Her horse hadn’t kicked her. She would’ve never made that mistake.
David felt himself being crushed between a rock and a hard place. Don’t pay HerringBone for Ryan’s debt—dead. Don’t pay back the money taken from the parishes—jail.
So he’d murdered Mary. Made it look like an accident.
There it was. Could I see him doing it? Planning it out, then actually doing it?
I thought of Rachel telling me about his anger, his stoic silence and outbursts. Thought of how she’d looked ashamed. Not for the first time, I wondered if there was more she’d been holding back.
Yes. I could imagine it. It wasn’t hard.
But there, as the Bard once said, lies the rub.
If David had killed Mary, then who killed him? Where were Rachel and the boys?
Screeching brakes. Trains coming off the rails. A hole that only went deeper.
I had no idea. Crane? The Visitor? Another unnamed party?
It was equivalent to drawing a circle and never quite being able to fully complete it. It was wondering if the cat is alive or dead and not being able to look.
And what could I do with this hunch, these bits of information I’d pieced together into a half-assed puzzle? Bring it to Spanner? He’d laugh in my face. Go to Seth at the paper? Better, but I guessed he’d tell me it was too thin to run with.
Where did that leave me?
“Square one,” I murmured.
“What was that?” Dad asked from the bathroom. He’d woken and shuffled in there a few minutes before.
“Nothing.”
He appeared in the hallway. “Okay. Going to bed.”
“Sounds good. I might sit here awhile if that’s okay.”
“Me casa, you casa.”
“Su casa.”
“I know, smart-ass. Sleep good.”
“You too, Dad.”
His footsteps faded. The house settled. I didn’t.
I paced for a bit. Spooned a little ice cream out of the carton in the kitchen and stood looking out at the street. The rain had tapered off again, and a cool vapor hung beneath the lampposts. In the living room the couch accepted me, molded around my shoulders and back just like it had when I was a kid. We still had the same appliances and furniture since the beginning of time. The couch was worn and uneven and a comfort, something reliable that didn’t ask anything of me, didn’t need me to be smarter than I was.
I slept.
When I woke, the room was filled with morning grayness, and lava oozed from my skull, slid down the back of my neck, burning.
I couldn’t breathe.
A rotten egg smell permeated the air. What air? I couldn’t get any, could barely roll myself off the couch.
A quiet hissing from the kitchen. My vision swam, thoughts treading water. I retched, coughed out last night’s dinner onto the floor. I had to get to Dad. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Crawling across the room was momentous, arms barely dragging me along, legs useless bags of watery muscle.
My chest brimmed with hot liquid and the smell, the rotten eggs. Brimstone. I was in hell.
Down the hall, air thick, clinging to my face. Reaching up, fingers brushing the partially open door.
Dad’s bedroom, the air no better. I crawled across the floor and pulled on the comforter. Croaked Dad’s name. Twice. Nothing.
The last of my strength, yanking myself up and onto the bed. Dad on his side, a shape beneath the blankets. I said his name again, rolling him over as my head sloshed like a fish tank. He didn’t open his eyes, wouldn’t wake up.
I stumbled to the window and fumbled with the latch, fingers huge and unwieldy. Finally got it open.
Cool. Blessed. Air.
I coughed and dry heaved, stumbled back to the bed and yanked Dad out of it. Dragged him across the floor. Got him to his feet.
Shoved him out the window.
He tipped bonelessly through, feet coming up like counterweights. I eased him to the ground outside as gently as I could, but then I was coughing again, tears flooding my eyes. By touch only I slid out after him. Crumpled into the grass and dirt. Lay there sucking wind.
Sweet, sweet oxygen.
When I could lift my head and my limbs started doing what my brain told them, I rolled over.
Dad lay next to me, like he had been in bed—on his side facing away. I said his name, pulled him over.
His eyes were closed, lips bluish. I leaned close to him, heart doing a strange stutter step in my chest, and pressed my ear to his lips and nose.
He wasn’t breathing.
26
You can’t remember how to do CPR.
There’s a big white gap in your brain where that knowledge hung its hat before. It’s something you learned years ago, never had to practice, but it’s there just in case.