lake estate? Rose, I have some photographs I want you to see. I want you to see the dead woman’s body. It wasn’t found for several days, you know. I want you to see it swollen and grotesque and covered with maggots and know that you are protecting the person who did this to her.”
“No!” cried her father, voice strangled in his throat. He backed himself and Rose against the wall to prevent his daughter from having to look at such photographs. He was trembling. “But Rose, honey,” he said, and the whole room had to stop breathing in order to hear him talk, because his voice was so papery thin, “if you saw a murder, how could you go on to play games, and drive antique cars, and laugh with another little girl? I can’t believe you’re so callous and yet I don’t know how to believe anything else. I have to agree with the police. You must have witnessed something you are refusing to tell us. Or why destroy what you wrote about that weekend, and only that weekend?”
His faith in Rose as a good person was cracking. His faith in himself as a good parent was cracking.
Rose shivered with what she had done to them all.
And then reminded herself that she was not the one who had done it.
Mr. Travis—finally acting like a lawyer—said that enough was enough. They would return the following day to meet with the juvenile court judge.
“Tomorrow?” said Rose dizzily.
Surely she had heard on some TV news show that it was a real scandal the way people had to wait weeks and months for their trials to be scheduled. How could they possibly fit Rose in the very next day? Why couldn’t she be part of this scheduling scandal and have to wait weeks and months?
Anyway, she had school.
The police read her mind. “This is not so much a car-stealing case as a murder case, Rose. They’ll fit you in right away. You have a lot of explaining to do.”
Chapter Four
B UT NO MATTER HOW much explaining Rose Lymond |had to do, she didn’t do any of it.
Dinner was just awful.
She was so stunned by what she had done that she could hardly lift her fork.
Her parents were so stunned by what she had done that they could barely keep from throwing their forks. They had only one question. What is this all about?
She had only one answer. Nothing.
Rose did not sleep but trembled on the surface of sleep.
Darkness and night, which she usually loved, seemed full of the monsters of childhood.
For breakfast, she had a single piece of dark toast, lightly buttered. It was bland, but the moment she finished chewing, it churned inside her.
“Be at the front door of the school at eleven,” said her mother.
Rose said nothing, and then thought, That way is trouble. So she said, “Mom, I’m truly sorry you and Dad have to deal with this. Don’t be mad, please. I’ll be on time. I promise.” With an effort, she looked into her mother’s eyes and with great effort, kissed her mother’s cheek.
She fled to the bus. Middle-school kids took a bus and sometimes ninth and tenth graders, but juniors and seniors would rather quit high school than be caught on a bus. They owned a car, their friends owned a car, or their parents drove them. Rose, therefore, was the oldest on her bus. The one who should set the good example.
So much for that, thought Rose.
The bus was so crowded that kids sat on each other’s laps. It made for a loud, bruising camaraderie from which nobody could be left out. It was restful to be jammed into so many conversations and bodies.
In elementary school, Rose had made friends easily. School swarmed with friends: her friends, other people’s friends, future friends. There were kids she did not want to know better and kids she wished she’d never met, but mostly, Rose was surrounded by people she liked. Her whole problem was finding enough time to spend with each of them.
Then came the terrible interlude of seventh and eighth. There almost wasn’t anything you could call friendship. People weren’t nice enough to
“No!” cried her father, voice strangled in his throat. He backed himself and Rose against the wall to prevent his daughter from having to look at such photographs. He was trembling. “But Rose, honey,” he said, and the whole room had to stop breathing in order to hear him talk, because his voice was so papery thin, “if you saw a murder, how could you go on to play games, and drive antique cars, and laugh with another little girl? I can’t believe you’re so callous and yet I don’t know how to believe anything else. I have to agree with the police. You must have witnessed something you are refusing to tell us. Or why destroy what you wrote about that weekend, and only that weekend?”
His faith in Rose as a good person was cracking. His faith in himself as a good parent was cracking.
Rose shivered with what she had done to them all.
And then reminded herself that she was not the one who had done it.
Mr. Travis—finally acting like a lawyer—said that enough was enough. They would return the following day to meet with the juvenile court judge.
“Tomorrow?” said Rose dizzily.
Surely she had heard on some TV news show that it was a real scandal the way people had to wait weeks and months for their trials to be scheduled. How could they possibly fit Rose in the very next day? Why couldn’t she be part of this scheduling scandal and have to wait weeks and months?
Anyway, she had school.
The police read her mind. “This is not so much a car-stealing case as a murder case, Rose. They’ll fit you in right away. You have a lot of explaining to do.”
Chapter Four
B UT NO MATTER HOW much explaining Rose Lymond |had to do, she didn’t do any of it.
Dinner was just awful.
She was so stunned by what she had done that she could hardly lift her fork.
Her parents were so stunned by what she had done that they could barely keep from throwing their forks. They had only one question. What is this all about?
She had only one answer. Nothing.
Rose did not sleep but trembled on the surface of sleep.
Darkness and night, which she usually loved, seemed full of the monsters of childhood.
For breakfast, she had a single piece of dark toast, lightly buttered. It was bland, but the moment she finished chewing, it churned inside her.
“Be at the front door of the school at eleven,” said her mother.
Rose said nothing, and then thought, That way is trouble. So she said, “Mom, I’m truly sorry you and Dad have to deal with this. Don’t be mad, please. I’ll be on time. I promise.” With an effort, she looked into her mother’s eyes and with great effort, kissed her mother’s cheek.
She fled to the bus. Middle-school kids took a bus and sometimes ninth and tenth graders, but juniors and seniors would rather quit high school than be caught on a bus. They owned a car, their friends owned a car, or their parents drove them. Rose, therefore, was the oldest on her bus. The one who should set the good example.
So much for that, thought Rose.
The bus was so crowded that kids sat on each other’s laps. It made for a loud, bruising camaraderie from which nobody could be left out. It was restful to be jammed into so many conversations and bodies.
In elementary school, Rose had made friends easily. School swarmed with friends: her friends, other people’s friends, future friends. There were kids she did not want to know better and kids she wished she’d never met, but mostly, Rose was surrounded by people she liked. Her whole problem was finding enough time to spend with each of them.
Then came the terrible interlude of seventh and eighth. There almost wasn’t anything you could call friendship. People weren’t nice enough to
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