Текст книги "Boy in the Water"

Автор книги: Stephen Dobyns

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

–

When Hawthorne and Kate got back to Bishop’s Hill about two-thirty, Hawthorne wanted to see Skander right away. But Kate said he should wait. Hawthorne was angry and he needed time to calm himself. They had talked about Pendergast’s accusations all the way back from Vermont: whether they were true, whether they were exaggerated, whether they were even worse than Pendergast had said. Hawthorne hadn’t recognized the name Peter Roberts; Kate found it familiar. Not only did Hawthorne feel betrayed by Skander, he felt he had been made a fool of.

They were standing in the parking lot by Kate’s small green Honda. The sky was overcast and it seemed to be already getting dark. “I’m as upset as you are,” Kate said. “They should all be in jail. Not just Pendergast—Fritz and Roger, too, if he’s telling the truth. But it makes more sense to wait till you have enough to take to the police. You don’t know what Skander might do if you frighten him.”

“I’d still like to hear his reaction to some of this. Anyway, I’m glad you came with me to Vermont.”

She stared back at him without speaking. He thought how large her eyes looked. Without any plan, he reached out and pressed his hand to her cheek. It was Kate’s own face he felt, not anyone else’s. He was almost sure of it. She continued looking at him and he could see the question forming in her dark eyes.

–

Hawthorne returned to his office and spent an hour going over the student files. There was no trace of Peter Roberts, but then, why would there be if Pendergast was right? Hawthorne would have to ask the other teachers if they had heard of him. Then he studied the other names and tried to recall the names of students that he knew. Were there others who weren’t listed? He couldn’t tell. Then he went over the accounts, adding up items that had apparently been ordered but were nowhere to be found. Had Fritz really faked the order for a three-hundred-dollar trombone?

Students were leaving. Several parents wanted to talk to Hawthorne and he spoke to them in his office. Hilda showed them in with little trace of her former good humor. She glanced nervously at the stacks of papers on Hawthorne’s desk and tried to see what was on the computer monitor before he shut it off.

Parents were concerned about the school and their children’s safety. Hawthorne said he expected that the police would soon make an arrest. He talked about the two new psychologists who would be joining the staff in January. He felt as much a hypocrite as Lloyd Pendergast, trying to be hearty and full of optimism, but Bishop’s Hill would have no chance of surviving if half the student body withdrew over Christmas vacation. That would be playing into Hamilton Burke’s hands. And Hawthorne was sure an arrest would be made shortly, though he still found it hard to believe that Larry Gaudette was the killer. Beyond that, however, was the possibility of other scandals—Pendergast and Skander and Roger Bennett. Pendergast was right, the papers would have a field day.

Later in the afternoon Hawthorne taught his history class. Only four students showed up. They discussed fear and how fear could increase without there being any real cause. They talked about their feelings and their grief.

“All I know,” said Tommy Peters, “is that I’ll be awfully glad to get on that bus on Friday.”

After class Hawthorne returned to his office. He tried to go over the accounts once again but he couldn’t keep his mind on anything. Hilda had left early and there was only the faint smell of peppermint drops to indicate that she had been there at all. Before dinner he visited the dormitory cottages, chatting with the students and trying to keep their spirits up. Then he went to the library, which was empty except for Bill Dolittle.

“We might as well have sent them home days ago,” said Dolittle.

Hawthorne still hadn’t talked to him about moving more furniture into the empty apartment in Stark Hall. Even if Dolittle was ineffectual, he was at least friendly.

“It will be over soon,” said Hawthorne.

“Storms must be weathered,” said Dolittle. “At least that’s what they say.”

Fewer than sixty people were at dinner, half the usual number. Gene Strauss and Alice Beech joined Hawthorne at the headmaster’s table, along with two students. Usually during dinner there was talking and laughter, but tonight it was quiet. Hawthorne wished there were at least music and he imagined funereal organ music and almost smiled. Neither Skander nor Bennett came to dinner, although Bennett’s wife, the chaplain, sat at the head of one of the student tables. From the kitchen came the sound of pots crashing and once a broken plate. The student waiters were jumpy and moved too quickly. Hawthorne restrained himself from going into the kitchen and speaking to LeBrun. About ten minutes after dinner had begun, Jessica Weaver came in and sat at a table with Tom Hastings and two girls. Students were expected to be on time for meals, but no one seemed even to notice Jessica’s arrival. Hawthorne tried to make conversation with his colleagues and the students, but he kept thinking about Pendergast’s accusations and what he would say to Fritz Skander. Toward the end of the meal a state trooper looked into the dining hall, then went out again.

After dinner Hawthorne decided to visit Skander. He still couldn’t quite reconcile the Skander he thought he knew with the one in Pendergast’s stories. Even if he didn’t tell Fritz all that Pendergast had said, he might form some idea of the truth. After all, he was a clinical psychologist, a trained listener. Therefore, around seven, he walked over to Skander’s house. The paths had been shoveled but there was still a foot of snow on the ground. It was cold and no stars could be seen. A small road curved past the dormitory cottages and faculty houses, with lights every ten yards. Skander’s house was about a hundred yards past the farthest cottage, just fifty yards from the woods.

Hawthorne climbed the steps. The porch light was out and he felt around for the doorbell. The air had that damp feeling it gets before snow.

Hilda answered the door. She was hesitant about letting Hawthorne come in. “Fritz is working.” She appeared to hope that Hawthorne would apologize and say that whatever he wanted could wait until morning. A dog was barking in a farther room.

“This won’t take long.” Hawthorne stamped his feet and removed his gloves.

When Hilda showed Hawthorne into the study, Skander hurriedly got up from his desk and came to shake Hawthorne’s hand. “What a pleasant surprise.” One whole wall was a bookcase. Several of the shelves displayed golf and bowling trophies.

Hawthorne was struck by how genuine his smile appeared. He began to think that Pendergast hadn’t been entirely truthful. “I met Lloyd Pendergast today,” said Hawthorne, after Hilda had left them alone.

Skander’s smile widened. “Dear old Pendergast. You must tell me how he is.”

“He told me you forced him to resign after Gail Jensen’s death.”

At first Skander made no response. Then he raised his eyebrows and leaned forward as if he weren’t sure he had heard correctly. “And why would I have done that?”

“Because he believed you were embezzling money, pretending to order things for the school and keeping the money for yourself. Was that what happened to the trombone? Did you pocket the three hundred dollars?” Hawthorne had remained by the door. He kept his voice calm but his fists were clenched in the pockets of his overcoat.

Skander massaged his brow. For a moment he stared down at the rug, and when he at last looked up, he appeared concerned, though not for himself. “Jim, this is really embarrassing. You understand, of course, that I wouldn’t be popular with Pendergast. He was terribly afraid of going to jail. I felt if I went to the authorities it would do great harm to the school. Even then we were barely keeping our heads above water. It seemed that if Pendergast resigned, if he simply went away, we would have a chance of hiring someone truly qualified. Someone like yourself. I promised him that I would keep quiet and I kept my word, even though it’s hurt me to do so.”

“You frightened Mrs. Hayes into quitting and you frightened Clifford Evings. Did you pay somebody to wreck his office or did you do it yourself? You or Roger got Jessica Weaver drunk and sent her over to my apartment so you could blackmail me in the same way you blackmailed Pendergast. And that business with the painting and the phone calls from my dead wife and all the gossip and slander . . .” Hawthorne stopped himself. Out of anger he was saying more than he had intended.

Skander continued to look stricken. He held out a hand toward Hawthorne as if imploring him to stop. “Jim, I don’t know what to say. What painting are you talking about? Roger certainly hasn’t confided in me about what he might or might not have done. And if you feel there’s the slightest irregularity with the accounts, then I really demand that you have an audit immediately.”

Although Hawthorne didn’t trust Skander, he could see nothing in his face, his eyes, his gestures, even his words that convinced him the man was lying. Skander’s earnestness, his apparent embarrassment, his concern for Hawthorne’s well-being—instead of being angry at Skander, Hawthorne found himself growing angry with Pendergast. On the other hand, he couldn’t rely on Skander’s appearance. He needed facts.

“I’ll see about an audit first thing tomorrow,” Hawthorne said.

Skander took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Surely the wisest course. But, Jim, this is truly hurtful. I thought we were closer than this, that we trusted each other. I love Bishop’s Hill. It’s my entire life. Why would I do any of this?” There was no anger or fear in Skander’s expression; rather, he regarded Hawthorne as one might look at a dear friend who has become ill.

Hawthorne pressed on. “Because if I quit and the school closes, then Burke can sell the facility to the Galileo Corporation. And you’ll stay on, perhaps even as bursar or associate director. You’ll make more money, won’t have to teach, and won’t even have to move from your house.”

“Jim, Jim, forgive me for being blunt. You must not turn your back on your true friends. If we don’t work together, then I don’t see how the school can be saved. I’m completely bewildered by all this venom. Please, think hard before you do anything rash.” He reached out to put a hand on Hawthorne’s shoulder, but Hawthorne stepped back.

“One more thing,” asked Hawthorne. “What can you tell me about a student by the name of Peter Roberts? He doesn’t seem to be on the books.”

Skander’s face seemed to pause in its solicitude, then his expression of concern reasserted itself. “Peter Roberts? I don’t believe I know the name. Is he new?”

Eleven

Roger Bennett’s palms were sweating and he kept rubbing them on his corduroy trousers. He leaned against the doorjamb, trying to appear relaxed, but in truth he was afraid. He felt a prickling on his skin, as if what he wanted to do most was to run: to rush down the stairs and into the falling snow. He had spent much of his adult life feeling confident of his superiority, telling students what to do and making them do it. He had no experience with being terrified of another human being. Fritz Skander, on the other hand—so Bennett thought—looked perfectly calm, but perhaps he too was frightened and had the sense not to show it. Bennett was unsure of this. He never knew what Fritz was feeling unless Fritz told him, and even then Bennett wasn’t entirely convinced.

It had been Bennett’s idea that they should keep their mouths shut or, if they had to speak, that they should deny everything. But Fritz said they no longer had a choice—Hawthorne’s discovery of the Peter Roberts scheme and his insistence on an audit meant it was just a matter of time until Hawthorne uncovered the extent of their misconduct, including their arrangement with LeBrun. Luckily, Roberts had not returned to school that fall, but many teachers remembered him, and the family lived in Keene. It would take very little investigation to prove what had happened. The two of them would go to jail. And the unfolding of the evidence against them was a process that would begin with the audit on Wednesday. Far better, Fritz had insisted, to call on the services of Frank LeBrun again.

Frank LeBrun sat on his bed watching Fritz, his face expressionless, although now and then he glanced at Bennett and grinned. Each time, Bennett wanted to bolt. Bennett wondered if LeBrun had had sex with Jessica on that narrow bed or if they had done it on the couch. Most likely they had done it all over the room. The shades were drawn, although it was only shortly after breakfast on Saturday, and the ceiling light was on. The one picture on the wall was a calendar with a photograph of a covered bridge. Looking closer, Bennett thought he was wrong about the date, then he asked himself what sort of idiot would hang up a thirteen-year-old calendar.

Fritz was talking and his tone was gentle, as if he were addressing a child he loved. “It’s truly incredible for me to realize what you have done. When I told you on Thanksgiving that the boy had come to me with those wild stories, I thought you’d simply be amused. At most, I thought you might speak to him. Ask him to cease and desist. After all, people gossip and the fact that Larry was nowhere to be found might make people imagine that he had indeed come to harm. So the boy’s story, it had to be no more than an insensitive prank. Youthful monkey-shines. I would have told him myself to put a lid on it, but it was Thanksgiving and one thing led to another and we were having guests. A busy day for all of us, no doubt. Yet when the boy told me that he needed to find Dr. Hawthorne and that Jim might use this information against you, might in fact cause you an injury, I thought it my duty to tell you what the youngster had said. I thought you would just admonish him, scold him, urge him to keep quiet. Dear, dear, did you really have to murder him?”

LeBrun leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking up at Fritz with his head slightly tilted. He wore faded jeans and a white shirt with stains from the kitchen—oil and coffee, a bit of red jam. With his head tilted, LeBrun’s thin face looked decidedly freakish to Bennett, like features stuck on the spine of a book. LeBrun didn’t speak; he watched Fritz and gently rubbed one hand across the black hairs on the back of the other. Fritz leaned against the bureau with his hands in the pockets of his tweed slacks and occasionally jingled a few coins. He was smiling benignly, but with a trace of disappointment.

“Of course,” said Fritz, “I wouldn’t dream of saying anything to anyone, though I must say the police have been an utter nuisance. But you have us over a barrel, Frank, you really do. If I didn’t like you and didn’t feel you deserved far more than life, in its intrinsic unfairness, has given you, then I might be tempted to reveal what happened to that boy. And the cat, we mustn’t forget the cat. But what would be the result? If the police arrested you, then you might be tempted to tell them about that unfortunate prank in Clifford’s office. I remain astonished at my folly in encouraging you to do it, even giving you some small sum. I don’t know what I was thinking. But here was this fellow being totally useless yet earning a good salary. That money could have gone to other places where it was desperately needed. Scholarships, for instance. I was frustrated, that’s the most I can say in my defense, and of course I worried about what was best for the school. My hope was that he might go away, just as Mrs. Hayes had gone away. Surely, you were as horrified as I when Clifford chose to end his life—a spiteful act, in any case—though we can’t say for certain that the damage to his office was the actual cause. And I wouldn’t blame you for telling the police—after all, an exchange of information might make them more lenient. And the tequila and the girl, another piece of bad judgment—no, no, it’s quite obvious that we overreached ourselves. The best plan is to keep quiet about you and poor Scott McKinnon. And Roger, too, is the soul of discretion. His lips are sealed. But, really, can we say the same of Dr. Hawthorne? If he is truly planning to dismiss you for what you said to those boorish students—and that is only what I’ve heard, he hasn’t spoken to me about it directly—then what would he do if he knew that you had murdered Scott McKinnon? No, no, my friend, I’m afraid you can’t count on him.”

Still LeBrun didn’t speak. He glanced over at Bennett and grinned. Bennett had to force himself not to jump, to keep his face still, and not to wipe his palms on his trousers. It was the uncertainty that disturbed him. He hadn’t the least idea what was passing through LeBrun’s head. In fact, he wasn’t sure what Fritz intended, except that he hoped to plant the seeds of suspicion, even fear, so that LeBrun would do something about Hawthorne. Enlisting the cook had been Skander’s idea from the beginning. Bennett had never felt quite right about him, but he hadn’t been insistent enough. Now it was too late to turn back.

“You must realize, of course, that Dr. Hawthorne is a clinical psychologist,” continued Skander, “practically a psychiatrist, though he can’t hand out pills. Perhaps you’ve had contact with such people in your time—always asking how you feel and if you’re happy. And psychologists often suffer from an inferiority complex about not having a medical degree. It makes them more devious. That’s the thing about Hawthorne, isn’t it? You never know if what he says is true. Perhaps he’s saying it because he thinks that’s what you should hear. For instance, if he tells you how good you look, who knows if that’s what he feels? Rather, that’s the strategy he’s devised. In fact, he may have decided you could benefit from the deception. To me he’s been quite open about you, and let me tell you that I’ve found it shocking. Just because you haven’t had the educational advantages of the rest of us doesn’t mean you aren’t intelligent. I’ve been quite straightforward about that. Even blunt. Your French Canadian heritage, the way you speak, your lack of sophistication, even your jokes—no, no, I’ve told Dr. Hawthorne right to his face that he mustn’t judge you. Indeed, I’ve told him that I didn’t want to hear you verbally abused in my presence, that even if you weren’t as fortunate as he, it didn’t mean you could be turned into a figure of fun and ridiculed. He’s not a trustworthy sort, if you see what I mean. And I think he rather liked young Scott.”

LeBrun got to his feet and walked across his small apartment to the refrigerator. He opened the door and took out a bottle of Budweiser. “You want one?” he asked Skander.

“Much too early for me, I’m afraid.”

LeBrun held up a bottle toward Bennett, who shook his head. “What’s wrong, Bennett, you’re not smiling. Aren’t you the guy who’s always smiling? You used to be a regular clown.” Taking an opener from a drawer, LeBrun popped the top, put the bottle to his lips, and tilted back his head. Bennett watched him drink nearly the whole bottle without pausing. Then LeBrun lowered the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and belched. “So what you’re telling me,” said LeBrun, leaning against the refrigerator, “is that I have to kill Hawthorne. You’re saying I got no choice.”

–

The snow blew horizontally into the windshield and then clogged the wipers, forcing Hawthorne to roll down his window, reach around, and flick the wiper, knocking the snow off so he could see, at least for another five minutes, until he had to roll down the window and knock off the snow all over again. The usual thirty-five-minute drive from Bishop’s Hill to Plymouth had taken over an hour and during that time the winter weather advisory had been upgraded to a storm warning. Hawthorne had brought four students to Plymouth so they could catch the bus to Logan Airport in Boston. Luckily, most of the other students had left the previous day. Concord Trailways had assured Hawthorne over the phone that the bus would be running, though it might be late. Hawthorne himself had been a little late, but he’d still been able to get the students to the bus station—a gas station and convenience store with a bench—by noon. That evening Hawthorne was supposed to visit Kate; her son was with his father. Hawthorne told himself that he would be there no matter what—snowstorms, hurricanes, tornadoes notwithstanding.

Jessica Weaver had come along. All week she had been skipping meals and looking depressed and anxious. Helen Selkirk had told Hawthorne, “Not even her kitten cheers her up.” But Helen had taken the bus to Boston two days earlier, leaving Jessica alone in their dorm room. So Hawthorne had decided to bring her to Plymouth and buy her lunch after dropping off the other kids. Jessica’s stepfather planned to pick her up at school either that day or the next, although Hawthorne thought that he might be delayed by the snow.

“He’s got a Jeep Wrangler,” Jessica told him, “it’s one of his toys. He thinks he can go anywhere. He’ll be there all right.”

“You don’t seem to be looking forward to it.”

“I hate him,” Jessica answered perfectly calmly. “I wish he was dead. But at least I might see my brother. If it weren’t for Jason, I wouldn’t be going home at all.”

“Is that what’s been bothering you?”

“Partly. Have you ever felt that you really deserved to be punished?”

“For what sort of thing?”

“I don’t want to say, but it’s about the worst thing in the world.”

“Does it concern your stepfather?”

“Sure, but it concerns me a lot more.”

Hawthorne had spoken with Jessica’s stepfather over the phone, although he had never met him. Peter Tremblay had the genial and articulate manner of a professional speaker—a lawyer well-practiced in boardrooms and courtrooms. In this way, he reminded Hawthorne of Hamilton Burke. Hawthorne wondered how such people were when they became sad or wistful or sentimental, when they expressed anything other than authority and hearty assurance.

“What about your mother?” Hawthorne asked.

“Dolly’s too scared of Tremblay to complain. But they’re going to be flying to Las Vegas right after Christmas. Tremblay loves to gamble but he’s not very good at it. And Dolly loves to drink. He’s hired a baby-sitter from an agency to take care of me and Jason, which surprised me.”

“Why should it surprise you?”

Jessica didn’t answer right away. “Tremblay doesn’t like to leave us together. He thinks we conspire against him.”

“And do you?”

“Of course.”

From the bus station, Hawthorne drove Jessica to a diner called Main Street Station, across from Plymouth State College. He parked and they waded through the snow to the diner, which had a bright yellow front, a green metal awning, and two green pillars. Inside were red booths trimmed with dark maple and thirteen red-topped stools along a marble counter. They took a booth by a window that looked out from about six feet above the sidewalk. Cars and pickups were crawling along with their lights on and there was the jingle of snow chains. Across the street and up the hill beyond the parking lot, the four-story Rounds Hall was barely visible, its clock tower a blur in the blowing snow. Four students passed on cross-country skis right down the middle of the street.

Jessica ordered a half-pound monster burger with guacamole, jalapeño peppers, and sautéed mushrooms, and a strawberry frappe. Hawthorne got the turkey club, French fries, and a cup of coffee. The young waitress smiled as if she thought Jessica was his daughter. At the counter, four men were drinking coffee, each with a puddle of melting snow beneath his stool.

“So,” said Hawthorne, wanting to continue the conversation they had had in the car, “what’s this thing that’s the worst thing in the world?”

Jessica’s hair hung in two braids. She had unzipped her down jacket and underneath she wore her blue University of New Hampshire sweatshirt. “I don’t know, it’s not that big a deal. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Does it have to do with what happened before you came to Bishop’s Hill?”

“Partly.”

“And what else?”

“Just a lot of bullshit.” Jessica seemed no longer interested in talking. She sipped her water, then set her glass back on the table. She stared out the window and didn’t look at Hawthorne. Each window had a border of red stained glass running across the top. “I miss my brother,” she said at last.

“You’ll be seeing him tomorrow, won’t you?”

“I guess so.” Jessica tore open a packet of sugar, poured it into her hand, and licked it slowly. Her tongue was pointed and very pink.

“So it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

Jessica crumpled up the empty sugar packet. “You can probably figure it out.” She again seemed to be deflecting his questions.

“What do you mean?”

“Your wife and kid were killed, right? Well, my father was killed.”

Hawthorne remembered that Jessica’s father had died in an accident in which he had been flying his own plane “You think about your dad a lot?”

“He was my best friend. He protected me.”

“I’d like to be a friend as well,” said Hawthorne. “I want you to believe that you can trust me.”

Jessica’s voice hardened. “You don’t replace best friends as easily as that.”

Hawthorne winced and Jessica resumed staring out the window. All at once he saw her sit up as if someone had jabbed her with a needle. Glancing out the window, he looked down on a familiar figure bundled up against the weather. He recognized the green hunting jacket before he recognized the man. It was LeBrun, with someone whom Hawthorne didn’t think he knew, though from where he was, above them, he couldn’t see their faces. They were talking. The other man wore a red ski cap and seemed older. Then they disappeared.

“Frank LeBrun,” said Hawthorne. “Who was the other fellow?”

“I’m not sure,” said Jessica.

Her tone seemed purposely vague. She began tearing open another packet of sugar. The father in Hawthorne wanted to tell her that it was bad for her teeth or would ruin her lunch or would give her pimples. He was impressed that LeBrun had driven into Plymouth in such weather. But LeBrun had been born and bred in New Hampshire. This was probably nothing to him.

“Frank’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?” said Hawthorne.

Jessica crumpled the empty packet and dropped it in the ashtray. “Not particularly.” There was a tension in her face that hadn’t been there before. She looked scared.

“I thought you liked visiting him in the kitchen.”

“He frightens me.”

“How?”

Jessica didn’t say anything to that.

“It was LeBrun who gave you the tequila, wasn’t it?” said Hawthorne, leaning forward. It wasn’t really a question. “Who was the man with him?”

Jessica turned to him sharply. “Leave me alone, will you? What’d you do, bring me here to grill me? I can walk back to school, you know.”

“It’s twenty miles,” said Hawthorne, trying not to smile.

“I don’t give a fuck.” She straightened her jacket as if she meant to zip it up, then she began to pick at the patch of duct tape on the front.

The waitress brought their lunches. “Isn’t it a shame how it always snows on a Saturday instead of on a school day,” she said, beaming at Jessica. Above the table was a hanging light with a red glass shade. It swayed slightly as she set down the plates. The French fries were awesome, she told them.

Jessica continued to look out the window as if the waitress weren’t there. After the young woman left, Jessica began poking at the bun of her sandwich with her index finger, making deep indentations and causing the guacamole to ooze out at the sides.

Hawthorne started to say something, then took a bite of his own sandwich instead. He supposed it was impossible not to feel paternal with a fifteen-year-old. He thought of LeBrun. The cook had said he’d be leaving for Christmas and he wasn’t sure if he’d be back. Although he liked his job, he had a lot that he needed to do. “I got business all over the place,” LeBrun had said. Hawthorne hadn’t asked what sort of business.

After Jessica had eaten half of her hamburger, Hawthorne said, “Frank told me he hardly knew who Scott was, then later he said that Scott was in the kitchen all the time. He said that he and Scott were always telling jokes to each other, that he hadn’t wanted to tell me the truth earlier because he was afraid of the police.” Hawthorne let the sentence hang and returned to his sandwich. It was cut into quarters and each quarter had been pierced with a toothpick ending in a red frazzle. There was also a pickle and a small cupful of coleslaw.

“You don’t know LeBrun,” said Jessica. “You don’t know the stuff he can do.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Like you don’t know he was the one who wrecked Evings’s office. You don’t know shit.”

“Why did he wreck Mr. Evings’s office?”

“Find out for yourself.”

“How does that make you feel, not to tell me?”

Jessica pushed away her hamburger. “Don’t give me that ‘feel’ shit. I’ve already been down that road. All I’m saying is that you got to watch out. I’m not saying more than that.”

“It scared you seeing LeBrun with that man, didn’t it?”

Jessica said nothing. She had turned away and had begun to free her hair from the two braids. Then she said, “Have you ever done something so bad that when something bad happens to you you think you must have deserved it?”

“Maybe.” Hawthorne watched her carefully. It seemed obvious she was talking about herself and not him. “It digs at you, doesn’t it?”

“It makes me think that I’ve got to put up with stuff.”

“You don’t have to put up with anything.”

She ran her fingers through her hair, then shook her head so the hair swung free. It made her look older. “If you were bad enough, you do.”

“Is this the thing that’s the worst thing in the world?”

Jessica was looking at an old man at the counter who was putting on his overcoat. After another minute, Hawthorne said, “You need to trust me. You have to believe I’m on your side.”