printed out the photograph and made a color photocopy of the print.
He handled everything by the edges, being sure to leave no fingerprints. He used a sponge on the envelope, a plain blue Bic pen, writing in all block letters. He addressed the letter to the Atlantic City Police Department and drove to a mailbox on a quiet street in Absecon.
The image of the blood came back to him.
He’d wondered whether this move was too risky, whether this could indeed come back to him. He couldn’t see how, and maybe now, after all this time, that wasn’t even the issue. He didn’t have a choice. Whatever was eventually unearthed, whatever unpleasantness came back to him, well, what did he have to lose?
Ray didn’t want to think about the answer. He tossed the envelope into the mailbox and drove off.
6
M EGAN PULLED THE CAR TO a hard stop and threw open the driver-side door. She hurried through the lobby, past the tired night guard who gave her an eye roll, and made a left turn down the second corridor.
Agnes’s room was the third on the right. When Megan opened the door, she heard a little gasp come from the bed. The room was pitch-black. Damn, where was the night-light? She flipped on the switch and turned to the bed and felt her heart break all over again.
“Agnes?”
The elderly woman sat with the covers pulled up to her saucer-size eyes, like a small child watching a scary movie.
“It’s Megan.”
“Megan?”
“It’s okay. I’m here.”
“He was in the room again,” the old woman whispered.
Megan hurried over to the bed and pulled her mother-in-law close. Agnes Pierce had lost so much weight over the past year that it felt as though she were grabbing a bag of bones. She felt cold to the touch, shivering in her too-big nightgown. Megan held her fora few minutes, comforting her in the same way she’d comforted her children when they woke up with nightmares.
“I’m sorry,” Agnes said through the sobs.
“Shh, it’s okay.”
“I shouldn’t have called.”
“I want you to call,” Megan said. “If something scares you, you should always call me, okay?”
The smell of urine was unmistakable. When Agnes calmed down, Megan helped her change the diaper—Agnes refused to let Megan do it herself—and helped her back into bed.
When they were settled back in, lying side by side on the big bed, Megan said, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Tears rolled down Agnes’s cheeks. Megan looked into her eyes because the eyes still told all. The signs of dementia began three years ago with the customary forgetfulness. She called her son, Dave, “Frank”—the name of not her late husband, but the fiancé who had left her at the altar fifty years ago. Once a doting grandmother, Agnes suddenly couldn’t remember the children’s names—or even who they were. It scared Kaylie. Paranoia became Agnes’s constant companion. She would think television dramas were real, worried that the killer on
CSI: Miami
was hiding under her bed.
“He was in the room again,” Agnes said now. “He said he was going to kill me.”
This was a new delusion. Dave tried, but he had no patience for this kind of thing. During the last Super Bowl, right before they knew that she could no longer live on her own, Agnes had kept insisting that the game wasn’t live—that she had already seen it and knew who won. Dave began jovially enough, asking, “Who won? I could use a little betting money.” Agnes would answer, “Oh, you’llsee.” But then Dave wouldn’t let it go. “Oh yeah, what’s going to happen now?” he asked, his exasperation growing moment by moment. “Watch,” Agnes would say, and as soon as the play ended, her face would light up and she’d say, “See? I told you.”
“Told me what?”
Megan: “Let it go, Dave.”
Agnes just kept nodding at her son. “I’ve seen this game before. I told
He handled everything by the edges, being sure to leave no fingerprints. He used a sponge on the envelope, a plain blue Bic pen, writing in all block letters. He addressed the letter to the Atlantic City Police Department and drove to a mailbox on a quiet street in Absecon.
The image of the blood came back to him.
He’d wondered whether this move was too risky, whether this could indeed come back to him. He couldn’t see how, and maybe now, after all this time, that wasn’t even the issue. He didn’t have a choice. Whatever was eventually unearthed, whatever unpleasantness came back to him, well, what did he have to lose?
Ray didn’t want to think about the answer. He tossed the envelope into the mailbox and drove off.
6
M EGAN PULLED THE CAR TO a hard stop and threw open the driver-side door. She hurried through the lobby, past the tired night guard who gave her an eye roll, and made a left turn down the second corridor.
Agnes’s room was the third on the right. When Megan opened the door, she heard a little gasp come from the bed. The room was pitch-black. Damn, where was the night-light? She flipped on the switch and turned to the bed and felt her heart break all over again.
“Agnes?”
The elderly woman sat with the covers pulled up to her saucer-size eyes, like a small child watching a scary movie.
“It’s Megan.”
“Megan?”
“It’s okay. I’m here.”
“He was in the room again,” the old woman whispered.
Megan hurried over to the bed and pulled her mother-in-law close. Agnes Pierce had lost so much weight over the past year that it felt as though she were grabbing a bag of bones. She felt cold to the touch, shivering in her too-big nightgown. Megan held her fora few minutes, comforting her in the same way she’d comforted her children when they woke up with nightmares.
“I’m sorry,” Agnes said through the sobs.
“Shh, it’s okay.”
“I shouldn’t have called.”
“I want you to call,” Megan said. “If something scares you, you should always call me, okay?”
The smell of urine was unmistakable. When Agnes calmed down, Megan helped her change the diaper—Agnes refused to let Megan do it herself—and helped her back into bed.
When they were settled back in, lying side by side on the big bed, Megan said, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Tears rolled down Agnes’s cheeks. Megan looked into her eyes because the eyes still told all. The signs of dementia began three years ago with the customary forgetfulness. She called her son, Dave, “Frank”—the name of not her late husband, but the fiancé who had left her at the altar fifty years ago. Once a doting grandmother, Agnes suddenly couldn’t remember the children’s names—or even who they were. It scared Kaylie. Paranoia became Agnes’s constant companion. She would think television dramas were real, worried that the killer on
CSI: Miami
was hiding under her bed.
“He was in the room again,” Agnes said now. “He said he was going to kill me.”
This was a new delusion. Dave tried, but he had no patience for this kind of thing. During the last Super Bowl, right before they knew that she could no longer live on her own, Agnes had kept insisting that the game wasn’t live—that she had already seen it and knew who won. Dave began jovially enough, asking, “Who won? I could use a little betting money.” Agnes would answer, “Oh, you’llsee.” But then Dave wouldn’t let it go. “Oh yeah, what’s going to happen now?” he asked, his exasperation growing moment by moment. “Watch,” Agnes would say, and as soon as the play ended, her face would light up and she’d say, “See? I told you.”
“Told me what?”
Megan: “Let it go, Dave.”
Agnes just kept nodding at her son. “I’ve seen this game before. I told
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