“Okay,” Sean said. He was very serious now and he looked older, somehow. Warm, easy, jokey Sean had disappeared and this was another version of him. Clever, focused, compassionate.
“What can we do to help you?” Sean asked.
Prosper shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Let me talk to my boss. His name is Robert Parekh. If you’ve been fol owing the case, you might have read about him. He wants to meet you. He has experience with situations like this. I’m sure he could help you. Help Sophia.”
Prosper hesitated. Hannah could almost feel him teetering on the point of making a decision, fal ing one way or the other. Eventual y, he shook his head again. “I’m sorry. I real y am sorry. But there’s nothing I can do to help Michael.” He stood up. “I’l show you out.”
They fol owed him to the front door. They thanked him for his time. When they were outside but before Prosper had shut the door, Sean turned around and asked one more question.
“Can you tel me one thing, Neil? Is it Jerome Pierce? Is that who you’re afraid of?”
Prosper didn’t answer. He turned away, went inside, and closed the door.
LAURA
DIARY ENTRY #8
Monday, August 29, 1994, 10:45 a.m.
I’m writing this on the bus on my way back to Boston. Rosa fired me this morning. Tom’s father phoned the hotel owner and told him he wanted me gone and just like that I lost my job. I feel like shit. Like complete shit. Like I’m disgusting. Like everything they al believe about me is real y true.
Rosa said I had to pack up and go right away, but she gave me an envelope ful of cash—one week’s wages and what she said was my end-of-season bonus. I think it might have been her own money.
I could see she felt bad about everything. I wanted to tel her that I understood. She didn’t have a choice. She can’t afford to lose her job either. I wanted to hug her, but I couldn’t. I just left without saying anything. I can’t even cry anymore. I think maybe something inside me is broken.
Tuesday, August 30, 1994, 11:00 a.m.
I’m back in Boston now. Jenna is too. I stayed with her last night. We talked and talked and I told her nothing. Nothing about Michael Dandridge. I told her about Tom, that I’d fal en for a guy and that he died in an accident. An accidental drowning. But it came out al wrong. I sounded like a robot. I couldn’t explain anything properly.
She hugged me and I almost shrugged her off. I can see that she wants to comfort me. She’s trying, real y hard. I can’t seem to let her in.
I’m a different person than the person I used to be. I feel like Michael’s watching me al the time. Everywhere I go. I know he’s in Virginia and very far from here but I can’t let go of the fear. I’m not sleeping much. I feel sick al the time and I’m ful of guilt. Michael Dandridge murdered Tom Spencer and I let him get away with it. I’ve thought about going to the police here in Boston, but I’m too afraid.
They won’t believe me, but they might make a phone cal , or something. Michael wil hear of it, and he’l find me, and then he’l kil me for sure.
Thursday, September 15, 1994, 2:30 p.m.
The night before last I had a dream that I got my period. Then I woke up and I knew, without even real y thinking about it, that I’m pregnant. I can’t believe it took me this long to realize, but I’m almost exactly eight and a half weeks pregnant. As soon as I woke up, I went and got a test and of course it was positive. I cal ed Jenna and we went for a long walk around Griggs Park. Jenna is one hundred percent sure that I should have an abortion. She says I have to stay focused. I’l never get back on track if I have a baby now, and worse than that, what kind of life can I give a kid with absolutely no money, no home, no support? I know she’s right. I found another apartment to rent and it’s even shittier than the last one. Smal , damp, and ugly.
I’m pretty sure the guy in the place next door is dealing. How could I bring a baby up there? How do I work, even, with a little baby? It’s hard to believe that things could get much worse than they are right now, but I know I’m kidding myself. Things can always get worse.
I loved Tom but I have nothing of him, not even a picture. I think about him so much that sometimes his face starts to go out of focus, and I wonder if I even remember what he looks like properly. Last night I closed my eyes when I was in bed and I put my hand on my bel y and I thought about the little bean inside and I pretended that I could feel Tom’s hand covering mine. For a moment he was alive again. It was the first time I’d felt safe since the night on the boat.