shook his head, but Elizabeth wasn’t fooled. Her father did nothing without purpose and wouldn’t be at her home without some powerful reason.
“Why are you here, Dad? Why now?”
“Harrison called me.”
“Of course,” she said. “And he told you of my visit.”
Her father sighed again and fastened his dark eyes on hers. “Is compassion still beyond you?”
“For Harrison Spivey?”
“For a man who has known nothing but regret for sixteen years, for a decent man struggling to rectify the sins of his past.”
“Is that why you’re here? Because I’ve seen no struggle.”
“Yet, he raises his children and is charitable and seeks only your forgiveness.”
“I won’t be lectured about Harrison Spivey.”
“Will you talk about this?”
He pulled photos from the front seat and dropped them on the hood of his car. Elizabeth picked them up and felt a twist of sudden nausea. “Where did you get these?”
“They were given to your mother,” he replied. “Who is now heartbroken beyond any power to console.”
Elizabeth flipped through the stack, but knew what images were there. They came from the autopsy and the basement, full color and graphic. “State police?” She saw the answer on her father’s face. “What did they want?”
“They were inquiring about odd behavior, confession, expressions of regret.”
“And you let them show these to Mom?”
“Don’t be angry at me, Elizabeth, when your choices alone brought us to this place.”
“Is she okay?”
“Your vanity and need to rebel—”
“Dad, please.”
“Your obsession with violence and justice and Adrian Wall.”
The words were loud enough to carry, and Elizabeth glanced at the house, knowing Channing must have heard. “Please lower your voice.”
“Did you kill these men?”
She held the stare and felt the weight of his condemnation. It was like this between them and always would be. The old and the young. The laws of God and those of men.