man’s arm, feeling the thin ropes of muscle through the coarse fabric of his shirt. Rosten flinched beneath his touch but didn’t pull away. “They’re only words, James. And they might be worth it. To get you outside again.”
“I’ve got no place to go.”
“Talk to Archie Goodfellow. There are halfway houses. Agencies.”
“Right. Ready to welcome the confessed schoolgirl murderer with open arms.”
Green said nothing. He knew it was a hell of a millstone, but he’d also seen people rise above much worse. Above unimaginable loss.
“And what would I do?” James added.
“That’s a question only you can answer. What do you want to do with the thirty years ahead? Rot in here, consumed with a bitterness and anger that everyone else has forgotten? Or get out there and see what use you can be.”
Chapter Three
Green could have phoned Marilyn right away, but a vague unease held him back. At the funeral she had almost spat out Rosten’s name and Green could feel her suppressed fury. Lucas’s death and Rosten’s letter had torn the scab off the old wound, exposing it raw and bleeding to the open air. More than talk, she needed time to heal.
After two weeks of inner debate and doubt, however, he found himself back on the road to Navan, hoping his message would ultimately bring her peace. The day was crisp and clear, but the March sun held no warmth as it glared off the snowy fields. Parked in Marilyn’s drive behind her ancient Honda was an unfamiliar pickup with stacks of folded cardboard boxes in the back.
Green skidded to a stop inches from its bumper and picked a path through the icy ruts to the front door. From inside came the warbling strains of “Yesterday” by The Beatles, sung with more gusto than accuracy. He tapped on the front door and the singing stopped abruptly. After an apparent eternity, he heard shuffling in the front hall and the door cracked open. Marilyn peered out, blinking with apprehension in the dazzling sunlight. Her face flushed deep red as she pulled the door wide.
“Oh my, but you gave me a fright! I’m sorry you had to hear that. I don’t generally inflict my singing on my worst enemy, let alone my very dear friends.”
He stepped into the narrow hallway and was hit by a wave of hot, stale air, redolent with chocolate and gin. Since it was barely noon, he suppressed a twinge of worry. It was not his business; the woman was entitled to use whatever crutch she needed to get through these first few months. He remembered his own father, who had retreated behind a silence so impenetrable after the death of Green’s mother that Green had been powerless to breach the walls. In Sid Green’s case, too, the scars of a previous unbearable loss had been ripped open again. The terrors of the Holocaust, the loss of his first wife and two infant children … All had come flooding back. No one had the right to judge how a survivor gets through the day.
Instead Green merely smiled. “We’ll try a duet next time. Drive both our friends and enemies away.”
She laughed and pushed wisps of white hair from her face. Her cheeks were still red and her eyes shone a little too brightly, but Green detected an inner peace in her expression. A softening of the brittle edges he had seen at the funeral. Perhaps she had even put a little weight on her frail frame.
“You’re looking well,” he said. “The kids still here?”
She tried for a light-hearted shrug. “What are they going to do here? Get in my hair? Make more work for me with all that cooking and washing up? They have no friends out here anymore, and truth be told, not many left in Ottawa either. When the trial ended, they both couldn’t wait to get away. Start fresh. Can’t blame them, can you? They were young and they had their own paths to make. I myself left my parents to come over here when I was just nineteen, and I never looked back. I went home to Leeds for their funerals but that was it. It’s nature’s way, isn’t it?”
Green thought of his own daughter, Hannah, who swirled in and out of his life, leaving an ache in her wake and a delicious thrill at each return. He nodded. “You’re right, of course. But I was wondering about that truck in the drive.”
“Goodness, where are my manners? Come in! I’ll put the kettle on.”
As he followed her inside, he scanned the stuffy little house with a cop’s practised eye. One could tell a great deal about a person by analyzing her surroundings. Despite the gin and her slightly manic air, Marilyn’s house was well kept. The furniture was clear, the dishes washed, the tables dusted. There were no telltale glasses or bottles littered about.
“I’m doing okay,” she said, as if she had read his mind. She stood at the kitchen tap, filling the kettle. “I know you’re worried about me. But … I need to make a new life. Get out of the house, get involved in things. There’s a marvellous group of women in the village and they’ve been after me to join their book club and their walking club. The Navan Streetwalkers, they call themselves. Isn’t that a hoot?”
She plugged the kettle in and fetched two cups from the drainboard. “I’d never got involved before because I had Luke and, well, my focus was him. He wasn’t one for going out, and toward the end, I didn’t like to leave him just to go out with the girls. But now I’m free to —” She broke off and looked up at him with glistening eyes. “That sounds dreadful. I didn’t mean …”
“I know what you meant. I’ve seen a lot of people coping with grief, Marilyn. You’re doing better than most.”
“I’ve had practice. One foot in front of the other, I always say. There are so many things waiting to be done. I haven’t read a book in years! Luke liked the telly. And I thought I’d try my hand at painting again. There’s a marvellous arts and crafts fair here in the spring if I can still paint a decent tree.” She laughed and rolled her eyes. “The truck is my friend Laura’s. She’s going to help me clear out Luke’s things. For a man who barely had two pennies to rub together, he accumulated masses of stuff. Besides his clothes, there are his sports and woodworking magazines, catalogues, and oh! The basement! I haven’t even begun that. That was his private space, and his workshop is full of tools and half-finished projects. I don’t think he finished half the things he started! Birdhouses, jewellery boxes, and dollhouse furniture for the girls … I’ll have to sort it out and figure out what to toss and what to donate. I was thinking of a yard sale in the spring with some of the things I don’t need. I could bring in some money and get rid of a lot of clutter in one fell swoop.”
She paused to catch her breath and to pour water into the teapot. Once the tray was loaded, she picked it up and headed for the living room.
A question danced at the corner of his mind, unapproachable. The last time he’d checked, the Carmichaels had not yet parted with a single memento of Jackie’s life. They had preserved her small bedroom as a memorial, complete with her linen on the bed, her college texts on the desk, and her Blue Rodeo and Sarah McLachlan posters on the walls. From the living room, Green could just see the closed bedroom door at the far end of the hall, leaving him to wonder if it remained untouched to this day.
An ordeal far greater than clearing out Lucas’s workshop.
Instead, he followed her lead. “It will be good to give the place a new look. Fresh paint, new furniture.”
“You won’t recognize the place.” She set the tea on the table and sank onto the loveseat, caressing the rough, worn brocade. “Luke loved this old sofa, always said it knew just where to give and where
