Chapter Twenty-Seven

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I didn't expect to end up at Charles's house tonight.

I intended to stay at home—with my splintered front door and echoes of police footsteps pounding up my staircase—and reinforce my stance, even if only to myself: I won't be scared off this case.

But Charles called a few minutes after I dropped off Rose. As soon as he heard my voice, he knew something was wrong.

When I told him my front door was ruined, he invited me to stay in his guest room.

I hate that it feels like a relief to not be alone tonight. That a nine-year-old girl—one I'm duty-bound to serve—has left me so shaken.

Rose's message feels like an ugly code embedded in two simple words.

I keep seeing her expression in the Waffle House. But not the anger and resentment churning in her eyes. It was the way she smiled at my shock and discomfort when she sent her soda splashing into my lap.

As if she were winning a game I wasn't aware we were playing.

She's like a completely different child from the one I first met.

When I arrive at Charles's stately Tudor in Chevy Chase, Maryland, Charles has a plate of cheese and crackers and two glasses of his best single-malt scotch waiting in the living room.

I sink into the deep sofa opposite the wingback chair Charles favors, tucking my feet under me. The evening has grown chilly, and blue-gold flames dance in the gas fireplace. I sip the scotch, feeling the welcome burn in the back of my throat.

I've been to Charles's home a dozen times before, and even had dinner with him and his wife here, which was a bit uncomfortable due to the obvious emotional distance between them. Their casually elegant home is unchanged: The furniture and drapes and rugs are all done in warm hues and rich textures, and the bookshelves are filled with heavy volumes of law and literature.

Charles's eyes are steady on me, a furrow deepening between his salt-and-pepper brows.

I've talked to Charles about my cases through the years, but never before has he been so invested in one.

I know why. It's because he sees me in Rose.

I thought I did, too.

But I was different as a child. I was terrified, hiding in the shell of my own body. I would have been desperately grateful for someone to help me.

When I open my mouth, the question I've been silently turning over emerges: "Do you think children can be born evil?"

Charles reaches for a cracker and sets a rectangle of cheese atop it. He takes a bite and chews, then dabs his mouth with a napkin.

I know him well enough to understand he isn't delaying or ignoring me. He's thinking deeply. As a judge, he's accustomed to making carefully considered pronouncements. He understands the power of words to shape perceptions.

"In very rare cases, yes," Charles finally says.

"It's like she's two different girls." I wrap my arms around myself, despite the warmth of the fire. "Meek and traumatized, then angry and vindictive. Three girls if you count the Rose I saw on an old video—then she seemed mischievous."

Charles finishes his cracker and takes another sip of scotch. His calm, steady nature soothes my ragged emotions.

"It sounds like you may be considering her a suspect. Am I correct?"

I nod, feeling a sense of shame. As if I've failed Rose.

Kids do kill. It happens. Sometimes accidentally, sometimes deliberately. Years ago in Britain, a ten-year-old girl strangled a small child. And a nine-year-old boy in Illinois was convicted of deliberately setting a fire that killed several family members while they slept in their mobile home.

All along, I've been terrified that I might send Rose to live with a murderer.

Never did I consider that in choosing which parent is awarded primary custody of Rose, I might instead be consigning them to that fate.

My mind recoils from the track it's heading down. I don't know Rose well enough yet to make any assumptions.

I fill Charles in on the real reason for Rose's departure from school, and the way she hid the Bundy book. He asks a few questions, and agrees it's too soon to come to any conclusions about whether any of the Barclays are likely to have killed Tina.

Then he seems to sense my need for a conversational shift.

"How closely have you looked at the money in the case?" he asks.

"Only superficially. I confirmed Ian isn't challenging the prenup. Beth gets everything she brought into the marriage, Ian has his company, and they split the proceeds from the sale of the house. Although they may end up taking a loss on the house, I understand."

Charles nods. "And yet, if Ian were awarded full custody of Rose, there would be child support."

He's right. It could be a substantial amount, if Rose maintained her current level of private tutors and activities and vacations. In one case I worked on involving a supremely wealthy DC couple, the wife got no alimony but walked away with $80,000 a month in child support.

I have copies of all the court documents on my laptop, which is in my shoulder bag. I reviewed them at the beginning of this case. But sometimes we need to look at information anew. Given fresh context, situations are like the optical illusion tilt-card books that reveal different images depending on the angle of the page.

"I'm going to look into it more deeply," I tell Charles.

"You're welcome to stay in the guest room until your door is fixed. I'd enjoy the company. And we can continue talking about the case."

An off-note in his voice causes me to pause.

I find myself checking his ring finger. His gold wedding band is still there.

Charles didn't mention how long his wife would be away. And I recall that last month when we had dinner, his wife was visiting one of their sons.

Now I wonder how much time she spends at home. Perhaps with their children gone, there's nothing left to bind them together.

My gaze drifts to the framed family photograph on the glossy wood mantel. I've seen it before, noticing Charles's sons are tall and handsome, like him, and his wife is smiling and elegant. Now I look at it anew, tilting the image in my mind for a fresh perspective. Charles's wife has her arms around their two sons, who look to be in their late teens in the photograph. The three of them are linked together. No one is touching Charles.

I don't know the cause of the rupture in their family. Charles only told me he was a different sort of man when his children were young and he made big mistakes. Big enough that his family never fully forgave him.

Now I wonder: If my mother had lived, would I forgive her for all the trauma she caused me after my father's death?

It's impossible to say, but I suspect that even if she got clean and we forged a new relationship, a permanent scar would remain, forever visible to us both.

I've never before let my mind wander into the possibility of what ruptured Charles's relationship with his family. Somehow it felt disloyal to Charles.

Now I can't help but wonder. Perhaps infidelity was the betrayal.

I catch Charles studying me, and I flush, as if he might have somehow read my mind.

"There's something else I want to look into," I blurt out. And when I say it, it feels both surprising and inevitable. It's the decision I've been moving toward ever since my meeting with Detective Garcia. Maybe I've been tiptoeing toward it ever since I was a little girl, desperately reaching out to try to shake my mother awake in the grainy dawn light.

"I want to find out more about my mother, and how she died."

Charles's reaction surprises me. He smiles.

I've been on the receiving end of many kinds of Charles's smiles. Pride, when I graduated from college and law school. Joy, when he walked me down the aisle at my wedding.

This one is composed of infinite tenderness.

"You deserve to know," he says softly. "I understand you haven't felt ready for the information before now. But carrying this around your whole life has weighed on you in ways you can't even imagine. Knowing the truth might not make it easier. But it may free you."

It feels as if Charles is giving me his blessing. As if he has been patiently waiting for me to be ready to learn about my past, knowing it will help me move forward.

When Charles wishes me good night, he bends down and kisses me lightly on the forehead.

And I can't help but think that for all of the losses life has dealt us both, it balanced the scales a bit when it gave us each other.