His right eyebrow folds. She realizes she has not given a satisfactory answer, and she scrambles to rectify it. “But I’m just so incredibly sorry. I’m so sorry for the families of the victims who have to live with the consequences of Henry’s actions.” She resents her own weakness.
“You feel responsible, in a way.”
He doesn’t give her a chance to answer.
“What was Henry’s upbringing like?”
The police had asked her this; briefly, she is back there. Coffee stains on the table. Stale air. Rolled shirtsleeves and cigarettes.
“It was relatively normal,” she says, blinking.
“ ‘Relatively’?” Charles pushes.
She remembers suddenly that there are cameras pointing at her, and she straightens her back with a jolt. “His father was…overbearing. He expected a lot of his children.”
“Children. That means Henry has siblings. What do they think about the fact that their brother is a murderer?”
She mustn’t get rattled; she knows how that would look. She glances quickly at the camera and forces a smile, immediately wincing at how wrong it feels.
Henry’s brother, James, was hounded, just as she was, when thenews broke. He was forced to stand by as his own personal life was plundered and splashed across the papers. He’d been imprisoned for grand theft auto several years prior, and the headlines made the most of Henry’s “criminal family past.” James had a family of his own, two young children and a wife, who found themselves targeted by journalists after the murders. The last thing Beverley knew was that James’ wife had divorced him and taken the kids to live in New Zealand.
“I can’t talk about that, I’m afraid.”
Charles tugs at his tie and clasps his hands over his knee. “Well, okay, what would you likeyourchildren to know about their father?”
She holds his gaze for a second. His eyes are green, his cleanly shaven face tan and healthy; he looks like a man who plays a lot of golf. There is the faintest hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. She recognizes the expression. It means he does not respect her. It means he thinks he is better than her.
“I want—” she starts to say.
“No, no.” He waves his finger at her. “Say it to the camera.”
Her tongue brushes the front of her teeth, and the girl is there, the one in the advertisements, the one who did this all so easily so many years ago. She smiles, turns to face the lens. “I want them to know that he loved them very much.”
Charles raises his eyebrows again and shuffles his notes. “I’m sure the victims’ families will be very happy to hear that,” he says drily. “Well, thank you, Beverley, for coming in.”
No. It can’t end like that.
Charles shifts on the sofa, turning away from her and back to the cameras.
That can’t be it. She didn’t get to say anything she wanted to say. What about the investigation? The killer who is out there. What about Cheryl, Emily, Diane and Sarah? She can’t believe shesquandered the opportunity, that she let herself get so flustered by his questions.
“Now, if you’ve ever wondered if a mongoose can surf,” Charles quips to the camera, “take a look at this.” Someone with a clipboard is shuffling toward Beverley, hunching over, reaching for the microphone on the lapel of her jacket.
No. Her head swivels from left to right. She can’t let that be it.
“Wait!”
Charles freezes midway through the text on his teleprompter and turns his head to her, his eyes wide in silent warning.
“Sorry, folks.” He turns back to the camera. “I think we’re just having some technical difficulties here.”
“I wasn’t finished.” The cameras swing back toward her. “There’s something else I need to say.”
Charles raises a hand to his neck and makes a subtlecutgesture to the camera, but he is ignored. He clears his throat, turns back to her. “Of course, Mrs. Lightfoot.” She can tell by the quivering muscles in his cheek that he is furious. “It’s not often that we have people like yourself on the show. What is it you would like to add?”
She has the attention of everyone in the room now. They have stepped out from behind their cameras, lowered their clipboards to watch her intently.
She looks into the largest camera, trained on her face. She can see its lens expanding and zooming in. Closer, closer. She feels as if she could get lost in it, as if it might swallow her up entirely. She stares directly ahead and makes her voice as clear as possible.
