“I understand you don’t believe, but your mother did, and you should at least respect that even if you don’t respect a higher power.”
“My mother was half the reason my sister killed herself. Forgive me, but my respect for her diminished some time ago.”
“Andrew, please—”
“Look, I’m not here to debate belief or faith or religion or anything else. I want to know if the church can help my father. If it can’t, I’ll be on my way.”
Father Mathew pursed his lips and sat back in his chair, which squeaked under his weight. “I understand your family’s plight. Let me do this. The church board will be meeting on Wednesday evening after Mass. I’m sure you’re aware we are now missing our chairperson.”
David. I’d almost forgotten he’d chaired the church board. I nodded.
“I’ll bring up the issue then, since it’s partially out of my hands anyway. The board has to agree to any financial adjustments or donations, but let me assure you, I’ll make it a priority. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s some paperwork I have to attend to.”
Just like that, dismissed. He began moving a few folders around on his desk. I suppressed a reflex response to thank him. Instead I said, “A lot of tragedy lately in the community, isn’t there?”
“Yes, there most certainly has been.”
“First Mary’s accident, then the Barrens, and Ryan Vallance before that.” Father Mathew set down the folders and looked at me. There was no congeniality now. Only a coolness about him. The limb I was standing on was bending. I went out a little farther. “Someone told me you talked with Ryan before his death. Did he seem upset or disturbed? We were friends in high school,” I quickly followed up. “It was quite a shock.”
He glanced out the single narrow window beside his desk and became very still. “David told me he was worried about Ryan, asked me to talk to him. I did, briefly. He seemed okay then, but I wish now I would’ve pressed harder. If I would’ve known . . .” Father Mathew brought his gaze back to me. “You aren’t the only one with regrets, Andrew. Please know that.”
I went for a walk.
Besides drinking an inordinate amount of coffee, it’s what I did when I needed to think. We used to walk the Loop as a family when we were younger. Normally Dad wasn’t with us since he was either at work or sleeping, but sometimes he would come along, usually in the early dusk of evening when the light was leaving the air and everything looked smoky. The neighborhood houses would start to glow, and the Loop would reverse, all the exterior life and activity of the day receding inward, which we could see snippets of through golden squares of glass as we went by.
I walked past homes that had been on their foundations since I was born and others much more recent. Layers upon layers. Stories all behind closed doors. Secrets everywhere. I had a momentary sense of tipping, of disassociation. Nothing was what it looked like. I wasn’t in my neighborhood anymore. Everything was a prop, false fronts to create a semblance of normal everyday life.
My breath tightened in my chest, and I stopped, leaning momentarily on a lamppost, vision swimming in the corners of my eyes. Was this what Rachel went through on a daily basis? Her worry like a drop-off in the ocean, a dark trench steps away waiting to swallow her up? Of course it was. As I started to imagine what she must be going through at that second, I pushed away from the post and hurried back the way I’d come, trying to leave the idea behind.
Back in the house, there were a few texts from Kel I hadn’t noticed when she’d initially sent them.
Hey, talked to Seth about Crane/DeMarco.
He said the police interviewed him and he didn’t have an alibi for the night of David’s murder.
They already searched his house, guessing because of his history, and came up with nada.
Still no ransom demand . . .
Anything else you want me to ask him for?
I stood at the side window looking down the street at Crane’s house for a while, then typed thanks and no back to Kel. I wouldn’t involve her anymore if I could help it.
Going forward, I’d be on my own.
19
When Crane backed out of his garage around 9:00 p.m.—streetlights reflecting on the perfect black paint job of his Lexus—I was ready.
The evening had passed like most others. I went over to Dad’s and cooked dinner; we ate, shot the shit, watched some TV, I came home. Only difference was where I’d sat in his living room and kitchen—a different angle to keep an eye on Crane’s house. What would I tell Dad if I saw our mysterious neighbor leaving his place and I suddenly jumped up and ran out? I don’t know. Probably wouldn’t have had to tell him anything.