Your House Will Pay

by Steph Cha

  The truth was she didn’t give a shit that Ray Holloway was in prison, not when her mother was dead and he was protecting her murderer. She wasn’t here to see him free. She was here for the boy. He had to be here.

  “He is innocent.” She took a slow breath and looked at Miriam. It was time to tell her. “He’s covering for someone. I think it’s his son.”

  She showed her sister the video, uploaded onto her phone. Miriam watched it twice, her mouth slack, before gripping her arm. “Are you sure?”

  “I saw him. At Sheila Holloway’s house. He was watching me. And you can see him here, how seriously he’s watching her.”

  Miriam played it again, pausing on the boy’s face. Five seconds, he stood there, his eyes intent on Yvonne. Five seconds, it took him to recognize her; Grace had watched this clip a hundred times, looking for that moment. Wondering if she could see him decide to kill her mother.

  “He knew where to find her,” Grace said. “You can see it. He walked right up to the window, knowing she would be there.”

  Miriam’s eyes widened as she looked up from the phone.

  “Unni. Did you tell them? Did you let them know where to find Mom?” Grace spoke as calmly and earnestly as she could. “Please, Unni, don’t lie to me. I’ll know.”

  Miriam swallowed, and when she finally answered, her voice came out cracked. “I sent a letter,” she said. “Not to Ray Holloway or his son. To Shawn Matthews. But that’s all. It was over a year ago. And he never got in touch.”

  “Did you mention the pharmacy?”

  “I can’t remember.” Her face was pale, and Grace understood that Miriam had already been thinking about the letter, that she’d turned it over and over in her head since somebody found Yvonne. “I know I didn’t give up her new name. But I might have said what she was doing. Where she was working.” She shook out her hands, like that might help her expel some of her guilt. “God, was it my fault?”

  It hadn’t been enough for Miriam to cut Yvonne out of her life. She had to offer her up, sacrifice her safety for Miriam’s peace of mind. If this was what she’d done—and Grace was almost certain that it was—it was unforgivable.

  Yet Grace couldn’t afford to give up her sister. She couldn’t lose her, and she didn’t want to. She would have to find a way to live with what she couldn’t forgive. She looked at Miriam, the fear and anguish on her face as she waited for Grace to answer. Grace let her wait, then gave her what she wanted. “You’re not the one who killed her,” she said.

  The crowd gathered and swelled. Shawn felt the energy boiling off them, riding the Santa Anas as the sun started to settle. The devil winds had come in, and he could see them rippling through clothing, making eyes narrow and hair stand on end. It had been years since the last time Aunt Sheila coaxed him into a public appearance, and he had to admit—there was something breathtaking about it, seeing the people turn out, riled up on behalf of his loved ones.

  When the indictment came down, Aunt Sheila called in the cavalry. The rally was already on the books, but she’d been to too many small, quiet protests, her and Brother Vincent and a handful of activists, shaking their fists at every new expression of the same old crushing themes. Not this time, not with her baby facing trial. She spent all day on the phone, goading friends and allies, giving statements to any media outlet that would listen. Dasha had done her part, too, getting the word out to Ray’s supporters on Twitter. There was no question the whole family had to be here. Shawn didn’t fight it, and neither did Darryl.

  Aunt Sheila stood in front with Brother Vincent, who spoke boomingly into a standing microphone, the crowd muttering or cheering every time he took a pause.

  “Another day, another message,” he preached. “I’ve known Ray Holloway since he was a child. Why? Because in 1991, his cousin Ava Matthews was taken from us, by Jung-Ja Han. She was guilty—her guilt was on video—and if there were justice, she would still be in prison today. But justice was not served, and regretfully, she was struck down, a free woman. I wish her peace with her God.”

  Shawn wanted to look at Darryl, standing next to him, flanked on the other side by his mother and sister. But he knew every phone was a camera here, that any glance would be recorded, available for dissection. He found Jazz instead, standing at the front of the crowd with Duncan and Tramell. Monique was smiling wide, holding her hand. Such a good child, sweet and oblivious.

  “And let me say, loud and clear,” Brother Vincent went on, “that I do not condone revenge or violence. Where blood is spilled, I call for justice. But to arrest and try a man in spite of a proven alibi—a man whose relation to a murdered girl made him a suspect—where is the justice in this?”

  The crowd roared. They raised their fists and waved their signs, shouting “Free the man!” “No justice, no peace!”

  They simmered down again, to let Brother Vincent speak. Into the pause flew a volley of incoherent jeers, screamed from across the street. Brother Vincent ignored them and took up the mic, but Shawn followed the voices. They belonged to a small gathering on the sidewalk in front of LAPD Headquarters, on the other side of First Street. There were about thirty people clustered in front of the building. A few women stood among them, one with her torso wrapped in an American flag bandanna top, posing for a photo. But most were men, their stances defiant, coiled for conflict. Three middle-aged cop types held a banner, white text on billowing blue cloth, declaring BLUE LIVES MATTER. A younger set wore red hats with black polo shirts, like overgrown prep school kids. They hoisted backpacks and American flags and screamed at the crowd.

  Their taunts were lost to the noise of the larger congregation, but the people on Shawn’s side had taken notice. He could see their concentration breaking, the anger rising as their heads turned to take stock of the counterprotest.

  He watched as first two men, then a dozen, made their way across the street. He was too far to see their faces, but he recognized the resolve in their footsteps, their hard, ready posture. They marched past the police cars lining First, right up to the counterprotesters, who puffed up as they approached, like they’d been waiting for them. They were arguing—Shawn couldn’t hear a thing, but he knew exactly what was happening. So when the first punch was thrown—one of the preppy men hitting a protester—Shawn understood that a counterpunch would follow. Within seconds, they were on the ground, and more men were entering the fray. Whether they meant to join or break up the fight didn’t matter—the violence snared them; they were part of it now.

  A siren rang out; police officers in riot gear moved to contain the fight, to find this spark of anarchy and snuff it out. Protesters shouted and pushed back against the cops. Brother Vincent was still speaking, but the crowd drifted off the lawn, some of them filling the sidewalk, then crossing the street. Shawn wasn’t even sure if they knew what they were doing. They seemed to sway and act as one body, extending an arm to meet a threat, running on instinct.

  There he was, standing next to Shawn Matthews, his head turned, eyes fixed on something to his left. It had to be hard for him, Grace thought, to listen to all this talk about Ray Holloway, knowing he could put an end to his father’s troubles with a handful of words.

  “That’s him,” she said to Miriam. “Do you see?”

  Miriam squinted, trying to make sense of his face. They were still a ways away, the crowd thickening as they moved closer to the front of the lawn.

  “I can’t tell,” she said.

  Grace scanned the row of people in front of her, looking for an opening in the wall of bodies. “Let’s go around,” she said. “You’ll see when we get closer.”

  “What are you planning to do, Grace? You can’t just rush him. Someone will recognize you. You’ll be trending on Twitter within five minutes.”

  Grace tugged on the bill of her baseball cap, grateful for all the noise. No one was paying them any attention.

  The crowd seemed to be shifting, shuffling to the right. Grace took Miriam by the hand, and they followed the flow. I
t took them closer to the front, the knots of people loosening, opening a crooked path for them to slip through. Something was happening—there were sirens and shouts coming from across the street.

  Then she heard her mother’s old name, and her eyes snapped back to the stage.

  The pastor was done speaking, and Sheila Holloway had swapped in. She looked small and weary, her head drooping toward the mic. Grace had to strain her ears to make sense of the old woman’s words.

  “I have forgiven Jung-Ja Han,” said Ava Matthews’s aunt, raising her eyes now to meet the stirring crowd. “I don’t excuse what she did, and I can’t ever forget, but I forgive her. I hope she is with God, where my Ava went to rest almost thirty years ago. My heart breaks for her family. Because I know what it is to lose someone you love.”

  Grace felt heat come over her body like a sudden rash.

  “But if she can hear me—if God can hear me—if all you people can hear me—I am begging you, don’t let them take my baby away. I know my Ray, and I know he did not do this thing. To put him away for it, when Jung-Ja Han was never put away—how many times must an old woman have her heart torn out? How many, before the angels intervene?”

  The boy was listening, and Grace could see the guilt and sorrow scrawled across his face. He looked ready to sob or throw up. If Grace had any doubt left, it vanished now.

  Miriam put a hand on her shoulder, turning her. “Gracious,” she said. “You’re shaking.”

  She noticed the tremble in her shoulders, her arms, her whole body quaking like a thing possessed. She touched her face and felt the wetness on her cheeks. It was the first time she’d cried since her mother died, and she hadn’t even felt the release.

  Aunt Sheila wept, her grief poured open for this reckless company, for her long-dead niece, her wayward son. She was, Shawn figured, the best person he knew, the most virtuous and giving, a selfless soul who’d anchored him in ruthless seas and saved him a dozen times over. She had suffered enough to make anyone mean, but she took the bitter roots of her heartache and made a healing salve for people she would never know.

  And what had it brought her? More grief. More pain.

  There was a full-on brawl on the other side of the street. Shawn thought the cops would end it, but if anything, it looked like their presence added fuel to the fire. They were outnumbered, and they must’ve unleashed pepper spray, or worse. Shawn heard screaming and then a rising chant of “Fuck the police!”

  He felt the anger spark in his own chest, the anger that had lodged in him when he was thirteen, a permanent, unruly companion that filled the hole in his life torn out by his sister’s killer. Over the years he’d fed and loved it, then tamed and silenced it. He gave up the easy outlets of his youth, those days of open hostility, on the outside of civil society. He’d done it because he was tired, and because he’d been taught, despite it all, to expect rewards for hard work and good, clean living. And it was true, too, that he’d reaped them, at least for a little while. A steady job, a stable home, a loving, beloved family, safe from trouble. Well, he didn’t have that anymore, and the anger was still there, had been there all along, Shawn never once able or even wanting to let it go. Because why should he let it go? It was his, the proof of all he’d lost; that he hadn’t forgotten, that even when he played along, he saw the world clearly.

  There was a burst of applause, and Aunt Sheila stepped back, Nisha receiving her with a hug. It was finally time to get out of this spotlight. He had a powerful yearning to hold Monique, his unknowing little girl.

  And then he saw her, that yellow-white moon-shaped face, half hidden under a Dodgers cap. While the crowd drifted to her right, she pressed forward. Her eyes were locked on Darryl.

  He turned to his nephew and saw that he’d already seen her. “Stay with your mom,” said Shawn. “I’ll deal with her.”

  The way he stepped in front of her, so that his body blocked her line of sight, Grace knew that Shawn knew what the boy had done. Their eyes met and she let him come, neither of them looking away.

  “I’m sorry about your mom,” he said, when she was close enough to hear. He could see she was crying, and he felt the sting of her grief despite himself. There was another woman behind her—it looked like she was trying to calm her down, hold her back. This had to be the other daughter, the one who’d made a scene in the courtroom, a toddler mewling for her mother. Who over a quarter century later had sent him that letter.

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” Miriam murmured, casting her eyes down.

  “Mr. Matthews,” said Grace, “I need to talk to your nephew.”

  He stayed rooted, resisting the urge to turn around and look at Darryl. “His father’s in jail, you realize,” he said. “I don’t think this is a good time.”

  She stood close to him and spoke so no one else would hear. “He killed our mother,” she said, trying to keep her voice from breaking. “I have proof. If you don’t let me talk to him, I promise you I’ll use it.”

  He stood still, hiding the chill that went bolting through him. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Video,” she said.

  “You’re lying,” he said, though he knew she wasn’t. It clicked now, why she’d been so eager to speak up for Ray. She had good reason to believe in his innocence.

  “She’s not lying,” said Miriam. “I’ve seen it, too.”

  The air turned heavy with the smell of smoke—across the street, a charcoal plume rose up and spread on the draping wind. Someone had started a fire.

  “What is it you want?” Shawn asked, leveling his gaze at Grace. “You came to me just two weeks ago, offering to help, and now you’re here threatening us.”

  “I’m not threatening you, I just—”

  “You came here instead of taking whatever you have to the police. There must be something you want from us. Tell me what it is.” He leaned closer to her, his voice quivering, soft and desperate. “Do you want me to beg? Is that it? Do you want me to get on my knees and ask for your mercy?”

  He lowered himself onto one knee and stared at the ground. He didn’t want her seeing the fury in his eyes.

  She remembered the way he’d denied her before, withholding his forgiveness, turning her away. Was that what she’d wanted? To make him cough it up, now that she had the power? Now that she’d finally been wronged? “No,” she said. “Please. Get up. This isn’t—”

  “Grace.” Miriam touched her arm, and Grace looked where she was looking. Ray Holloway’s son was coming up behind Shawn.

  Grace stared, her mouth falling open. This was him—the one who’d found Yvonne, who’d pulled the trigger and taken her life while Grace watched, unable to stop him. She smelled fire, and it seemed like her mind had fried. When she’d found the video, her mother had been alive, and she’d thought of her assailant as a misguided child, acting out in response to his family’s trauma. She’d learned to pity him, and while Yvonne recovered, Grace forgave him—it was easy to be generous, when she thought her mother was paying for death with pain. But he wasn’t an episode in Yvonne’s life; he was the end of her story. He was a murderer now, same as her, the mark of Cain on them both. Grace had wanted to face him, to see him and tell him what he was. But now here he was in the flesh, and she couldn’t find the words.

  He bent down and touched the kneeling man’s back. “Uncle Shawn,” he said.

  Somewhere, a car alarm had gone off, red and screeching. It mingled with the terrible sound of Darryl’s voice. Shawn whipped his head up and glared at his nephew. “Get back to your mom.”

  “Why are you doing this, Uncle Shawn?” His face was bright with shame.

  Shawn stood. He wanted to cover Darryl, to hide him and make these women forget he was here. “I said, get back.”

  “I’m going. I came to get you.” He glanced nervously at Grace. “They’re starting fires now. Grandma says we need to get out of here.”

  The goddamned fool, he had to come see the daughters. Shawn could almost sme
ll it on him, the guilt in his sweat. Shawn wanted to grab his nephew and run. All around them, people were on the move, animated by panic and excitement. Rushing forward or outward, making their way across the street. Some darted back, families holding their children close as they climbed up Grand Park, headed for the trains, for a tidy escape. But Shawn knew they weren’t done here. The blood and knowledge kept them all pinned in place. They might never be done.

  “What’s your name?” asked Miriam, directly addressing the boy.

  Shawn started to stop him, but Darryl didn’t give him time.

  “Darryl,” he said.

  “Darryl, do you know who we are?”

  He swallowed, his mouth dry and loud. “You’re Jung-Ja Han”—voice cracking—“Yvonne Park’s daughters, Miriam and Grace.” He nodded at each of them as he said their names.

  Miriam nodded. “One thing that’s haunted me since I found out about my mom—she wrote a letter to the judge, and she got your aunt’s name wrong. ‘Anna Matthews,’ she called her. And she said she felt sorry for her mother.”

  Grace’s face felt like it was burning, whipped by the scorching wind. This was the first she’d heard of this letter, and she already wanted to forget it.

  “This was ten months after the murder, and she hadn’t bothered to learn Ava’s name. Or that your mother had died.” She glanced sorrowfully at Shawn. “I love my mom, but I know she wasn’t a good person. I don’t think she ever accepted responsibility for what she’d done.” She turned back to Darryl, her eyes glistening, and Shawn saw the boy hanging on to her words like they might hold his key to salvation. “You’re not like her, are you? You know exactly what you’ve done.”