Without Fail - Lee Child [111]
He leafed past the title page to the first line: At the beginning of July, during a spell of exceptionally hot weather, towards evening, a certain young man came down to the street from the room he was renting. Then he leafed ahead, looking for the ax murder itself, and a folded paper fell out of the book. It was there as a bookmark, he guessed, about halfway through, where Raskolnikov is arguing with Svidrigaïlov.
He unfolded the paper. It was Army issue. He could tell by the color and the texture. Dull cream, smooth surface. It was the start of a letter, in Joe’s familiar neat handwriting. The date was six weeks after his birthday. The text said: Dear Jack, thanks for the book. It got here eventually. I will treasure it always. I might even read it. But probably not soon, because things are getting pretty busy here. I’m thinking of jumping ship and going to Treasury. Somebody (you’d recognize the name) offered me a job, and
That was it. It ended abruptly, halfway down the page. He laid it unfolded next to the shoes. Put all three books back in the box. He looked at the shoes and the letter and listened hard inside his head like a whale listens for another whale across a thousand miles of freezing ocean. But he heard nothing. There was nothing there. Nothing at all. So he crammed the shoes back into the box and folded the letter and tossed it in on top. Closed the flaps again and carried the box across the room and balanced it on top of the trash can. Turned back to the bed and heard another knock at the door.
It was Froelich. She was wearing her suit pants and jacket. No shirt under the jacket. Probably nothing at all under the jacket. He guessed she had dressed quickly because she knew she had to walk near the marshal in the corridor.
“You’re still up,” she said.
“Come in,” he said.
She stepped into the room and waited until he closed the door.
“I’m not angry at you,” she said. “You didn’t get Joe killed. I don’t really think that. And I’m not angry at Joe for getting killed. That just happened.”
“You’re angry at something,” he said.
“I’m angry at him for leaving me,” she said.
He moved back into the room and sat on the end of the bed. This time, she sat right next to him.
“I’m over him,” she said. “Completely. I promise you. I have been for a long time. But I’m not over how he just walked out on me.”
Reacher said nothing.
“And therefore I’m angry at myself,” she said, quietly. “Because I wished him harm. Inside of me. I so wanted him to crash and burn afterward. And then he did. So I feel terribly guilty. And now I’m worried that you’re judging me.”
Reacher paused a beat.
“Nothing to judge,” he said. “Nothing to feel guilty about, either. Whatever you wished was understandable, and it had no influence on what happened. How could it?”
She was silent.
“He got in over his head,” Reacher said. “That’s all. He took a chance and got unlucky. You didn’t cause it. I didn’t cause it. It just happened.”
“Things happen for a reason.”
He shook his head.
“No, they don’t,” he said. “They really don’t. They just happen. It wasn’t your fault. You’re not responsible.”
“You think?”
“You’re not responsible,” he said again. “Nobody’s responsible. Except the guy who pulled the trigger.”
“I wished him harm,” she said. “I need you to forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive.”
“I need you to say the words.”
“I can’t,” Reacher said. “And I won’t. You don’t need forgiving. It wasn’t your fault. Or mine. Or Joe’s, even. It just happened. Like things do.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded, just slightly, and moved a little closer to him.
“OK,” she said.
“Are you wearing anything