“Don’t make this harder than it is,” Walter LaPointe said, tugging Nola’s wrist.
“Please! I’ll be good!” she yelled, bits of Oreo spraying from her mouth. She was clawing at his hand. Her foster mom was crying. “We’ll both be good!”
“Don’t look,” young Anne Marie whispered at the top of the stairs, covering Paulette’s eyes.
Roddy didn’t take the advice. Leaning between his foster sisters, he gripped the wooden guardrails like jail bars, chomping on his Juicy Fruit as something new filled his chest. He thought it was another rush of power, but it wasn’t. It was a thrill—that was the only word for it. The thrill that comes from getting away with something. A dark grin spread across his face. No matter what Nola said, no matter the proof, would they ever believe Roddy was the guilty one?
They would. For months now, the LaPointes had known the truth. They knew both twins had problems, but it was Roddy who needed more help. Money was tight. With three other kids to take care of, they could help one of the twins, but not both. Barb LaPointe prayed on it for a week. The decision was clear: Find Nola a new home. She was the stronger one. The resilient one. She’d be okay.
“I’ll be good! We’ll both be good!” Nola begged. “We won’t bother anyone again!”
Duh-duh-ding-ding-ding-ding-DING-DING. The doorbell rang, playing “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” though Roddy never knew the name of the song.
“No, please . . .” Nola begged as Walter scooped her up. She grasped at the kitchen chairs, the phone cord, anything to get a handhold. Barb was sobbing as she followed them to the living room, prying Nola’s grip from the threshold. “Please, Mom—don’t give me to them! Don’t give me to them!”
But it wasn’t them.
It was him.
To this day, Roddy could still remember every detail—the diagonal view from the top of the stairs, the curve of the wooden guardrails in his hands, even the sweet smell of the Juicy Fruit—as the front door opened.
“I’m here for . . . er . . . for the . . . I’m the . . .” The man never finished his sentence. He had a pitted face, greedy eyes, and incredibly long eyelashes. “I’m Royall Barker,” he explained.
Walter went to shake his hand, but he was still holding Nola, like a thrashing bride on the threshold.
Royall cocked his head at the sight. “You must be Nola.”
“Dad, please,” Nola begged, trying to grab at the door. “I’ll be good! I swear, I’ll be good!”
It would be twenty-one years before Roddy saw his sister again.
13
Today
“Grandma’s Pantry,” Zig repeated.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” Roddy asked. He was smarter than Zig first thought. When Roddy stared at you, his black eyes fixed like an anchor, it was easy to think he was socially awkward—which he was—but he was also clearly analyzing every detail he observed. “What about Rashida? Have they told you about her?”
“Roddy, you just drove really far to get to my house. If there’s something you want to know, can we just get to it?”
Out of nowhere, Roddy turned to his left, staring up the block. All was quiet. A second later, a black car zipped across Citrine Avenue, just as Roddy knew it would. The car was gone in an eyeblink. Zig now noticed that Roddy was wearing a hearing aid of some sort. Were Jersey cops allowed to serve with hearing aids?
“Have you seen this painting, Mr. Zigarowski?”
Roddy held up his tablet, swiping to a photo of a canvas covered in watercolors—grays, drab browns, and at the very center, a mix of yellow and black. The painting was of someone’s cubicle, but it looked like it’d been painted years ago: Big gray computer monitor. Messy desk. The focal point was a soldier in a black windbreaker, sitting in profile, working at the computer. Two other, younger soldiers—a Black woman and a Black or maybe Hispanic man—wore matching windbreakers and stood behind him. All three of them were studying the big monitor. A black-and-yellow patch on the woman’s shoulder showed a barely readable scribble underneath. Semper Vigiles. Latin for Vigilant Always.