“Don’t you fucking cry!” I say. My heart is pounding and my chest feels like it’s being squeezed, and I can’t even register where I am on the emotional map anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” Bridges says, tears running down his cheeks. “I told this to your girlfriend; I thought it would be easier. I’m sorry.”
“What did she say?” I demand. “Marisa. What did she say? Did she tell you anything?”
“She said you hated me,” Bridges says, his voice breaking. “That you wanted me dead and you hoped I went to hell.” He’s openly weeping now, trying not to sob. “I told her that I didn’t know Donny had a gun, that I made him call nine-one-one. Marisa said—she knew it didn’t matter, that she knew what I’d done, how I’d run back here after I got out of prison because I was a coward, that she knew all about me and Donny. When I saw you, I thought maybe—maybe it was another chance, that I could tell you I was sorry and you …” He slips off the bench onto his knees, his head hanging down. “I’m sorry,” he sobs.
“You’re sorry?” I say. I’m astonished at the anger coursing through me like a bright-yellow river. I want to punch Bridges in the face and then keep hitting him until there’s nothing left that looks like a face. “You’re sorry? You come into my house and attack my father, and then your friend comes in with a gun”—Bridges’s face twists into a knot of pain—“and shoots my entire family, and my parents are dead and you’re sorry? You think that makes it all better? You’re sorry and it’s all better because you’ve … I don’t know, joined the holy fucking men’s club?”
Frankie has taken a step back, his eyes wide. Dom Michael stands frozen, cell phone forgotten in his hand. Bridges looks shattered and continues to sob on his knees. I stare at him, considering whether I should kick him in the face. Then I turn and stalk off, leaving them all behind.
I DON’T KNOW how long I stand outside the monastery by the pond, watching the geese, waiting for my blood to cool. Presently I hear footsteps in the grass, and then Frankie stands next to me. He says nothing for a few moments. “You okay?” he asks finally.
“No,” I say.
We stand there, looking at the water. One goose starts honking and raising its wings at another goose, and they flap and honk at each other, splashing and disturbing the surface of the pond.
“That’s a metaphor for something,” I say.
Frankie glances at me. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says.
“Neither do I,” I say.
After a few more moments of silence, Frankie says, “Dom Michael didn’t call the police. But he will if we don’t leave.”
“Okay.”
Frankie waits a beat. “Bridges says he doesn’t know anything else about Marisa.”
“So this was a complete waste of time,” I say.
“We know who this Donny guy is,” Frankie says. “That’s a start.”
“Great. So now I know Ponytail’s real name. I’ll send him a fucking Christmas card.” I pick up a rock and try to skim it off the pond. It skips the surface twice before sinking with a plonk. Then I turn and walk to the car, Frankie at my side.
“Bridges said Marisa knew all about him and Donny,” Frankie says. “Or she told him she did, anyway.”
“Yeah, well, Marisa was a pretty good liar.”
“Okay, but how did she know about Bridges in the first place? She knew where to find him. She knew about Jay Gardner being in jail. How?”
I stop and shout, “I don’t fucking know!” I’m loud enough to disturb the geese—they start splashing and honking again. I run my hand over my head, then rub my neck. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just frustrated. What the hell do we do?”
Frankie shrugs. “We find Donny, maybe we get some answers.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The day after my visit to the monastery, Susannah is released on schedule from Birchwood, and I go to pick her up and take her home.
She’s pale but smiling, even if the smile is as thin as the T-shirt she’s wearing. Her mood is placid, a mountain lake unruffled by breezes or waterfalls or jumping trout. Clearly her meds have been adjusted. She hugs me, weakly, but not like she’s fragile and would crumble in my arms if I tried to hold her. So I hold her for a few moments, rocking slightly in the lobby with the glossy magazines and maybe-faux birch furniture.
“What are you trying to do, dance with me?” she murmurs into my shoulder.
“I’m giving you a hug.”
“Seriously, it’s like the worst foxtrot ever.”
I lean back and hold her at arm’s length. “That’s my sister.”
“Are you crying?”
“It’s spring. I’m allergic to pollen.” I take the discharge papers from the nurse and thank her, then steer Susannah toward the front door. Outside, Susannah shades her eyes with her hand from the bright sunlight. She folds herself into my car and we drive away, me resisting an urge to flip off Birchwood in the rearview mirror.
“You were going to flip off the hospital,” Susannah says. She’s gazing out the passenger window, letting the passing scenery wash over her.
“I wasn’t.”
She turns her head to look at me. “It’s spring,” she says. “Spring break. You should be on vacation somewhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She nods and leans back in her seat, closing her eyes. In a reasonable imitation of Forrest Gump’s drawl, she says, “ ‘Sorry I had a fight in the middle of your Black Panther party.’ ”
“ ‘You—are—a—toy!’ ” I say back.
“ ‘Mama always said life is like a box of chocolates.’ ”
“You have to quote a different Tom Hanks movie,” I tell her. “You can’t do Forrest Gump twice in a row.”
“I just got out of the psych hospital,” she says, eyes still closed. “You can cut me
