“But Connor wasn’t just any boy. He was the last one to see her before she died,” she said slowly and carefully to make sure he understood.
“He had an alibi.”
“His mother was his alibi!” said Rachel. “She lied, obviously!”
“And his mother’s boyfriend backed it up too,” said Rodney. “But more importantly, there was a neighbor who saw Connor put out the garbage at five p.m. The neighbor was a very reliable witness. A solicitor and a father of three. I remember every detail of Janie’s case, Mrs. Crowley. I can assure you, if I thought we had anything—”
“Lies in his eyes!” interrupted Rachel. “You said Connor Whitby had lies in his eyes. Well, you were right! You were exactly right!”
Rodney said, “But, see, all this proves is that they had a little tiff.”
“A little tiff!” cried Rachel. “Look at that boy’s face! He killed her! I know he killed her. I know it in my heart, in my . . .” She was going to say “body,” but she didn’t want to sound like a loony. It was true, though. Her body was telling her what Connor had done. It was burning all over, as if she had a fever. Even her fingertips felt hot.
“Well, you know what, I’ll see what I can do, Mrs. Crowley,” said Rodney. “I’m not making any promises about whether it will go anywhere, but I can promise you this video will get into the right hands.”
“Thank you. That’s all I can ask.” It was a lie. She could ask for a lot more. She wanted a police car with a shrieking, whirling siren to race to Connor Whitby’s house right that second. She wanted Connor handcuffed, while a grim-faced burly police officer read him his rights. Oh, and she did not want that police officer to tenderly protect Connor’s head when they put him in the back of the police car. She wanted Connor’s head smashed over and over, until it was nothing but a bloody pulp.
“How’s that little grandson of yours? Growing up?” Rodney picked up a framed photo of Jacob from the mantelpiece while Rachel ejected the videocassette.
“He’s going to New York.” Rachel handed him the cassette.
“No kidding?” Rodney took the cassette and carefully replaced Jacob’s photo. “My oldest granddaughter is off to New York too. She’s eighteen now. Little Emily. Got herself a scholarship to some top university. The Big Apple, they call it, don’t they? Wonder why they call it that?”
Rachel gave him a sickly smile and led him to the front door. “I have absolutely no idea, Rodney. No idea at all.”
TWENTY-ONE
APRIL 6, 1984
On the morning of the last day of her life, Janie Crowley sat next to Connor Whitby on the bus.
She felt strangely breathless, and she tried to calm herself with slow deep breaths from her diaphragm, like her drama teacher had taught the class for dealing with stage fright. It didn’t seem to help.
Calm down, she told herself.
“I’ve got something to say,” she said.
He didn’t say anything. He never did say much, thought Janie. She watched him studying his hands resting on his knees, and she studied them herself. He had very big hands, she saw with a shiver, of fear or anticipation, or both. Her own hands were icy cold. They were always cold. She slid them under her cardigan to warm them.
She said, “I’ve made a decision.”
He turned his head suddenly to look at her. The bus lurched as it went around a corner, and their bodies slid closer, so that their eyes were only inches apart.
She was breathing so fast, she wondered if there was something wrong with her.