“You weren’t home.” Channing hooked a thumb. “I jimmied the window.”
“Since when do you break into people’s houses?”
“Never before tonight. You should have set your alarm, by the way.”
“Would it have stopped you?”
“I feel safe with you. I’m sorry.”
Elizabeth ran water in the sink, splashed some on her face. She didn’t know if the girl was sorry or not. In the end, it didn’t matter. She was hurting. Like Liz was hurting.
“Do your parents know where you are?”
“No.”
“I’m facing indictment, Channing. You’re a potential witness against me. It would be … unwise.”
“Maybe I’ll run away.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I could do it, you know.” Channing stood and walked along a row of books. “Run away. Check the hell out.” The profanity seemed wrong in such a young and flawless mouth, and the girl spoke as if she could see Elizabeth’s thoughts. “Tell me you don’t think about it. Tell me you weren’t just thinking about it.” Channing flicked fingers toward the door, meaning Beckett and the conversation and the mantra that bordered on prayer. “Leaving this place. Disappearing.”
“My problems are not yours, Channing. You’re so young. You can do anything, be anyone.”
“But, it’s not about age anymore, is it?”
“It can be.”
“It’s too late to go back or stay the same.”
“Why?”
“Because I burned it all.” A spark flared in Channing’s eyes. “The stuffed animals and posters and pink sheets, the photographs and books and notes from little boys. I burned it in the garden, a great, giant fire that almost took everything else with it.” She dropped the hood to show cherry-red skin and hair burned away at the tips. “The garden was burning, two of the trees.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Why did you get so close to the quarry’s edge?”
It was softly said, but broke Elizabeth’s heart.
“My father tried to stop me. But I ran when I saw him. I think he hurt himself going over the fence. He was screaming, angry maybe. Whatever the case, I can’t go home.” The girl’s defiance dwindled to desperation. “Tell me I have to leave, and you’ll never see me again. I’ll burn the world. I swear it.”
Elizabeth poured a drink and spoke with her back turned. “Your parents should know you’re okay. Text them, at least. Tell them you’re safe.”
“Does that mean you’ll let me stay?”
Elizabeth turned and smiled wryly. “I can’t have you burning the world.”
“Can I have one of those?” Channing pointed at the drink. “If it’s not about the age…” Elizabeth poured a single finger in a second glass and handed it over, wordlessly. The girl swallowed it, choking a little. “I saw a bathtub.…”
She let it hang, and Elizabeth pointed down the hall. “Towels are in the closet.”
Elizabeth watched her down the hall, then poured another drink, turned off the lights, and sat in the dark. Twice her cell phone vibrated, and twice she let it go to voice mail. She didn’t want to talk to Beckett or Dyer or any of the reporters who found their way to her number.
For another hour, she sat and drank and held herself still. When she finally stood, the bath was empty and the guest-room door was closed. Elizabeth listened, but there was no noise beyond the tick and creak of an old house finding its way deeper into the earth. She checked the locks, anyway. The doors. The windows. Stepping into the bathroom, she locked that door, too, then removed her shirt and examined the cruel, thin cuts on her wrists. They went all the way around and were deeper in some places than in others. Red lines, partly scabbed. Memories. Nightmares.
“Past is past.…”
She took off the rest of her clothes and filled the tub. She was hiding the truth, yes, but there were reasons. That should make her feel better, but reason was just a word.
Like family was a word.
Or faith or law or justice.
She slipped into the tub because hot water seemed to help. It warmed her through and made her weightless. Water was good like that, but it was water’s nature to rise and fall and rise again; that was its purpose, so that when she closed her eyes, the world fell away, and she felt it again: the basement around her, like fingers on her throat.
* * *
The man was choking her, one arm locked around her neck, his hand tight on her wrist, smashing her gun hand into the wall. Channing was a doll on the floor, screaming as the gun struck concrete