A chill runs through Rachel.“So youdidkill him?”
“That’s not what I said.I said you don’t actually want to know.”
“Don’t speak to me in fucking riddles, Mary, or I’m leaving.”
“No you won’t,” Mary scoffs.
“Excuse me?”
“You won’t leave, because you came here for an answer.But what I’m saying is, I don’t think you want it.”
Mary locks eyes with her, and it takes everything Rachel’s got to meet her gaze and hold it.“You want to keep thinking I killed Walt,” Mary says, “because then this all makes sense to you, and you get to keep hating me and loving Dora and then we get a nice black-and-white picture, don’t we?Nice sharp edges.”She pauses.“You don’t want the grey.Especially not now that you’re a damn cop.You want a yes or no and you can’t live with a maybe.You’ve always been like that.”
“You wouldn’t even know what I’ve always been like,” Rachel fires back.“You were in and out of my life for twenty years and you’ve been in here for the remainder.”
“Well, you heard my defence, didn’t you?He was always the golden boy, couldn’t do anything wrong.And that was all stacked up next to my little fucked-up self, so that’s one hell of an idyllic backdrop to have to live in front of.Dora was abusive, and so was my dad.Emotionally abusive, psychologically.They didn’t give a shit about me once Walt was born, and even before that, I know Dora didn’t think I was good enough.Nothing I ever did was good enough because I wasn’t a boy, and she wanted a boy.They both did.”
“None of that sounds like her.You’re a liar, and always have been.Pathological.I don’t even know why I—”
“It might not sound like the version of heryouknew, Rachel, because you were both always united against me, like I was some kind of curse you’d both been hit with.She tried to abort my fucking fetus, she—”
Rachel holds up a hand.“Enough.You always hang everything on that, but do you not hear that you sound crazy?Calling your mother a witch and talking about curses?”
“Well, that was my whole defence, wasn’t it?”Mary says, flashing Rachel a sarcastic smile with intent to wound.“That I’m just too crazy to be responsible for myself.”
“Right.And that defence failed, didn’t it?Has it not occurred to you that you were sick enough for her to maybe know what might be best?That she was actually trying tohelpyou by terminating—”
“Just stop it,” Mary says, and now her eyes are shining.“Stop it.”
They’re silent for a minute as the conversations of the other inmates and visitors swell in the large white space.
“You won’t just tell me, will you?”Rachel says finally.“About Walter Jr.?”
“My parents didn’t have me charged, did they?”Mary says.“So what does that say?”
The lump forming in Rachel’s throat threatens to choke her, but she manages a shuddering breath.“I think that says they were loving parentswho didn’t want to losebothof their children.I think that says they were trying to protect you.”
Mary is quiet, but only for a moment.“Except they still just acted like they hated me.Hatedme.Is it even possible to love your kid and hate them at the same time?”She shakes her head, scoffs.
Rachel sighs deeply, knowing the conversation is at an end, and that this will probably be the last one she ever has with her mother.And she’s okay with that.As has been the case her entire life, she’s never going to get what she wants or needs from Mary.Her mother is too sick.Too selfish.Too much of a run-of-the-mill asshole.Too complicated, yet too narrow-minded.Too everything.But Rachel will still spend the rest of her life wishing things weren’t such a mess, and trying, day in and day out at her job, to tidy up the messes for other people.
“I wouldn’t know,” Rachel answers.“But I thinkyoudo.”
CHAPTER 44
EMILY
Huron County—August, 1996
Emily sits on the edge of the bed at her hotel, a lovely little historic inn in Bayfield, with creaky, uneven floorboards and tall, bright windows looking out onto the leafy main street.She runs her hand over the quilted bedspread, takes a moment to ground herself as she feels the stitching beneath her fingers.It would be an inconvenient time for the panic attack she can feel building.It’s just simmering, but at least, after so many years of therapy, Emily has the tools now to prevent it from overtaking her.
“It’s going to be all right, Em,” her husband, Howard, says.She looks up to find him standing near the full-length mirror on the back of the door, hands frozen midway through fastening a tie beneath his grey, grizzled, and slightly paunchy chin.He watches her through glasses that have gotten thicker every year.He had them when they met, back in 1970 at Doris’s annual Christmas at-home.He was a photographer working freelance for various papers and magazines, including Maclean-Hunter.They were married three years later in a small ceremony at the new City Hall.They both enjoyed travel and adventurous dining, agreed on their politics, and neither wanted children.Despite the usual conflicts from time to time, they were a good match, and the absence of children meant that they had space in their comfortable home for both an office for Emily and Howard’s darkroom in the basement.Howard knew the entire story ofwhat had happened to Emily during the Mercer assignment, and his understanding for both her drive to do it as well as its lasting impact on her is one of the things she loves most about him.He always knows when she’s struggling without her having to say anything at all.
“Thank you,” she says.She takes three deep breaths in succession, then stands and moves into the bathroom to finish getting ready for Annie’s reburial.
Rachel Mackenzie had called her a few weeks ago to let her know that the case was now considered closed, and that she’d spoken with Annie’s son, Gregory, about his wishes for the remains.He requested they be cremated and buried in the plot with Helen and Richard Sharrock.Emily thought that plan not only made the most sense, but was certainly what Annie—and Helen—would have wanted.Gregory had called Emily the following day to ask if she would please attend.She wants to, but the experience isn’t without its emotional hurdles.She’s had twice-weekly therapy sessions in the interim to deal with the mess of emotion and trauma this business with the police has churned up.But her therapist has assured her this is a huge step for getting the necessary closure on Annie’s death, that the reburial is an opportunity to put it all to bed.
She’s struggled for decades with guilt that she caused it.No one else seems to see it that way, though—not Doris, Howard, her family, not even Gregory.They’d had another chat when he called a few weeks ago.He had some follow-up questions from their conversation with the detectives, and Emily was happy to give him whatever she could.But he refused to hear any sense of responsibility on Emily’s part.
