“Rhea Schroeder reported a crime last night,” Hudson explained.
Gertie squeezed the table. Despite the chill, her palms left a sweaty trail.
“Crime?” Arlo asked. His voice remained overly cheerful. His sales voice. In it, Gertie could hear fear, and worse than that, ignorance. The kind of ignorance that waits out its trial at Rikers, because free lawyers don’t mean shit.
“She claims her daughter was raped on the morning of the fall.”
Gertie froze. Her conscious mind refused to conceive of where this was going. But the deeper part, the part that had survived the pageant circuit and all those cutthroats, that part understood exactly.
“Witnesses testified that she’d been bleeding,” Hudson continued. “She’d also cut her hair.”
Gertie wanted to say something, but nothing came out.
“Mrs. Schroeder believes she cut her hair due to post-traumatic stress. She was running away from you when she was pushed down the hole by your children, who were likewise traumatized, and trying to conceal their father’s crime.” Hudson looked them in the eye the entire time, betraying no emotion. Gennet scribbled notes.
Gertie started. “Running away?”
“Crime?” Arlo asked. His voice lost that personable quality and took on something like a growl.
“She believes you raped Shelly Schroeder, and this action directly resulted in her death.”
Arlo leaned forward, looked Gennet, then Hudson in the eyes. “I did not do that.”
“That’s insane,” Gertie said. “It’s not even possible.”
“Why isn’t it possible?” Hudson asked. She wore a mask of indifference, but emotion boiled underneath. She gripped the table with her hands, so tight it made her fingernails white.
“Because he’s not a hunter. I’ve known hunters my whole life and he’s not. He’d never do that—”
“I work in the city,” Arlo interrupted. “I didn’t get home that night until around four in the morning, when I crashed into bed. With Gertie.”
“That’s right!” Gertie cried.
Arlo stretched his arms in their direction. Their eyes roamed along his monster tattoos. “There’s probably still footage of me at Penn Station around two-thirty a.m. If not there, then the newsstand—I got a Coke and popcorn for the ride. So you can check that. You can check my getting off the train around three-fifteen.”
Gennet scribbled. Hudson didn’t take her eyes away.
“And what about the morning? Was Mrs. Wilde with you then?”
“I was showing a house. In Glen Head. But he never gets up before ten if he can help it.”
“Yeah, by the time I rolled out of bed, the kids were out playing. There might be footage there, too. The Cheons have a camera, I think. Dunno if it works since the sinkhole. Everything out on the block gets static.”
Hudson’s voice got scary soft. “You’re certain that you were never alone with Shelly Schroeder within the twenty-four hours of her death?”
“I swear.”
“He wasn’t,” Gertie said. Relief flooded her system. Proof. You can’t argue with proof.
“Were you ever alone with her?”
“Probably.”
“You can’t say for sure.”
“I don’t remember, specifically.”
“Do we need a lawyer?” Gertie asked.
Gennet stayed looking at his notebook.
“If we can clear this up, you won’t need a lawyer,” Hudson answered.
“Oh,” Gertie said.
“Now, were you ever alone with any of the other children in the neighborhood?” Hudson asked.
“No offense, but this is pretty scary. I think we need a lawyer,” Arlo answered.
“You’re not under arrest, sir,” Hudson said.
“Can we leave?” Gertie asked.
“Anytime,” Hudson answered. She moved back from the table, as if ready to walk out. “But we’d prefer you cleared this up.”
“Let me make a phone call,” Arlo said.
“You won’t need one if we clear this up.”
“He’s gonna make a phone call,” Gertie said.
Hudson nodded, as if she’d expected this answer all along. As if they’d have to be fools to do anything else.
They excused themselves and went into the waiting room. Arlo called Fred Atlas, but the connection had too much static. They couldn’t hear each other. He searched his contacts, looking for anyone important. He found coworkers and some old Brooklyn friends, none of whom knew any lawyers. He broke into a cold sweat and scrolled to Danny Lasson’s number. Danny’d been drums for Fred Savage’s Revenge, was now writing jingles in LA. He might know someone. But it was entirely possible that Danny hated him, for having broken up the band. Not possible. Probable.