not spoken a single word. Her eyes, which had once focused on objects dangling in front of her (mobiles, human faces, her own fingers), became glazed. When the change in her behavior was proven in court, and her concussions linked to the dull handle of a metal spatula, Richard wound up with custody.
Clara and her kids had only lived in 14B for fifteen days before the tragedy, but in that short time, she’d managed to start drinking after more than a decade of sobriety. The Daily News posted one of the last family photos of the Caputo/DeLea family in its online archive. The father was absent, possibly because he’d snapped the picture. The kids, dressed in red-and-green finery, had stood next to the fake, white Christmas tree. Eldest Keith had cradled glassy-eyed baby Deirdre in his arms. The child’s gaze had been eerily vacant, her pupils so dilated they’d appeared black. Beside them had been the second oldest, Olivia, with her hands fixed on toddler Kurt’s shoulders. They’d formed their own family while, several feet behind them, Clara DeLea had lurked. She’d grown sloppy and obese, wearing black, horn-rimmed glasses and blue sweats.
Normally, Audrey might have wondered about Clara—whether the woman had suffered, was sick in the head, had some kind of reason for what she’d done. But looking at this miserable, lurking thing that had glowered behind those four innocents, all she’d seen was a monster.
Now, Audrey’s eyes adjusted to the bright October light as it shone across the freshly glazed pine planks in the children’s room. She didn’t like to court these morbid thoughts, but unanswered questions tended to nag her into insomnia. So she imagined the room’s many possible configurations. Then she nodded and pictured the one that fit best. The baby hadn’t lived here, but in a crib with Clara in the master bedroom. In this room, there had been a bunk bed against the wall for the boys and a single bed by the window for the girl. Trunks for clothes, a shared closet, and an aisle of walking space between beds. She even thought she could guess the color. Jarring red, because the children would have argued between pink and blue, and Clara, by then, had gone mad.
She walked to the center of the room, then lowered her head in prayer because a tragedy this size demanded acknowledgment. “You poor kids. I’m so sorry,” she said. The apartment did not answer her, and nothing creaked in the stagnant bedroom air, so she continued. “I’ll change this place and make it warm, but I’ll remember you.” Her words didn’t echo, even though the room was empty. Instead, they seemed to gather inside the walls, as if something there had received them. She bowed her head and left.
Across the hall was the renovated bath. The copper fixtures remained, but the antique yellow wall tiles had been ripped in places to make room for the new Jacuzzi, Home Depot vanity, and pressed-wood cabinets. She closed her eyes, and imagined a claw-foot tub. Deep enough to stack all five of them. After a few hours, the tops of their bodies would have turned pale, and their bottoms would have purpled with jellied blood.
Audrey blinked. When that didn’t work, she held the cactus steady and tapped her ballet flats four times each (left-right-left-right: a slow-motion Fred Astaire). The sound was soft, and soothing. The hole in her mind from which the image had sprouted closed. She moved on.
The next room was the kitchen. Old built-in cupboards and oak floors. To her relief, the walls smelled like grain and decades of home cooking. The happy opposite of hunger. Finally, the master bedroom. She took a deep breath and opened the door. The chandelier threw rainbow shards of light along the walls. Small details like Guilloche molding and the handblown Mercury glass doorknob made her heart pitter-patter. She imagined green, Scarlett O’Hara velvet curtains, and knew exactly where she’d get the four-poster bed. That antique shop on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn that delivered. She laughed out loud, just thinking about it: she’d sleep until noon on Sunday mornings, and speak in the royal “We!”
She let out a deep breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d chosen right after all. This place was a dream come true. And, well, if it needed paint and a few wall sconces to brighten the mood and erase the bad history, she was up to the task.
At last, she marched to the end of the