You should go, Saffy had told her. She could hear the Blue House espresso machine grinding in the background.
Will you come with me? Blue had asked.
The answer was easy. No.
*
The vigil is in the park by the high school.
When Saffy arrives, night has fallen in a velvet blanket, and she sees only the flicker of candles at the far edge of the lawn. She wades across the field toward the huddled, shadowy figures. There are maybe twenty people, a sprinkling crowd, heads bent in the dim candlelight. Saffy has abandoned her funeral dress, swapped it for a long blue skirt, dotted with daisies. She sees Kristen on the fringe, her arms crossed against the April chill—by the time Saffy reaches the spot, her sandals are slick beneath her toes, dewy from the grass.
“You made it,” Kristen says.
“We got these for you, Captain.” Kristen’s older son hands Saffy a bouquet of lilies—he is fifteen years old now, lanky and awkward. Saffy thanks him and takes the bundle, plastic wrap crinkling.
The photographs are blown up huge. Izzy, Angela, and Lila lie propped in a sea of flowers. Saffy recognizes many of the glowing faces surrounding the fountain: Izzy’s parents are here, along with her sister. Izzy’s little brother was only five years old when she went missing, and now he holds an infant, swaddled in the crook of his arm. Angela’s mother stands folded into their group, and she gives Saffy a small wave, stooped, withered. Twenty years have passed since they found the bodies—twenty-nine since the girls went missing—and still, a news camera hovers at the edge of the vigil, determined to make a story. Saffy feels slimy, the truth prickling. There would be no story, for these girls alone. There would be no vigil, no attention at all. They are relevant because of Ansel and the fascination the world has for men like him.
Kristen hands Saffy a candle. The wax drips down, melting onto her fingers.
It is almost time. A thousand miles away, justice is being served—but justice, Saffy thinks, is supposed to feel like more. Justice is supposed to be an anchor, an answer. She wonders how a concept like justice made it into the human psyche, how she ever believed that something so abstract could be labeled, meted out. Justice does not feel like compensation. It does not even feel like satisfaction. As Saffy takes a long breath of alpine air, she pictures the needle, pressing into Ansel’s arm. The blue pop of vein. How unnecessary, she thinks. How pointless. The system has failed them all.
*
“Come over tonight,” Kristen says, as the crowd disperses. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
Her son is already in the car, adjusting the mirrors. He has thirty more hours of supervised driving before he can test for his license. Kristen’s earrings glint in the rearview, a gifted souvenir from Saffy’s trip last year to Rajasthan, gold tasseled droplets with stones that match the warm turquoise of her friend’s eyes.
“I can’t tonight,” Saffy says. “Work.”
Kristen smirks, warm, sarcastic. It occurs to Saffy how long they have grown together, how far they have walked, the things they have outlasted. “The parking brake, honey,” Kristen says to her son, as she sinks into the passenger’s seat. Her voice is like a lullaby, carrying through the night.
*
It’s late by the time Saffy reaches the station. A Friday night, and most everyone is gone. Only Corinne remains, bent in the spotlight of her desk lamp.
“Captain,” she says. “What are you doing here?”
Corinne glances at the clock. She knows what is happening tonight—Corinne is observant as always, meticulous. Once a month, Saffy has Corinne and Melissa over for dinner, where they sit in her kitchen, chatting as the smell of baked salmon or homemade pizza wafts from the oven. Corinne’s wife declined the wine; they have been trying through IVF for a baby. Saffy is grateful for her crow’s-feet now, for the lines wrinkling around her mouth. See? she wants to tell Corinne. You don’t need to have it all. You only need to figure out how much is enough.
Saffy almost sits. She almost collapses, rests her head on the cool surface of Corinne’s desk. Almost, she confesses the truth: she cannot go home, to that blissfully empty house. Most nights, Saffy is thankful for her solitude, but tonight that gift feels empty. Why don’t you find yourself a good man? You’re still pretty, and young enough. Kensington’s wife had looked so sincere as she’d said it, cubic zirconia glinting from her ears. Saffy had smiled politely, wondering what this woman thought she could possibly gain from such a thing.
This, right here, is all she needs. A good fight. The only one.