Chapter LI

Colleen Clark was dozing in front of the television when I got home. I could see her through the living room window as I parked. She was a difficult woman to feel sorry for, although I still struggled to pinpoint why. It might have been the element of fatalism to her character, or her continued solicitude toward a husband who struck me as unworthy of it. But this was an observation more than a judgment: I'd lived too long with my own grief, and guilt for the harm it had caused, to admonish others for how they dealt with a sorrow unimaginable to anyone who had not experienced it for themselves. Nonetheless, her demeanor would have to be taken into account in the event of a trial. Whatever instructions it might receive from a judge, no jury made its decision on evidence alone. If justice was truly blind, a screen would be placed between jurors and the accused.

Colleen woke as I closed the car door, and came to meet me in the kitchen. She was wearing loose jeans and an old sweater. Her feet were bare, and I noticed that her toenails were freshly painted in different colors. She saw me looking at them.

"I was bored," she said. "I found the nail polish in your daughter's room."

"As long as you're here, you can paint them any color that makes you happy," I said. "But when you do eventually go out again, keep them covered—or better still, remove the varnish and leave them plain. The same goes for your fingernails."

"Should I wear a veil, too?"

"Whether you like it or not you're in the public eye, and the jury will be drawn from people who read newspapers, watch TV, and gossip with their friends. How you act, how you hold yourself, the clothes you choose to wear, whether you smile or remain solemn, all carry potential consequences in court. It's harder for a woman accused of a crime than a man, but I'm sure you're already aware that women are held to a different standard in life, so forgive the mansplaining."

I stood against the sink and stretched. My back ached from hours of sitting.

"I'm sorry," I said. "That sounded sharper than it was meant to."

"Not at all. I hadn't even considered what you've just told me. It's better to hear it, and from you. I'll get rid of the rainbow before I go to bed."

I felt lousy. A little color wasn't going to bring about the end of the world, but on the other hand, it was for the best. Until the trial, Colleen would have to learn to live life as though a camera was trained on her every move.

She took a seat at the table.

"I went walking earlier, just by the back of the house where I wouldn't be seen," she said. "It's very beautiful here."

She sniffed her hand.

"I can still smell salt on my skin." The tip of her tongue touched her wrist. "I can taste it, too."

There was nothing erotic or deliberately seductive about the gesture. She had the unselfconsciousness of a child.

"Did you make any progress?" she asked.

I elected not to tell her about Sabine Drew. No good could come of that. Neither did I wish to discuss the substance of my conversations with Delaney Duhamel or Steady Freddy. Colleen was Moxie's client, and technically I was working for him, not her. If she had any questions about the conduct of the case or my associated investigation, she could direct them to him.

"Small steps," I said. "And it's early days."

"You really don't want to share anything with me, do you?"

"Everything should go through Moxie. It'll avoid confusion."

"And prevent me getting my hopes up for the wrong reasons?"

"When there's more hope, Colleen, you'll be the first to know."

"I should go back to bed," she said. "I only came downstairs because something woke me. After that, I didn't care to return to my room."

"What woke you?"

"A feeling, or just the wind in the trees. The world sounds different out here. The noises are unfamiliar. I stood at the bedroom window, and for a moment I was sure I could see a figure between the trees by the road, looking toward the house. Then the wind changed direction, the shadows moved, and it was gone."

I thought of Moxie and the scratches on his lock.

"Was it a man or a woman?"

I kept my voice neutral.

"I couldn't tell, and I might have been mistaken. Sorry, I didn't mean to cause a fuss."

"There's no fuss," I said, "and you absolutely did the right thing by mentioning it. This property has a security system in place. I deactivated sections of it because you were here and I didn't want to make you feel like a prisoner, but any boundary breaches are automatically sent to my cell phone. You're quite safe, and the Scarborough police are just minutes away. If you're ever worried, and you can't get hold of me, call them."

"Won't they tell people I'm staying here?"

"There's always that chance, but this is only a short-term solution. In a few days, I'll quietly drop you home. Your mom will be there, and we'll keep the Fulcis in place for the time being, or as long as you want them to stay. One of them will be happy to go with you to the store, or a movie if you need the distraction, although I'd advise against the latter."

"Because people might take it amiss if I'm seen at a movie theater."

"Or a play, or attending a concert. If a photographer catches you laughing, it'll be made to look bad."

"I hate this."

"I know, but attention fades. A time will come when you'll notice people struggling to recall your face, but by then you'll have moved on. Give it longer, and they won't remember you at all."

"What about Henry?" she asked. "Will they forget him as well?"

"We'll do our best to make sure that doesn't happen."

She took a last look at her painted toenails.

"I think they already have, because none of this is about Henry, not anymore."

She poured herself a glass of water to take to her room with her.

"Did you sing to your son?" I asked, as she was turning off the faucet.

"What?"

"Did you sing to him," I repeated, "to lull him to sleep?"

She looked at me quizzically.

"Why would you ask that?"

"Curiosity."

The answer appeared to satisfy her.

"Then yes," she said, "I did. I suppose most mothers do. It seems to come naturally, because I never sang much at all before I had Henry."

"Do you remember what you sang?"

She thought about this. I could see her eyes were growing wet, but I didn't regret the line of questioning. I needed to be sure about Sabine Drew.

"Oh, I just held him to me and hummed, really. I wonder if it's something to do with the vibrations."

"And did you gain comfort from it?"

"Yes, I think I did. Are you suggesting I should sing to my lost child?"

"I don't see why not. Wherever Henry is, he's listening for you."

She wiped at her face.

"Then maybe I will. Goodnight."

And as she ascended the stairs, I heard her start to hum.