We found a bench in the gardens, in the sun; birds were twittering and rustling in the hedges, darting out to wrestle with discarded sandwich crusts. I left Rosalind there and went back up for the coffee. I took my time, to give her a chance to settle down, but when I got back she was still sitting on the edge of the bench, biting her lip and picking the petals off a daisy.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the coffee and trying to smile. I sat down beside her. “Detective Ryan, have you…have you found out who killed my sister?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But it’s early days. I promise you, we’re doing absolutely everything we can.”
“I know you’ll catch him, Detective Ryan. I knew the minute I saw you. I can tell an awful lot about people from first impressions—sometimes it actually scares me, how often I’m right—and I knew right away that you were the person we needed.”
She was looking up at me with pure, unblemished faith in her eyes. I was flattered, of course I was, but at the same time, this level of trust made me very uncomfortable. She was so sure, and so desperately vulnerable; and, although you try not to think this way, I knew there was a chance this case would never be solved, and I knew exactly what that would do to her.
“I had a dream about you,” Rosalind said, then glanced down, embarrassed. “The night after Katy’s funeral. I hadn’t slept more than an hour a night since she vanished, you know. I was—oh, I was frantic. But seeing you that day…it reminded me not to give up. That night I dreamed you knocked on our door and told me you’d caught the man who did this. You had him in the police car behind you, and you said he’d never hurt anyone again.”
“Rosalind,” I said. I couldn’t take this. “We’re doing our best, and we won’t give up. But you have to prepare yourself for the possibility that it might take a very long time.”
She shook her head. “You’ll find him,” she said simply.
I let it go. “You said there was something you wanted to ask me?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “What happened to my sister, Detective Ryan? Exactly?”
Her eyes were wide and intent, and I wasn’t sure how to handle this: if I told her, would she break down, collapse, scream? The gardens were full of chattery office workers on their lunch break. “I should really let your parents tell you about it,” I said.
“I’m eighteen, you know. You don’t need their permission to talk to me.”
“Still.”
Rosalind bit her bottom lip. “I asked them. He…they…they told me to shut up.”
Something zipped through me—anger, alarm bells, compassion, I’m not sure. “Rosalind,” I said, very gently, “is everything all right at home?”
Her head flew up, mouth open in a little O. “Yes,” she said, in a small, uncertain voice. “Of course.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re very kind,” she said shakily. “You’re so good to me. It’s…everything’s fine.”
“Would you be more comfortable talking to my partner?”
“No,” she said sharply, with what sounded like disapproval in her voice. “I wanted to talk to you because…” She turned the cup in circles in her lap. “I felt like you cared, Detective Ryan. About Katy. Your partner didn’t really seem to care, but you—you’re different.”
“Of course we both care,” I said. I wanted to put a reassuring arm around her, or a hand on hers, or something, but I’ve never been good at that stuff.
“Oh, I know, I know. But your partner…” She gave me a self-deprecating little smile. “I guess I’m a bit scared of her. She’s so aggressive.”
“My partner?” I said, startled. “Detective Maddox?” Cassie has always been the one with a reputation for being good with the families. I get stiff and tongue-tied, but she always seems to know the right thing to say and the gentlest way to say it. Some families still send her sad, valiant, grateful little cards at Christmas.
Rosalind’s hands fluttered helplessly. “Oh, Detective Ryan, I don’t mean it in a bad way. Being aggressive is a good thing, isn’t it—especially in your job? And I’m probably much too sensitive. It was just how she went on at my parents—I know she had to ask all those questions, but it was the way she asked them, so coldly…Jessica was really upset. And she was smiling at me like it was all…Katy’s death wasn’t a joke, Detective Ryan.”
“Very far from it,” I said. I was mentally skimming through that awful session in the Devlins’ sitting room, trying to work out what the hell Cassie had done to get this kid so upset. The only thing I could think of was that she had given Rosalind an encouraging smile, when she sat her down on the sofa. In retrospect, I supposed that could have been a little inappropriate, although hardly enough to warrant this kind of reaction. Shock and grief often do make people overreact in skewed, illogical ways; but still, this level of jumpiness strengthened my feeling that there was something up in that house. “I’m sorry if we gave the impression—”
“No, oh no, not you—you were wonderful. And I know Detective Maddox can’t have meant to seem so—so harsh. Really, I do. Most aggressive people are just trying to be strong, aren’t they? They just don’t want to be insecure, or needy, or anything like that. They’re not actually cruel, underneath.”
“No,” I said, “probably not.” I had a hard time thinking of Cassie as needy; but then, I had never thought of her as aggressive, either. I realized, with a sudden small shot of unease, that I had no way of knowing how Cassie came across to other people. It was like trying to tell whether your sister is pretty, or something: I could no more be objective about her than about myself.
“Have I offended you?” Rosalind looked up at me nervously, pulling at a ringlet. “I have. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I’m always putting my foot in it. I open my silly mouth and everything just comes out, I never learn—”
“No,” I said, “it’s fine. I’m not offended at all.”
“You are. I can tell.” She threw her shawl more closely around her shoulders and flipped her hair out from under it, her face tight and withdrawn.
I knew if I lost her now I might never have another chance. “Honestly,” I said, “I’m not. I was just thinking about what you said. It’s very insightful.”
She played with the fringe of the shawl, not meeting my eyes. “But isn’t she your girlfriend?”
“Detective Maddox? No no no,” I said. “Nothing like that.”
“But I thought from the way she—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, there I go again! Stop, Rosalind!”
I laughed; I couldn’t help it, we were both trying so hard. “Come on,” I said. “Take a deep breath and we’ll start over.”
Slowly, she relaxed back onto the bench. “Thank you, Detective Ryan. But, please…just…what exactly happened to Katy? I keep imagining, you see…I can’t bear not knowing.”
And so (because what could I say to that?) I told her. She didn’t faint or go into hysterics, or even burst into tears. She listened in silence, with her eyes—blue eyes, the color of faded denim—fixed on mine. When I had finished she put her fingers to her lips and stared out into the sunshine, at the neat patterns of hedges, the office workers with their plastic containers and gossip. I patted her shoulder awkwardly. The shawl was cheap stuff, once you touched it, prickly and synthetic, and the childish, pathetic gallantry of it went to my heart. I wanted to say something to her, something wise and profound about how few deaths can match the refined agony of being the one left behind, something that she could remember when she was alone and sleepless and uncomprehending in her room; but I couldn’t find the words.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“So she wasn’t raped?”
There was a flat, hollow note in her voice. “Drink your coffee,” I said, with some obscure notion about hot drinks being good for shock.
“No, no…” She waved her hand distractedly. “Tell me. She wasn’t raped?”
“Not exactly, no. And she was already dead, you know. She didn’t feel a thing.”
“She didn’t suffer much?”
“Hardly at all. She was knocked out almost immediately.”
Suddenly Rosalind bent her head over the coffee cup, and I saw her lips quivering. “I feel awful about it, Detective Ryan. I feel as if I should have protected her better.”
“You didn’t know.”
“But I should have known. I should have been there, not having fun with my cousins. I’m a terrible sister, aren’t I?”
“You are not responsible for Katy’s death,” I said firmly. “It sounds to me as though you were a wonderful sister to her. There’s nothing you could have done.”
“But—” She stopped, shook her head.
“But what?”
“Oh…I should have known. That’s all. Never mind.” She smiled tentatively up at me, through her hair. “Thank you for telling me.”
“My turn,” I said. “Can I ask you a couple of things?”
She looked apprehensive, but she took a deep breath and nodded.
“Your father said Katy wasn’t into boys yet,” I said. “Is that true?”