she said she didn’t.” Now he glares. “She knew what she was doing.”
Then I see it in his fist. A bolt of silver, glinting.
It’s a blade. It’s a letter opener.
His eyes travel from my face to his hand and back again. My throat has closed up.
“This is what I used on Katie,” he explains brightly. “Because she wouldn’t leave me alone. I told her, and told her, so many times, and she just . . .” Shaking his head. “Wouldn’t stop.” He sniffs. “Kind of like you.”
“But,” I croak, “tonight—you . . .” My voice dries, dies.
“What?”
I lick my lips. “You told me—”
“I told you enough to—sorry, but to shut you up. I’m sorry to say it like that, because you’re really nice. But I needed to shut you up. Until I could take care of things.” He fidgets. “You wanted to call the police. I needed a little time to—you know. Get stuff ready.”
Motion in the corner of my eye: the cat, stretching himself along the length of the bed. He looks at Ethan, cries.
“That darn cat,” he says. “I loved that movie as a kid. That Darn Cat!” He smiles at Punch. “I think I broke its leg, by the way. I’m sorry.” The letter opener winks as he wags it at the bed. “It kept following me around the house at night and I kind of lost my temper a little. Plus I’m allergic, like I told you. I didn’t want to sneeze and wake you. I’m sorry you’re awake now.”
“You came here at night?”
He takes a step toward me, the blade liquid in the gray light. “I come here almost every night.”
I hear my breath catch. “How?”
He smiles again. “I took your key. When you were writing down your phone number that day. I saw it on the hook the first time I visited, and then I realized you wouldn’t even notice it was missing. It’s not like you use it. I made a copy and put it back.” Another smile. “Easy.”
Now he giggles, presses his free hand over his mouth. “Sorry. It’s just—I so thought you’d figured it out when you called me tonight. I was like—I didn’t know what to do. I actually had this in my pocket.” Waving the letter opener again. “Just in case. And I was stalling like crazy. But then you just lapped it all up. ‘My daddy has a bad temper.’ ‘Oh, I’m so scared.’ ‘Oh, they don’t let me have a phone.’ You were practically drooling. Like I said, you’re not the greatest shrink.
“Hey!” he exclaims. “I’ve got an idea: Analyze me. You want to know about my childhood, right? They all want to know about my childhood.”
I nod dumbly.
“You’ll love this. This is, like, a therapist’s dream. Katie”—he practically pushes the word over with disdain—“was a druggie. A crack whore, except for heroin. Heroin whore. She never even told me who my dad was. And, man, she should not have been a mother.”
He looks at the letter opener. “She started using when I was one. That’s what my parents told me. I can’t remember most of it, really. I mean, I was five when they took me away from her. But I remember being hungry a lot. I remember some stuff with needles. I remember her boyfriends kicking the shit out of me whenever they felt like it.”
Silence.
“I bet my real father wouldn’t have done that.”
I say nothing.
“I remember seeing one of her friends overdose. I saw her die right in front of me. That’s my first memory. I was four.”
More silence. He sighs faintly.
“I started misbehaving. She tried to help me, or stop me, but she was too strung out. And then I went into the foster system, and then Mom and Dad got me.” He shrugs. “They . . . Yeah. They gave me a lot.” Another sigh. “I cause trouble for them, I know. That’s why they took me out of school. And my dad lost his job because I wanted to get to know Jennifer. He was mad about that, but, you know . . .” His brow darkens. “Tough luck.”
The room goes lightning-bright again. Thunder rumbles.
“Anyway. Katie.” He’s looking out the window now, across the park. “Like I told you, she found us in Boston, but Mom wouldn’t let her talk to me. And then she found us in New York, just showed up one day when I was alone. She showed me that locket with my picture in it. And I