“How so?”
“Well, it’s been a couple days, and I haven’t heard anything more. It seems to me if something was going to happen, I’d know by now. Like I said, I don’t want to waste your time.”
“Well, since you’re here, why don’t you tell me what happened.” She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the desk, and hooked an errant strand of faded hair behind her ear, an unconscious gesture I’d seen Sophie do a million times. “Start from the beginning.”
The beginning. What beginning? What had led me to this second-rate office because I’d shoved a woman? At what point had my life irrevocably shattered? When Lucy was killed? When Sophie moved into the guest room? Or had it all been set in motion long ago? Was it all payment for some karmic debt I had incurred? Although I didn’t believe that shite, I couldn’t push the thought away.
“Will? Are you with me here?”
“What? Yes. Right.”
“What day did this happen on?”
“Day?” I pulled my attention back. “Wednesday. This past Wednesday.”
“Start with anything. What was the weather?”
“Raining. It had been raining.” Gradually I recalled the day. The visit to Holy Apostles to return the book to Father Gervase. The glass of sherry. The stop by the Crow’s Nest, the two beers I’d had there. Gordon coming in and triggering memories. My return home to find the reporter in our drive.
“Good,” she said. “You’re doing great.”
I recounted the conversation with Hurley. When I got to the part when I’d pushed the reporter, I tried to gauge Donaldson’s reaction, wondered if her sympathies would lie with the other woman, but her face remained impassive. I told her about going into the house and leaving the reporter screaming at me and then how later that night the detective had come by. On this retelling of the episode, the fourth time I had gone over it, I felt distanced from it all, as if I were recalling a movie I had seen long ago. She listened with a disconcerting attentiveness, her eyes never leaving my face except to take a few notes. When I was finished, I’d given her a complete picture of that day and evening. I sank back and waited for her to join the chorus of people who had told me how I’d screwed up.
“There are no worms,” she said after several minutes.
“No worms?” Christ, what a disaster it was turning into.
“Words,” she said. “There are no words I can say to convey how very sorry I am about what happened to your daughter.”
I shifted my gaze to the room’s one window and stared out on the street.
“Okay,” she said, her tone now all business. She reached into a small refrigerator—the squat, blocklike cube like those students kept in dorm rooms—removed two bottles of water, and handed one across the desk to me. The phone on her desk rang, and she pressed the mute button and let the call go to voice mail.
“Let’s start with this. I don’t think you’re overreacting. The fact is that you pushed her, she fell, and as a result sustained an injury.”
“A scrape. For Christ’s sake. She just scraped her knee.”
Again she arched her brow. “And apparently was upset enough to report it to the police.”
“But hasn’t followed through on it.”
“Look, Will, I’m not here to debate you,” she said. “If you decide to go ahead with me, you need to understand that I’m here to represent you, to act in your best interests.”
No problem there. I had no intention of going ahead with her. I had seen Payton Hayes, agreed to see Donaldson. In my mind I had fulfilled my promise to Sophie, and I just wanted to leave and get something to eat. I was light-headed with hunger.
“And in return I ask that you tell me everything so if we go ahead with this, I’m not hit with any surprises down the road.”
“As I said, this is probably a waste of both of our time. I think the best thing is for me to wait and see if this whole thing just goes away. Certainly that seems to be what is happening.”
Her eyes—green I now noticed—searched my face. “And you’re okay with that, with waiting to see?”
“I don’t see much choice.”
“There is always a choice.”
“Really?” I didn’t bother to mask my sarcasm.
“Let’s say you’re right—the best-case scenario is Hurley doesn’t follow up on this. From what you’ve told me the injury wasn’t serious, discounting bruised pride, so she might decide this isn’t worth the trouble to pursue.” She paused to twist the cap off the bottle, took a drink. “So you’re right. You could sit tight and see how it plays out. But there’s another way this could be handled. Another choice. A more proactive approach.”
“Proactive?”
“You could stop any action on her part before the court system gets involved.”
“How’s that?”
“She came to your home to interview you, correct?”
“Right.”
“So you phone her.”
“I phone her?”
“Yes. You defuse the situation. You apologize. Say you were caught off guard with her questions, tell her how traumatic the year has been.”
“You’ve got to be freaking kidding.”
Donaldson continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “And then you give her what she wants. You agree to an interview.”
“Forget it. Not happening.”
“Why don’t you take the weekend to think it over. To consider it.”
“No need. It’s not happening.” I pushed out of the chair. “What do I owe you for today?”
“Today is a consultation. There’s no charge. If after you think it over you decide you want to continue, or if the reporter does follow through and swears out a complaint, I’ll require a retainer. From that point on you would refer everything to me. Anyone who contacts you—police, her lawyer, reporters, anyone at all—you’d refer them to me.”
“Nothing is going to happen.”
She studied me for a moment. “Okay then. We’re done here then.”
She ushered me to the door. “Good luck, Will.”
Outside, in spite of the warmth of the May sun, I shivered.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Despite the burnished light of late afternoon and the mild temperature outside, Father Gervase regretted not having worn a heavier sweater when he’d come out to the chapel.