Killer's Cousin
Page 17
We can’t be sure, I thought. Nothing is sure. But …
I said, “Do you want to do it again?”
“No!” said Lily. “No!” I heard the raw truth in her voice. “I think about her—about my sister—every day. But still, sometime I might … even just for a second … and what if … what if …”
What if.
I said, “I’ll make you a deal, Lily.”
She waited, tense.
“We’ll help each other,” I said. “When it hurts, when we’re afraid, if we’re ever tempted—we tell each other. I’ll help you. You’ll help me. We won’t use the power we have. And we’ll find ways to do good. To … to atone.”
Quiet, as Lily thought about it. I discovered I was holding my breath.
I said, “Is it a deal, Lily?”
And Lily said, like a vow: “Yes.”
“That’s that, then,” I said.
We held each other in the dark for the time we had left.
After Frank took Lily away, I turned on my light. I reached into the bedside table and pulled out the envelope that Frank had brought. I took out Raina’s drawing and unfolded it steadily. I looked.
Just a face. An ordinary one, really. The lips didn’t smile, but they were calm. The chin was a mere line, firmly, swiftly done: unmistakably mine.
And yes, there was something nameless in the eyes; something you didn’t want to see or acknowledge. But you knew, looking, that the owner of those eyes was not flinching. That he called his demons by name, and kept them at bay. And always—somehow—would.
I took in a deep breath. Then I looked even more closely at the eyes, at the tiny figure Raina had placed in each iris. In the left: a woman. In the right: a little girl.
They were not demons, the woman and the girl. They wore tiny wings.
EPILOGUE
On my first night in the new apartment with my parents, I dreamed I stood in the Porter Square Star Market, in the “8 items or less” checkout line. In front of me in line stood a redheaded woman. She turned. It was Kathy.
She didn’t seem surprised to see me. She fumbled inside a tote bag and pulled out a supermarket card. Gravely, she offered it to me. I pulled out my own.
Silently we swapped, and I examined my new card. It said DAVID YAFFE. I looked up and met her eyes. She held out the card I had just given her, so that I could read the name on it.
It said LILY SHAUGHNESSEY.
She smiled, and so did I. One way or another, people always do smile in Cambridge when they trade supermarket cards. Kathy’s smile was not the usual one, however. It was simply radiant. It warmed me all the way to my soul. Then she ducked her head and turned away. And I woke up, compelled by an urgent impulse.
It was just dawn. Still awkward, I got out of bed and went over to the bureau. I opened my wallet and pulled out my Star Market card.
It said DAVID YAFFE.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank the many people who helped me during the years I worked on this book. Elaine Werlin, Arnold Werlin, Max Romotsky, Miriam W. Rosenblatt, and Susan Werlin: for loving and believing in me. Jayne Yaffe: for loaning her family name. Discerning early-and-often readers Victoria Lord, Ellis O’Donnell, and Barbara Hillers. My online writers’ group, for always being there. Dian Curtis Regan, Jane Kurtz, Jo Stanbridge, Debbie Wiles, Franny Billingsley, Toni Buzzeo, Walter Mayes, Amy Conklin, Conrad O’Donnell, Anneke Kierstead, Jan Smith, Sharyn November, Athena Lord, and Jackie Briggs Martin: for various critical and informational help and encouragement over time. My agent, Shelley Roth, for her straightforwardness and meticulousness.
Most importantly, I owe thanks to my editor, Laura Hornik, for her belief in David’s story, and for kindly but firmly pushing me to tell it as well as I possibly could. There may be other editors who are more intelligent, creative, thoughtful, and critically acute—but I can’t imagine how.
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