We were both working a lot, and I couldn’t help thinking what it would be like when Vince retired, and he’d be home all the time. After six years of marriage, I had never been able to tell him that I loved him. He told me often, early in our marriage, but I never reciprocated. When he asked me one day if I loved him, I told him that I didn’t grow up with declarations of love, and it felt silly and childish to me. The first part wasn’t true. Mom and Dad showered us with love and affection when we were kids.
My friends my own age still met up in bars and nightclubs, went to drive-in movies, enjoyed rollerblading and got wasted at their children’s birthday parties, but I realized that I was living Vince’s life. We did a lot of Netflix and no chill. We tried out every new restaurant as soon as it opened. We were ready with our opinions on the latest book-to-TV adaptation and the latest fine-dining experiences when we had other couples over to dinner. Long, dull evenings, where the men would discuss their golf handicap and the wives would discuss anti-ageing creams, menopause, and of course, books. We all avoided discussing politics, it was becoming too contentious. I didn’t resent those women, but I floundered. There was something missing from my life. Business was great – I had one author in theUSA Todaychart and one who had been shortlisted for a National Book Award – but I was unfulfilled. Maybe I did want a baby after all, but our sex life had diminished so much that it would probably be a miracle for me to conceive, now aged forty-two. I stayed on the pill.
Around this time, Vince got an email saying that somebody had found Nick, that he was safe and well in Boston and wanted to meet Vince. I questioned who had sent the email and heshowed me: [email protected]. I knew immediately that was Milo. I had been waiting. I knew that he would try his hardest to find Nick from the moment Vince handed him the flyer five years earlier.
When I explained it to Vince, we wondered if it was some kind of ruse to get back into my life. Vince emailed him and asked him if he was Milo Kelly, and told him that he knew what he had done to my sister. Milo responded that he had never done anything to my sister and that he had spent thirteen years in prison for nothing, but if Vince wanted to meet his son, Milo was happy to arrange it. Vince called him up. Apparently, Milo had befriended Nick slowly over the course of six months. He described it like getting an abused dog to trust a human again. He had asked a psychiatrist friend of his to meet Nick where he lived in a semi-derelict house in Fenway and, together, they had persuaded him that he might feel less fear if he took some anti-psychotic medication. I recognized the name of the psychiatrist, Ben Roche. He was one of Milo’s friends when he was in college. They had been together at the Boston Marathon on the day of the bombing. Ben had called my sister a liar. He’d been in court the day I gave evidence. But, apparently, he and Milo had put Nick back together. I did not want to have a reason to be grateful to Milo Kelly after everything he had done to our family.
Vince went to meet him on his own. And, later that evening, he brought Nick home. The years had taken their toll on him. The last time I had seen him, he was emaciated, but now his face was puffed up and swollen, probably a side effect of the drugs, he said. His words came slowly. He cried when he entered the house and said he missed his mom. Vince caught him in a bear hug, and I felt like an intruder. I asked Vince if I should leave, but he wanted me to stay. Nick said I should stay too. He apologized for all the hurt he had caused. He was hazy about how he had met Milo. His memories of the last few years were like shrapnel, afight here, an arrest there. He had a rap sheet and had served time in correctional facilities, which had made him even more afraid and paranoid. But nobody had ever offered him genuine help until Milo. He was lucid and coherent despite the slurred words and the swollen appearance. I made up the spare room for him.
Nick never said how long he was going to stay, and we didn’t ask. He’d realized that he had a mental illness and was accepting of the treatment he was getting from Dr Ben, who had been treating him free of charge. He felt calm for the first time he could remember. It seemed like it should be a happy ending, but all I could think of was how Milo had spent months with Nick in this city until Nick was well enough to come home, and I had no doubt in my mind that he was still trying to prove to me that he was a good guy. How could Vince not be grateful to Milo? He had offered him money earlier that evening, but Milo had refused to accept it. How noble of him.
52
This was Milo’s way back into my life. Inevitably, he and Dr Ben were the only ones who Nick trusted completely. Vince was caught between a rock and a hard place. He asked me not to tell Nick what Milo had done, saying ‘he has probably saved Nick’s life’. Vince even wondered aloud if Ruby’s rape had been some kind of flirtation that had got out of hand. We barely spoke for days. Nick went out to meet up with Milo a couple of times a week, and when he asked if he could invite Milo to our house for dinner, Vince said yes. I was livid and wanted to tell Nick exactly how trustworthy his best friend was, but Vince begged me not to.
‘Whether you like it or not, that man has turned his life around, and if he did the crime, he has served his time.’
‘If?’ I said, incredulous.
‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘You don’t believe he did it. His DNA was inside my sister, for the love of God.’
‘It doesn’t matter whether I believe he did it or not. You’re talking about something that happened nearly twenty-four years ago. Don’t you think people can change?’
‘You’ve been talking to him, haven’t you?’
Vince couldn’t look me in the eye. ‘He has taken exceptional care of my son for nearly a year. He stood by him when everybody else failed him, including me. Milo earned his trust, got him psychiatric treatment and into a position where he seemsmentally stable for the first time in years. You don’t have to be here when he comes.’
‘Sure, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? So he can tell you that the DNA was planted, that my sister is a liar, that he’s an innocent man. No way. I’m going to be here.’
Vince pleaded with me not to make a scene, not to confront Milo about anything in case it upset Nick. I did not want to be there, but I knew now how manipulative Milo could be. He’d do anything to get into my good books, but he could not unrape Ruby. I was going to be there.
Nick felt absolute loyalty to Milo. He told me that Milo had once been in prison too and that, when he got out, he went to work in his uncle’s diner. He would drop off surplus food from the diner at soup kitchens and homeless shelters every week. Then he trained as a counsellor for a homeless charity and helped with recovering addicts and ex-cons. He still worked shifts in the diner. I asked Nick what Milo had been in prison for. He said it was some kind of assault case but he knew that Milo was innocent.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he’s the gentlest guy I’ve ever met.’
No wonder Nick had mental health problems – he would believe anything.
In early June 2023, Milo came to dinner. I had put it off as long as I could, using the London Book Fair as an excuse and then being too busy with editing, but I couldn’t put it off forever. When Nick walked into the room with him, Milo looked at me with a warm smile, which I did not return. Normally, Vince did the cooking, but on this occasion, I did. I could spend less time in Milo’s company. When it was time to serve, I sat in the seat opposite Nick to avoid facing Milo or sitting beside him. Thethree men were discussing the Bruins. Milo was telling some story about hopping a fence with a cousin to get in to see a game at the TD Garden when he was twelve years old, but they were caught and given a lifetime ban, and that’s why he wasn’t ever an ice hockey fan. Vince and Nick laughed and told him they were sure that particular security guard was long gone by now. Vince offered to take Milo to a game with them the following weekend.
‘I don’t go where I’m not welcome,’ said Milo, grinning.
‘Really?’ I said, ice in my voice.
The grin disappeared. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘like, that security guy could have made up a story that I stole something and called the police. I don’t mess with the law. I haven’t found those legal people to be honest or truthful.’
Vince beside me put his hand on my wrist. I took several deep breaths while Nick and Vince went back to discussing the Bruins. I met Milo’s eyes briefly but there was no anger or defiance in them, he was unreadable.
For the rest of the evening, I said little, and spent more time than necessary in the kitchen. When it was time for Milo to leave, I avoided shaking his hand. He tried to take my hand, but I shoved them both in my pockets. He said goodbye and thanked me. I nodded towards him and kept my mouth shut.
53
The following year, on a December evening, I was the last one in the office, reading through the latest submissions. Vince called to say it was dinnertime. This often happened, particularly in the winter when it got dark so early. I would get lost in a fictional world and not notice the time slipping by. I locked up the office and headed homeward, a five-minute walk through the snow. There was no moon. It was darker than usual. I had my head down, buried in my thick fleece collar. It was bitterly cold. As I passed an alleyway, suddenly I felt a sharp blade at my throat as a hood was shoved over my head from behind.
‘Don’t make a sound. If you scream, I’ll cut you.’
