Rice climbed the steps of the open porch to reach the front door. He could hear voices talking over the doorbell, then the solid inner door swung open and Rice faced a short, spry-looking woman with salt-and-pepper hair. She looked his own age, late fifties, maybe.
She opened the outer door and said, “Hello?”
Rice introduced himself, and she immediately nodded soberly and said that her son, Tony, was still at the hospital with his brother.
“I’m not Nick’s mom,” she said. “Just Tony’s.”
“Yes,” Rice said. “Tony explained this morning. I just came from the hospital. I’m actually here to see Julia, if she’s available.”
Even three steps inside, the house held certain markers of wealth not enjoyed by many of the families Rice encountered on the job. The floors were gleaming hardwood running down to tiles in the kitchen, and the hall was framed in a rich dark trim. The space immediately evoked a feeling of safety and an impression that this was a deeply functional family. As the thought revealed itself, Rice felt heat on his ears. He realized quickly he’d made certain assumptions about what the Hall family would be like, based on little information. The address in farm country, the brothers with different mothers. The total absence of Nick’s parents at the hospital at a time like this. The consequence of the mandatory “sensitivity training” the station had done back in the spring was not that his biases disappeared—it was simply that he noticed them more often and felt like an asshole for it.
The short hallway opened into the kitchen, where a younger woman stood at the sink. The October sunlight spilled in through a window just in front of her, making her white blouse glow and illuminating hair that should have been just brown but seemed to contain strands of yellow and red in the light. She looked almost ethereal, except that she was frowning and rinsing a dish.
“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry, I’m just . . .” She turned off the faucet and set a glass casserole dish on the crowded drying rack. “There. I heard you come in, but I just had to finish that.”
She grabbed a dish towel off the stove and wiped her hands quickly before offering one to the detective. Her hand was damp and warm, and she said, “I’m Julia.”
“John Rice,” he answered. “Detective with the Salisbury Police Department.”
There was a muffled thud upstairs, like feet hitting the ground.
“Shall I finish the dishes or go upstairs?” Tony’s mother asked from the hallway.
“Yeah, if you could keep them distracted while we talk,” Julia said.
“On it.”
“Thanks, Cynthia,” Julia called toward the hallway as her mother-in-law ascended the stairs.
“The kids are happy to have their gram over,” Julia said as she pointed at the ceiling. “They don’t really understand what’s going on.”
Julia looked young, so Rice guessed the kids were, too. “How old are they?”
“Chloe’s seven and Sebastian’s five. We told them their uncle is sick so their dad will be busy taking care of him, but . . .” She shrugged. Now, talking about her children, Julia looked bewildered. “They’re too young to understand, and I think that’s for the best.”
“Sure is,” Rice said.
* * *
“How can I help?” Julia asked as she passed Rice a mug of coffee in the cool morning air on the porch.
Rice had suggested they speak outside, out of the children’s earshot, and Julia agreed. The two settled into side-by-side Adirondack chairs padded with nautical-looking cushions, and Rice set his mug down on the small table between them. The smell of his steaming coffee mingled with the citronella candle on the table. Acid on acid.
“Well,” he said, “Nick was still asleep when I went over this morning, and your husband looked like he hadn’t slept at all, so I thought I’d give them a couple more hours’ breathing room before I put ’em through the wringer again. Tony said you could give me a family history for my notes.”
Her face washed with relief. “Oh, that I can do.”
Rice pulled a small pad and pen from his windbreaker. He would have to get into what she knew about Nick, but he’d ease her in first.
“Do you care where I start?” Julia asked.
He shook his head. He was glad for the excuse to stare at her while she spoke. Meeting Tony, who was undeniably handsome, Rice had expected an equally striking wife. And Julia Hall was pretty, yes, but there was a plainness to her that was hard to name, now that she’d moved out of the morning light. Her face was round and without significant definition; as she spoke, her features were the same from all angles. It gave her an air of straightforward honesty—what you saw was what you got. It also made her look younger than she likely was. Rice might have guessed she was thirty were it not for the fine wrinkles she already bore: crow’s-feet at her eyes and lines hugging the sides of her mouth. This woman was a smiler and a laugher.
“So Tony’s parents are Cynthia”—Julia pointed backward at the house, indicating the woman inside—“and Ron. They were married for a while before they had Tony. Ron is—” She paused. “Ron had a really tough upbringing himself and wasn’t the steadiest dad. Ron and Cynthia were together until Tony turned seven.”
She was choosing her words like a politician, or maybe a lawyer. Either job would be ugly on her.
“Ron wasn’t, like, abusive or anything. Or maybe, well . . .” She paused again.
Rice held up his pen at eye level. “How about I put this down for a minute and you relax about Ron?”
Julia laughed and brought her hand to her face as if to hide behind it.
“Just a little background on the family dynamic can be helpful.” He didn’t always make a point to ask about a victim’s family but regularly enough. More often in a case like this, where the victim’s life would be turned inside out by the defense, looking for blameworthy material.
“I get it,” Julia said. “I’ve worked with just about every family dynamic possible.”
“What do you do?”
“I work in policy now, but I used to be a defense attorney—all juvenile and criminal cases.”
Rice shifted to pull his right leg over his left. “Then you do understand.”
She nodded. “And honestly, Ron would fit right in with maybe the middle of the pack, you know? He’s an alcoholic—he has been Tony’s whole life—and it was easier for Ron to mostly just fade out of the picture after he and Cynthia separated. Cynthia is so warm and loving; Tony got really lucky there. Nick didn’t get so lucky with his mom.”
“So Nick’s side of this.”
“Right,” she said. “So Ron is their dad, and Tony was seventeen when Nick was born, so he was, like, maybe fifteen or sixteen when Ron and Jeannie got together.”
“So what’s Jeannie’s deal?”
“She’s an addict, too, and she gets a little . . .” Julia waved her hand over her head. The word manic came to Rice’s mind.
“Do they know what happened?”
Julia shook her head. “They don’t even know he’s there. He doesn’t want to tell them.”
Her voice faded out, and she shrugged. Her face sank into that frown Rice saw all the time when people tried to hold back their tears in front of him.
“He’s gonna be fine, Julia. It’ll take a while, but Nick will be fine.” Rice pulled a packet of tissues from his pocket.
“Nick is just awesome,” she said as she accepted a tissue. “Tony loves him so much. Honestly, he made Tony the man he is, you know? Who knows what he would have been like if he hadn’t had that little baby.”
“What do you mean?”
Julia shook her head. “Cynthia says Nick being born softened him. When he was a teenager he was kind of a macho tough guy, and so angry at Ron, and kind of the world I think. And you’ve seen what he looks like, he has handsome jerk written all over him.”
; Rice snorted and concurred. Not only was Tony Hall fit, but he had magazine looks. The kind of face that made you dislike him, just for having what you didn’t. Rice wondered what Julia would have thought of him when he was her husband’s age. Rice had mild acne scarring on his cheeks that persisted to this day, but when he was younger the pockmarks made him look tough. That’s what his wife had told him, at least.
“But Nick just melted his heart,” Julia said, dabbing the tissue at her eyes. “Tony grew up to be warm and emotional and a good communicator, which is probably super cliché to say about your husband.” She laughed. “But whatever, I know I’m lucky. And I know I have Cynthia to thank for some of that, but I really think it was mostly because of Nick. You probably won’t ever meet the real Nick. He’s funny, wickedly funny, and charming and just, like, sincere. But now, I don’t know.”
Behind them, Rice heard the kids come bouncing down the staircase he’d seen inside the house. Seconds later, he heard Tony’s mother trailing behind them. The noise faded down the hall and into the kitchen.
Rice’s hand returned the tissues to his pocket and reappeared with a small, silver tape recorder. “I know this is hard,” he said, “but I need to ask you some questions about yesterday.”
“Okay,” Julia said with an exhale. “Nick didn’t call us until after dinner.”
3
Tony Hall, 2015
That Saturday evening had been ordinary. Tony and Julia had been sitting on the front porch, watching the sky go pink. Their neighbors had spread a golden blanket of hay over the field across the street, and the view from the porch was like an oil painting. And then the phone rang.
As Tony sat in the waiting room, he tried to remember the caller’s specific words. She said her name, Dr. Lamba, maybe. She was calling from York County Medical Center.
At that point, his first thought was of his father. He’s finally killed himself driving drunk, Tony thought. Please, please say he didn’t hurt anyone else. But the doctor wasn’t calling about Ron. She was calling about Nick.
“Your brother’s been hurt,” she’d said on the phone. That was as specific as she had been.
Tony had asked if it was a car accident.
“No,” she’d said. “Can you come see him now?”
Tony had gotten to him as fast as he could—he’d rushed out of the house, sped down the highway, jogged through the parking lot, only to be halted in the lobby. The energy that had pounded through him earlier was still trapped inside him, buzzing, buzzing.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Texted Julia,
ETA?
She was at home with the kids, waiting on his mother. He would feel better when she got here, he told himself. Or once they let him back to see Nick. But would he feel better then?
“Your brother has been hurt.” The strange words had played over and over in his head as he sped to the hospital. Vague, yet grave. The doctor had given him nothing, besides that it wasn’t a car accident. What, then? Alcohol poisoning? A bar fight? Neither sounded like Nick, but things could get a little wild in college. Oh, Jesus, not a school shooting. He would have heard something on the radio on his drive. Still, there in the waiting room, he pulled out his phone and opened the browser. “University of Maine Salisbury news.” Nothing. “Salisbury Maine news.” Nothing.
What else had the doctor said on the phone? Something about Nick’s age. She’d asked how old he was. When Tony said Nick was twenty, she said something about him having a fake ID on him, so she’d wanted to be sure. Said Nick didn’t want her to call his parents, and she wouldn’t have to. He only wanted Tony.
“Mr. Hall?” An older woman in a white coat stood in the doorway. He launched from his seat and met her with a handshake. She said she was Dr. Lamba from the phone, her voice low and confident. He was relieved to detect no message of condolences in her kind, dark brown eyes. Nick could be fine.
Tony followed Dr. Lamba down a long hallway as she explained that Nick had come in earlier that day, late morning.
“And as I said on the phone, he only wanted us to call you.”
As she talked, Tony found himself fixated on the scrunchy in her silver hair. It was velvety black and sat at the nape of her neck. They were approaching a new set of double doors. Above them read behavioral health unit.
“Wait.” Tony’s eyes hung on the letters as they walked under them. “Nick’s in here?”
Inside the double doors was a small room surrounded by chicken-wired glass and a heavy door leading into the unit. Dr. Lamba motioned for them to sit in two small black chairs to the right of the room.
Dr. Lamba put her hand on Tony’s forearm and said, “Your brother was sexually assaulted last night.”
Tony stared at her.
“Whoever did this to him beat him up pretty badly, so I wanted to prepare you for that. We’ve—”
“Wait. Stop. Stop.”
Dr. Lamba paused.
Tony shook his head. “No. No, no one would do that to him, that doesn’t—that makes no sense.” As he heard the words he’d said, a strangely detached voice in his mind whispered, No, you make no sense.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hall,” Dr. Lamba said.
He buried his face in his hands. “Please, no.”
He felt her hand on his shoulder now. “The emergency department treated Nick’s injuries, and the good news is that he could go home now if he wanted. But the other good news is that he took my advice and admitted himself to our mental health unit, to give himself a couple of nights here.”
Through his hands, Tony said, “Could you stop saying good news?”
“Yes.” The hand rubbed his shoulder in a circular motion.
Someone did this. The simplicity struck him like a blow. Tony lifted his face from his hands. “Where’s the fuck who did this?”
“Nick has already spoken to a police officer.” Dr. Lamba met his eyes again and held them as she said, “Please, focus on your brother right now. He needs you. Don’t focus on this other person, that’s what the police are for. Focus on Nick.”
* * *
Nick’s face was ruined.
It was the first thought Tony had when he saw him. Nick was lying on top of the covers of his hospital bed, like he was watching TV at a hotel. But his face was all wrong—the shapes of it were off, just a fraction: his lip was split and swollen, an eyebrow was cut. He had bruises on a cheek, his forehead, his chin, like he’d fallen down a flight of stairs.
“Nick?”
Nick smiled at Tony and then winced, licked the scab on his lip.
Tony’s voice went watery. “What the fuck?”
“I’m fine,” Nick said, and smiled reassuringly.
Tony pointed at Nick’s chest. “Can I?”
Nick raised his arms.
As Tony crouched to hug Nick, his vision blurred with tears. He wriggled his hands under Nick’s back and laid his head against his brother’s. When he pulled away, there were tears on Nick’s cheek. They were Tony’s—Nick’s eyes were dry.
“Sorry,” Tony said.
“For what?”
For crying on you, he thought. For being weird when you’re saying you’re fine. For taking so long to get back to your room. For whatever happened.
Instead, Tony said nothing. He turned to pull a chair to the bedside and saw that Dr. Lamba had closed the door behind Tony. The two were alone.
Tony said, “So . . . ,” but he was lost in a barrage of thoughts. Should he ask what happened, with what words, did he want to know, was he being selfish, how could this have happened, was that the wrong thing to ask.
“Where’s Julia?” Nick’s simple question nudged out all the others.
“Home with the kids. My mom’s heading there, and then she’ll come here as soon as she can.”
“Julia’ll come here tonight?”
&nbs
p; “Yeah, if you want—only if you want.”
“Yeah, of course, I almost asked for her instead of you to begin with.”
Tony rolled his eyes. “Oh, okay.”
“She wouldn’t have cried,” Nick said with a grin, then winced again. He brought a finger to the slit in his lip. Whispered, “Shit.”
Tony watched his little brother. They must have misunderstood him. This wasn’t someone who’d been sexually assaulted. Clearly he’d gotten his ass kicked. Maybe he made a pass at the wrong guy and the homophobic fuck beat him up, that was possible. Or he could have been mugged. But not that—not what the doctor said. Their banter was unfazed. They might as well have been play-squabbling over a game, like when Nick was a kid and Tony used to pretend he was losing to him at checkers. And Nick was calm—so calm. He must have told someone he was assaulted, and they took it the wrong way. That had to be it. Nick seemed—
A knock at the door cut off the thought. A deep voice said, “Sorry to bother you.” It came from the large man standing in the doorway. He was in plain clothes, but it might as well have been a T-shirt reading “I’m a cop” under his windbreaker instead of the white button-down, no tie.
“I’m Detective John Rice,” he said, stepping into the room. “I’m from the Salisbury Police Department. I think Officer Merlo said I’d be stopping by?”
Nick adjusted himself to sit higher in bed. “Yeah, hi.”
Tony felt the tension of that first silence swell back into the room.
Detective Rice made his way to the opposite bedside in two steps. He had to be six six, maybe even taller. His face was weatherworn and wrinkled; Tony guessed he was in his early sixties. The giant drew two business cards from his windbreaker and handed one to each of them.
The Damage Page 2