The Husband's Secret(156)
“I think we’ve paid,” said Cecilia, her voice low and vicious. She gestured at Polly. “Look how we’ve paid.”
FIFTY-SIX
Rachel sat in front of the television watching the colorful, hypnotic flicker of images and faces. If someone had turned the TV off and asked her what she’d been watching, she couldn’t have answered.
She could pick up the phone right now and have John-Paul Fitzpatrick arrested for murder. She could do it right now, or in an hour’s time, or in the morning. She could wait until Polly was home from the hospital, or she could wait a few months. Six months. A year. Give her a year with her father and then take him away. She could wait until the accident was far enough in the past for it to be a memory. She could wait for those Fitzpatrick girls to grow a little older, to get their driver’s licenses, to not need a daddy.
It was like she’d been handed a loaded gun, along with permission to shoot Janie’s murderer at any time. If Ed were still alive, the trigger would have been pulled already. The police would have been called hours ago.
She thought of John-Paul’s hands around Janie’s neck and felt that old familiar rage blossom across her chest. My little girl.
She thought of his little girl. The glittery pink helmet. Brake. Brake. Brake.
If she told the police about John-Paul’s confession, would the Fitzpatricks tell them about her own confession? Would she be arrested for attempted murder? It was only luck that she hadn’t killed Connor. Was her foot on the brake an equal sin to his hands around Janie’s neck? But what happened to Polly was an accident. Everyone knew that. She rode her bike straight in front of her car. It should have been Connor. What if Connor had been dead tonight? His family receiving that phone call, the call that meant for the rest of your life you never heard a phone ring or a knock on the door without a chill of fear.
Connor was alive. Polly was alive. Janie was the only one who was dead.
What if he hurt someone else? She remembered his face at the hospital, ravaged with worry over his daughter’s mangled body. “She laughed at me, Mrs. Crowley.” She laughed at you? You stupid, egotistical little bastard. That was enough to make you kill her? To take away her life? To take away all the days she could have lived, the degrees she never earned, the countries she never visited, the husband she never married, the children she never had? Rachel shook so hard, she felt her teeth chatter.
She stood. She went to the phone and picked it up. Her thumb hovered over the keys. A memory came to her of teaching Janie how to call the police if there was an emergency. They’d still had that old green rotary-dial phone then. She’d let Janie practice by dialing the numbers, and then she’d hang up before it actually rang. Janie wanted to act out a whole little performance. She made Rob lie on the kitchen floor while she yelled into the phone, “I need an ambulance! My brother isn’t breathing! Stop breathing,” she ordered Rob. “Rob. I can see you breathing.” Rob nearly passed out trying to please her.
Little Polly Fitzpatrick wouldn’t have a right hand anymore. Was she right-handed? Probably. Most people were right-handed. Janie had been left-handed. One of the nuns tried to make her write with her right hand, and Ed went up to the school and said, “Sister, with all due respect, who do you think made her left-handed? God did! So let’s leave her that way.”
Rachel pressed a key.
“Hello?” The phone was answered much quicker than she expected.
“Lauren,” said Rachel.
“Rachel. Rob’s just coming out of the shower,” said Lauren. “Is everything all right?”
“I know it’s late,” said Rachel. She hadn’t even looked at the time. “And I know I shouldn’t impose like this, after all the time you spent with me yesterday, but I wondered if I could come over and stay the night there? Just this once. For some reason, I don’t know why, but I just find myself unable to—”