Close to a minute went by before she said, “What do you want with me?” The words were slightly muffled by the door, but the wariness in them came through clearly enough.
“Personal matter involving a client.”
“What client? What personal matter?”
“Her name is Bryn Darby. The case involves her son.”
“I don’t know anyone named Bryn Darby.”
That told him something right there. “My investigation has nothing to do with you specifically, Ms. Whalen. I only have a few questions—I won’t take up much of your time.”
Another minute ticked away. Thinking it over, making up her mind. Curiosity tipped the decision in his favor, as it often did in situations like this. A pair of locks clicked in succession; the door opened partway on a chain. The face that peered out through the gap was moon round, topped by a loose pile of dark, curly hair.
“My neighbors are home,” she said.
Not as much of a non sequitur as it might seem. Runyon understood: she was telling him that if he made any kind of false move, all she had to do was scream and somebody would come running.
“Be easier if we talk inside. If you don’t mind.”
She thought that over, too, but not for long. The door closed, stayed closed for ten seconds or so as if she was still uncertain; then the chain rattled and she opened up. And immediately retreated a few steps and stood in a nervously defensive posture, her hands fisted under heavy breasts, as he stepped inside.
Big woman, bulging shapelessly in a set of pale green scrubs. Not quite morbidly obese, but edging up on it. The round face might have been pretty if it weren’t for the bloated jowls, the folds of flesh under her stub of a chin. The fat rolls had a soft, puffy-pink look, the color of a baby’s skin.
“I don’t like to be stared at,” she said.
“I meant no offense, Ms. Whalen. Studying people I meet for the first time is part of my job.”
He shut the door. They were in a longish hallway palely lit by a single globe; a more brightly lit room was visible at the far end. Two odors dominated among the mingled smells: the ghosts of hundreds of fried-food meals, and Lysol disinfectant.
She said, plucking at a sleeve, “These are my work clothes. I just got home, I haven’t had time to change.”
“I admire people who work as caregivers.”
“How did you— Oh. I suppose you know all about me.”
“Not really. A few basic facts.”
“What happened when I was nineteen? And afterward?”
“Yes.”
It was the right answer. She said, “I don’t make a secret of any of that. It’s part of my therapy to be open about it. Not that I go around broadcasting it, but if someone already knows…” She plucked at her sleeve again, turned abruptly, and waddled down the hallway, casting looks back over her shoulder to see how closely Runyon was following.
The lit room was a good-sized living room, clean and tidy to a fault, nothing out of place. The furniture was old but of decent quality. On one wall hung a large, painted-wood crucifix, the colors so vivid the blood on Christ’s hands and feet seemed almost real; there were no pictures, no other adornments. Through partly drawn drapes and mullioned windows Runyon could see portions of a small backyard.
Gwen Whalen turned toward him again. In the brighter light he saw that her deep-sunk eyes were brown and moist—gentle eyes. And now that her wary suspicion had dimmed, the emotions reflected in them were uncomfortably familiar. Pain, loneliness. The same things he saw when he looked into Bryn’s eyes; that had stared back at him for too long whenever he looked into a mirror. Another damaged soul.
She said, “I’m going to have some chocolate milk. I have coffee and tea, too, but no alcohol.”
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
She went into an adjacent kitchen, came back with a plate of chocolate-chip cookies and an oversized, napkin-wrapped tumbler poured to the brim. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”
“Yes, thanks.”
She waited until he sat on one of a pair of Naugahyde chairs, then lowered herself onto a matching couch and set the plate on a low table between them. One of the cookies went down in three bites, followed by half the chocolate milk in a series of gulping swallows that left her with a slick brown mustache.
“I haven’t eaten since noon,” she said, “nothing except two Butterfingers. If I don’t get something in my stomach, I start to feel sick.”
“I understand.”
She ate another cookie, drank the rest of the milk, and carefully wiped off the upper-lip residue with the napkin. “I haven’t always been this fat,” she said then. “I was just the opposite in high school, almost anorexic. I started eating too much after I got out of the hospital the first time, when I tried to kill myself.”