He looks up at me, gauging my reaction, then he chuckles. Telling the story is like committing the crime again, only this time with an audience. We’re helpless bystanders, Robb and I, witnesses. Forced to hear, powerless to stop him.
“She was trying to save her friend,” I say, because I can’t say nothing. “A girl you supposedly loved. And you killed her.”
My anger leaves him unfazed. “She didn’t react at first, but then she kind of cried out. I dragged her back between the seats, put her on the floor of the van, you know.” He closes his eyes, remembering. “I never did that before, never shot someone, and it kind of surprised me she didn’t die right there. Maybe the bullets were too small. She started crying then, laying in back. I started driving, ’cause I was afraid somebody heard the shot.”
I recall the parking lot, standing in the space where Hannah’s car was found. He’d shot her, and when she didn’t die, he threw her in back and drove around, waiting for her to bleed out.
“So I’m driving,” he says, “and I look back and there she is, crawling up to the front again.”
The more he speaks, the calmer he gets, like his energy is channeled entirely into the story and he’s almost proud to tell it. There’s a pleasure he takes in describing the scene, like a kid at a campfire describing the weirdest thing that ever happened to him.
“She was kind of clawing herself toward me, you know? Her hair was hanging over her face, like in a horror movie or something. And it was scary, man, scary to see her coming.”
Behind me, Robb shifts his weight. “She didn’t give up. She was brave.”
The interruption trips him up, and for a second Rios can’t remember where he was. Maybe the emotion in the youth pastor’s voice has thrown him off. It’s not anguish. It’s not the choking, soul-eating rage that I’m feeling. What it sounds like is love.
“I had to shoot her again,” Rios says, his voice rising an octave, “while I’m still driving. That time she got quiet. And I thought, Wow, I think she’s finally dead. I drove like that awhile and then I look in the mirror and she’s right there, staring at me all pale like a ghost. I almost crashed, man. I had to pull into the driveway of somebody’s house, and I turn around and she’s holding her stomach, and she’s got these tears streaming down her face, and she keeps going, ‘What did you do to her? What did you do?’ And I keep telling her, ‘It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.’ ”
He shakes his head, laughing incredulously at the thought.
“There I was. I got the gun, and it’s like I’m the one who’s afraid, you know? Trying to make an excuse or something, so she don’t get mad at me. Well, she kinda fell over then, up against the side of the van, and she started making this noise… I can’t even describe it. It was loud, though, and I thought somebody was gonna come outside and see what was going on. I climbed in the back and told her, ‘You gotta shut up now, you gotta shut up.’ And I put the gun against her head…” He makes a pistol of his fingers, inching it forward in the air, drawing the cord along. “I put it against her head just the way he put it against mine.” He cocks his head toward Robb. “And she looked at me just how I looked at him, and she said just what I said. Only she meant it.”
“What do you mean? What did she say?”
“She said it twice, like she wanted to make sure I understood. What she said was, ‘I forgive you.’ She said it two times, maybe for her and Evey both. ‘I forgive you, I forgive you.’ ”
When he speaks the words, something goes out of me. I turn to Robb, who’s looking up, expectant, making sure I understand what I’ve just heard. We are witnesses together, yes, but not helpless. He looks feverish from the gunshot wound. His eyes burn into me.
“She forgave me.” He whistles under his breath. “You believe that? If I’d known she could be like that, I don’t think I coulda shot.”
He leans back a little, tugging on the cord, offering up his wrists like he expects me to free him, like he thinks I’ll whip out my lock-back knife and cut him loose, the way I did last time, when Hannah Mayhew’s blood was still fresh on his hands, though I couldn’t see it. I straighten up, feeling tired and spent.
Seven years ago, on that awful day, while I transported a knife murderer across the state line, my little girl’s heart was so full of empathy, so sad for all those strangers and their families, that she made Charlotte take her to a church vigil. They held hands, sitting on the hard pews, and they prayed for those people, and when they left, the car hit them and Jessica died.
And it was for nothing, I always thought. But I was wrong.
Against the mirrored closet door, Robb winces at the wound in his side, which is good. It shows he’s not too far gone to feel. He catches my eye, smiles grimly against the pain, and tries to get up. I move to stop him, but change my mind. I help him to his feet.
We edge down the hallway, leaving Rios behind, and I clear the basket of clean white laundry out of the way so he can sit.
“It wasn’t true what he said,” Robb whispers. “About me putting the gun to his head. Maybe he thought I was going to shoot him, but I never would.”
“It doesn’t matter to me.”
“It does to me,” he says.
I go into the kitchen, find a fresh plastic cup, and pour a measure of tap water out. Then, uncertain whether he should drink anything, given the position of the bullet, I dip a fresh towel in the water and use it to wipe his brow.
“You did good,” I tell him. “Hannah would be proud.”
He shakes his head, but not in denial. “I’m the one who’s proud. Proud of her.”
The metal steps rattle outside with the weight of uniformed officers and EMTs, the knock at the door filling me with relief. I step away from him, letting the responders do their work, taking Robb’s vitals and freeing Frank Rios, then cuffing his hands behind his back. I slip the Ruger from my waistband and put it on the kitchen counter along with the magazine and the bullet from the chamber, alerting the uniforms to its presence.
Then I step outside into the warm night, gazing up into the thick, radiant blanket that in this city always hides the stars.
ONE YEAR LATER
More than time has passed. The last time I drove by, the place seemed packed, with crowds spilling out into the lot. Election night, beer bottles raised in salute, the dawn of a new age. Now my wheels crunch over gravel and my headlights cast cones across the darkness. The facade is stripped bare, only a shadow left where the sign once hung, the plate-glass windows covered in a film of dirt. I sit a moment, gazing at the sight, wondering when this could have happened and how I of all people could have missed it.
I throw the car in reverse and drive home.
The house glows in the night, every chandelier and lamp, every fixture radiating, a sparkling stone set among the glimmering neighbors. I park in the driveway, popping the trunk, hoisting two bags of ice over my shoulder, saving the rest for another trip. Out of the shadows, Carter Robb pads over, flip-flops smacking against his heels. He reaches in to grab the rest of the ice, then slams the lid shut with his elbow.
“She’s been wondering where you were,” he says. “People are gonna start showing up.”
I smile. “Let her wonder.”
We let ourselves in through the back, hoisting the ice onto an empty section of countertop, one of the few gaps left that isn’t occupied already by dishes or glasses or finger foods ready either for cooking or plating. Charlotte tosses her apron aside, counting the bags of ice like she suspects me of holding some back. Satisfied, she gives me a kiss on the cheek. Over her shoulder I see Gina Robb peering into the oven, her cat eyes steaming, an oversized quilted mitt on her hand. Ann comes through from the dining room, silverware bristling from each fist, looking pinched as always but excited.