Mercy

“But what about him ripping the clothes off of her? Jonathan knew about it, so it must have been when he was old enough to understand. And what was that about the mirror?”

“Well, as I said, she used to dress up in boy’s clothes. When she got older she was able to buy her own clothes. But sometimes she used to try on Edgar’s clothes and admire herself in the mirror and practice picking up girls. I knew she was doing it, but I didn’t stop her. By that stage she’d already decided what she was. There was no point fighting it. At least I knew that. But Edgar didn’t. He just wouldn’t accept it. He thought that she was in denial, but in reality he was. Then one day — when she was about fourteen — he caught her dressing up in his clothes talking to an imaginary girlfriend and he just flipped his lid. I mean, he just blew a fuse and exploded.”

“What did he do?”

Alex already knew, but he had to hear it from Esther Olsen — he had to be sure.

“He just ripped the clothes off of her, just like you said.”

“In front of the mirror.”

“Not exactly. He threw her on the bed and more or less wrestled with her to rip the clothes off her. And he was deliberately hurting her, ‘cause he carried on even when she screamed ‘okay’ and said she’d take off the clothes. But he wanted more than that. After he finished ripping the clothes off of her — and I mean all the clothes, including her underwear — he didn’t just let her go. He dragged her back to the mirror and held her in front of it. He kept shouting at her: ‘You’ve got to accept reality! You’ve got to accept reality.’”

Alex asked: “What was she doing? I mean, how did she take it?”

Esther was struggling to speak, as if the memory was still too painful.

“She was screaming and crying … struggling not to look at herself … or at him. And even when she opened her eyes — and by this stage she was squinting because her eyes were filled with tears — she just crossed her legs and tried to avoid looking at herself. But Edgar wasn’t having it. He was determined to make her see the truth — or rather his truth. So he forced her legs apart and screamed at her: ‘You’re a girl! Not a boy! You’re a fucking girl!’”

Esther broke down in tears again. But there was something troubling Alex, and troubling him deeply.

“But you said that you had problems communicating with Dorothy and that she didn’t talk to you about these things.”

“Yes,” murmured Esther Olsen, faintly.

“Then how do you know about it?”

“Because I was there!” she screamed, sobbing.

“There? What, there in the room?”

“No … not in the room. At least not at first. But in the house. When it started, I was downstairs in the kitchen. But I heard what was going on. I heard the shouting. And so I crept up the stairs and … saw … what he was doing.”

“And you did nothing to stop him?”

“No,” Esther sobbed into her hands. “But it was worse than that.”

“How could it get any worse?”

“Because she saw me. She saw me … and she knew that I did nothing … nothing to stop him … and she never spoke to me again … never one word. If she wanted to say anything to me after that … she said it through Jonathan.”

At this point, Esther broke down completely and could talk no more.

So that was it, Alex realized. The great sin of omission. That was how Dorothy became estranged from her mother.

Alex patted Esther’s arm gently. He wanted to comfort her. Even though he had only met her that morning, he felt as if in some way there was a bond between them.

“Mrs. Olsen, there was something else I wanted to ask you. It’s to do with Edgar’s death.”

“I could probably have done it myself. If she hadn’t done it. He was the one who was responsible for Dorothy hating me. He deserved to die! I accept my share of the blame. But if he hadn’t treated her like that … it would never have happened.”

“But why do you think Dorothy did it?”

“I heard them talking about it afterward. I mean, it was all in whispers and I only heard fragments. But I heard them talking about the body and his brains being splattered and then Dorothy said something about her fingerprints being on the bullets.”

“Mrs. Olsen, it wasn’t Dorothy. It was Jonathan.”

She was shaking her head.

“I … I don’t understand.”

“He went there to put the gun there, to get it out of Dorothy’s reach. Dorothy took the gun from the closet and was going to kill Burrow because of the rape — because he’d got her pregnant. But Jonathan talked her out of it. Only he was afraid that she’d try again, so he decided to take the gun to Edgar’s place and hide it there. But Edgar caught him and there was a confrontation. Some harsh words were said and it ended up with Edgar being shot.”

“But why did Dorothy…?” Esther trailed off.

“Because her fingerprints were at the crime scene. She’d loaded the revolver. In preparation for killing Burrow.”

“My God! And all this time I thought it was Dorothy who…”

She trailed off. But there was something Alex still didn’t understand.”

“The thing I don’t understand, is why the police thought it was suicide. And why was the gun found in Edgar’s hand? Jonathan said that he dropped it on the floor.”

Esther raised her head, now suddenly stronger than before, as if this latest revelation had breathed new life into her.

“That was me. I got him to help her. I just didn’t know that was the way he’d go about it.”

23:27 PDT

“Okay, you’re clean,” said the patrolman, looking at the breathalyzer.

Of course I’m clean, thought Nat. He knew perfectly well that this was harassment. Nat hadn’t touched a drop and there was no smell on his breath that could have been mistaken for liquor. This was a complete farce and he had half a mind to make an official complaint about it. But right now he had more important things to think about.

The thing that had made it annoying was that it had taken the patrolman several attempts to activate the breathalyzer device. And in every one of those minutes, Nat was squirming and fidgeting resentfully, which had probably made him look even more guilty.

“Is that it, patrolman? Can I go now?”

“Not quite, there’s just one more thing.”

“What is it now?”

“I’m still going to have to write you up a citation for the reckless driving.”

For the next two minutes Nat stood there while this pain-in-the-ass patrolman wrote out the citation.

“Just sign here.”

Nat signed, gritting his teeth against the anger. The signature entailed no admission of guilt or liability. It simply confirmed that he had received the citation and knew what it meant.

“Thank you very much, sir. Have a nice day. And drive carefully now.”

Nat got back into his car and drove off, fuming. He looked at the dashboard clock and saw how little time he had to get there. He wanted to floor the gas pedal but he knew that if he did, he was quite likely to be stopped again for speeding. He put his foot down as far as he dared, but his eyes kept darting down to the dashboard to