And there was Raymond Logue.
A younger version of him. But definitely him, his arm draped in fatherly fashion around a very young Kathryn Conroy. She couldn’t’ve been more than fourteen or fifteen in the photo. And if Madison needed proof of that, she recognized the school gymnasium where they stood and the school uniform that Kathryn wore.
That was Catholic Prep.
Judge Conroy and the dirty lawyer went back. Way back. Who was he to her? And who was Charlie Wallace? Those men framed her brother, and the judge was close to both of them. Madison had admired the judge for as long as she could remember. But how well did she know her? And who was Kathryn Conroy, really? Not who she pretended to be.
Part Two
Kathryn
11
Thirty years before
The house was a dump, a rickety saltbox that smelled of seaweed and mildew. But she adored it. The rough planks of the floor, the sloping roof that leaked in the rain. And most of all, the sugary-sand beach two blocks away that sloped down to the lacy waves of the Atlantic. Her mother would warn her to stay away from the water, but then she’d disappear inside with Eddie and lock the door, leaving Kathy unsupervised. Kathy would grab her metal pail and shovel and hurry to that magic spot where the sand met the water met the sky. Plopping down, she’d dig moats and watch them fill. Build drip castles and let the waves smash them. In the tide pools, she’d find treasures. Sand dollars and starfish and mussels with iridescent purple shells, alive and spitting water. Tiny crabs that scuttled as the gulls cawed overhead. The sun would scald her shoulders. The sand fleas would bite, but she would’ve stayed forever if they let her.
Her earliest memories were of Eddie’s house in Gloucester. Uncle Eddie was what her mother made her call him, though she knew in her heart that he was really her father. She understood that much. What she didn’t understand was why she couldn’t call him that. Her mother’s name was Sylvia, and Kathy called her Mom. Why couldn’t she call Eddie Father or Dad, or Pop, like Charlie did? Though she didn’t know Charlie at first. But she always knew that beach shack, from as far back as she could remember.
At the end of the long summer days, her mother would come shouting for her, and they’d go back to the house for supper. A plastic bag full of bloody fish on ice would be sweating in the sink. Bluefish, swordfish, cod—whatever was cheap and fresh. Eddie would pour charcoal into the rusty old barbeque and douse it with lighter fluid. She loved the acrid smell as the flames whooshed up into the sky. They’d eat the catch slathered with tartar sauce, with canned corn on the side, or fries from the bag in the icebox. The battered table in the corner only sat two. Eddie and Sylvia would linger there, drinking and smoking, while Kathy ate on the moldy sofa in front of the TV, watching Brady Bunch reruns. It was the only time she didn’t wish her life looked like the Brady kids’ lives, because she had something they didn’t. She had the beach.
But it didn’t belong to her. As time went on, they were invited less often. Kathy spent the sweltering summer days drawing hopscotch squares on the sidewalk or playing kickball in the street with neighborhood kids. As she got older, and the kids got rougher, she’d stay inside with the fan on, eating ice pops and reading. She loved books. They kept her company. Eddie still came by occasionally to pick up Sylvia for a night on the town, but for the most part, he ignored Kathy. It might have been different if she were a boy, instead of a pale, freckled girl child, painfully thin, with reddish hair too much like his own. In some ways, it was a relief, because he scared her. His bulk, his height, his booming voice, the edge of violence in his eyes. Plus, she hated him for taking her mother away. The second the makeup bag came out, she’d whine. Sitting on the edge of the tub, watching Sylvia curl her eyelashes or slick on lip gloss, her stomach hurt imagining the moment when she’d go. By the time the doorbell rang, Kathy was begging and sobbing. Sylvia would say, You want him seeing you like that, with snot dripping out your nose? You won’t get a present. But what present did she ever get? If she was lucky, a pack of Twizzlers, or those candy dots on paper. Usually nothing. It was a trick to get her to behave. “Uncle” Eddie would chuck her under the chin, and they’d hurry out the door, leaving Kathy to fall asleep on the sofa with the lights on and the TV blaring.
Why couldn’t it be different? Eddie didn’t behave like the dads on TV, not even as good as the Russo kids’ father across the hall. Mr. Russo worked for the sanitation department. He yelled and screamed, but he laughed, too, and on Sundays, he wasn’t above tossing a ball on the sidewalk before supper. And what suppers they must have in that apartment. She could smell the roasts and the red sauce. When she complained, Sylvia would say, Make some mac and cheese if you’re so hungry. I’ll have some while you’re at it. Sylvia was too busy painting her nails or reading her magazines to take care of a kid. In her daydreams, Kathy had real parents. A mom who cooked for her, instead of the other way around. A dad who wasn’t Eddie, or even Mr. Russo, but Mike Brady—rich and handsome and kind. Sylvia turned men’s heads. Who was to say that Mike Brady wouldn’t fall for her? The quicker that happened, the sooner Kathy could have that pink bedroom in the suburbs, and the quarrelsome, adorable brothers and sisters.