In the few moments I take to think about all this, though, Frankie straightens up and puts his shoulders back, less a posture of defiance than a man squaring himself to confront a difficulty. “I’m going with him,” Frankie says.
For a few moments, Frankie and Caesar are in a standoff, each gauging the other’s resolve. There’s a molten anger in Caesar that he keeps contained, although I can see it in his eyes. In contrast, Frankie is solid, implacable. And then Caesar has turned and is walking to the garage door. “I’ll let you out,” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking to me.
“You don’t need to do this,” I say to Frankie.
“A guy like this, you don’t go see alone,” Frankie says. “Don’t care where he is. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.”
Caesar pulls the garage door open. The force with which he yanks it seems nearly enough to tear the door off its tracks.
As I walk out, I pause by Caesar, standing in the open garage entrance. “Thank you,” I say.
The menace in his voice is like a deep bass note that penetrates to the spine. “If anything happens to him,” Caesar says, “you and I are going to have words.”
PART III
I must become a borrower of the night
For a dark hour or twain.
—Banquo, Macbeth (3.1.26–27)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When I get home, I let Wilson out and get him fresh water and food and then call Birchwood to talk with Susannah. The nurse puts me on hold for a few minutes until finally I hear Susannah’s voice on the other end. “Hey,” she says.
“Hey.” I’m sitting on the floor of my living room, throwing a rope bone that Wilson chases and brings back to me with obvious pride. “How are you?”
“I’m in the psych hospital,” she says. She sounds dispirited, not quite listless but definitely down.
“You should hear the Muzak they play when they put you on hold,” I say. “It’s like bad Kenny G.”
“Isn’t that redundant?” she says, and she chuckles. It’s not much, but it’s something.
“What’s the worst thing about Birchwood?” I say. “You can tell me. The orderlies? The food? I bet it’s the food.”
She doesn’t say anything for a minute. “I can’t go to group,” she says.
“Why not?”
“Dr. Ashan doesn’t think it’s a good idea.”
Wilson puts his head in my lap, the rope bone in his mouth, and growls playfully. I take the rope bone out of his mouth, throw it across the room, and watch him bound after it. “Do I need to come up there and kick his ass?” I say.
“It’s the same group Marisa was in,” Susannah says.
“Oh,” I say.
“Dr. Ashan thinks it might not be the best place for me to recover. So I’m in this other group.” There’s a rustling noise. “It’s okay. Mostly I’m just tired.”
I close my eyes. As annoying and infuriating as my sister can be, I can’t bear to hear her like this—exhausted, caged like a tiger in a zoo.
“Thanks for bringing me clothes,” she says.
“Sure,” I say, latching on to that positive note. “You need anything else?”
She sighs. “I need to find an apartment,” she says. “When I get out of here.”
“I’ll help you do that. But first you’ll stay with me. Until you find a place.”
“’Kay,” she says. “I’d better go.”
“Okay. ’Bye.”
She hangs up, and after a moment I do the same. Wilson nudges my hand, and I look down to see the rope bone on the floor and Wilson looking at me with his little head cocked to the side. “Okay, boy,” I say, and I throw the rope bone again, Wilson scampering across the hardwood floor to retrieve it and bring it back to me so I can do it again.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON my doorbell rings, causing Wilson to bark his head off, and even as I’m moving to answer the door, I know who it is. There are two of them: one, older and black, standing on my tiny front porch, the other, younger and white, behind him on the steps. They both wear the kind of off-the-rack suits worn by door-to-door salesmen and cops, and I’m certain they aren’t here to sell me a new internet plan.
“Mr. Faulkner?” the older black man says. He holds up a badge. “I’m Detective Reginald Panko with the Atlanta Police Department. This is my partner Detective Klingman.” Panko looks down at Wilson, who is cavorting at his feet. “Cute dog. May we come in?”
“Is this about Marisa Devereaux?” I ask.
The younger detective, Klingman, has a food stain on his tie and has been passing his hand over it as if he’s embarrassed by it. Now his hand stops moving and his eyes widen slightly. No poker face on that one. But Panko looks calmly at me, no change in his expression. “What about Ms. Devereaux?” he asks.
“She was found murdered this morning,” I say, and the quaver in my voice is real, as is the sudden prickling in my eyes. She may have tried to ruin my life and pushed my sister and my student to the brink of suicide, but I wanted her out of my life, not torn out of life altogether. “It’s all over school,” I add. It’s true—about an hour ago Byron Radinger sent an all-staff email simply saying that Marisa Devereaux had died, that our hearts went out to her family, and that more information would be forthcoming. That set off a flurry of emails and social media posts by faculty and students alike, including a link to an 11Alive news report about a young woman found dead in the trunk of her car off of Fulton Industrial Boulevard.
Panko nods, gently, confirming my news. “We want to ask you a few questions.”
I nod. “All right. But I’d like my lawyer present. If you want, we could meet him at a police
