The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [41]
She was sent to a psych ward and then to a children’s home where she spent two years. When she turned eighteen she no longer had to answer to judges and social workers. She was free, but freedom didn’t come with a safety net. That’s why Zac was so important. Darling Zac.
Holly grips the edge of the mattress and feels her throat begin to close. Maybe this is what grief feels like. Suffocating. Paralyzing.
If Zac were here, he would tell her to cup her hands over her mouth and breathe deeply. Count slowly. Relax. After a time the anxiety passes. She pushes back the bedclothes and begins searching through the wardrobe, choosing clothes: jeans, a plaid shirt, a scarf, a leather satchel…
Ruiz is downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper.
“You found some clothes.”
Holly nods. “Is it OK if I take this?” She holds up the satchel.
“Sure. You want breakfast? There is cereal, bread, eggs, bacon…”
“I don’t eat bacon.”
“Eggs then?”
She doesn’t answer.
Sitting opposite him, she stares at the back of his newspaper without reading the words. He pours tea and spoons sugar. Stirs. The spoon sounds loud against the rim of the cup. Without warning, Holly begins to speak.
“Were you really a copper?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you give it up?”
“It gave me up.”
“You got fired?”
“I got retired.”
Holly has tied her hair up in a scarf, which makes her look like a 1940s aircraft worker.
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“Well it doesn’t happen very often. And people who are nice to me usually end up leaving or dying.”
“Who else has died?”
“My brother… my parents.”
“How old were you?”
“Seven.”
“What happened to them?”
Holly shakes her head and changes direction. “I knew a guy at school, Scott Kernohan. He got hit by a train.” She changes direction again. “How did your wife die?”
“Cancer.”
“Did you remarry?”
“Twice.”
Holly looks at a framed montage of family photographs on the wall beside the fridge. Snapshots of weddings, dinners, holidays, children’s concerts, birthday celebrations, anniversaries.
“When is your daughter getting married?”
“On Saturday.”
“I saw the invitation.”
“When you were robbing me?”
Holly lets the comment slide. “Do you like the guy she’s marrying?”
“Sure.”
She smiles wryly.
“What’s that look for?”
“You’re lying.” She points to a photograph on the wall. “Is that him?”
“No, that’s my son Michael.”
“He’s cute.”
“He’s in Barbados.”
“But he’s coming home for the wedding, right?”
“We hope so.”
Holly loses interest and begins opening cupboards. Ruiz can’t concentrate on his newspaper because he wants to watch her. She opens a box of cereal and eats with her hand.
“I have bowls.”
“It’s OK.”
He tries to read, but can feel her eyes upon him. Silence until he can stand it no more. He folds the newspaper. “Why do you rob people?”
“To pay the rent.”
“You couldn’t find another way?”
“I’m sure you’re going to give me a list.”
“Whoever killed Zac was looking for something.”
“You don’t know that.”
Holly takes another handful of cereal.
“Who did you rob?”
“Rich horny guys, businessmen, suits, married, middle-aged.”
“How many?”
“Nine, maybe ten,” she says defensively. “We didn’t do it all the time—just when we needed the rent. Zac wasn’t getting his army pension. They lost his paperwork.”
“I need names and addresses of everyone you robbed.”
“Oh, yeah, I kept them on speed dial.”
Sarcasm scratches her pretty face.
“What did you take?”
“Phones, cameras, computers, jewelry—stuff we could carry.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Fenced it.”
“Who with?”
Holly hesitates. “I’m not a grass.”
“I just want to talk to him.”
“That’s another lie.”
“What is it with you? You keep calling people liars.”
“I can tell.”
“Sure.”
“It’s true.