Tana French - Faithful Place

Down to her lap, almost too low to be intelligible: “Wasn’t any of your business.”

“But it was, honeybunch. And you knew it was. You knew Rosie was someone I cared about, you know I’m a detective, and you knew I was trying to find out what had happened to her. That makes that note very much my business. And it’s not like anyone had asked you to keep it a secret to begin with. So why didn’t you tell me, unless you knew there was something dodgy about it?”

Holly carefully unraveled a thread of red wool from her cardigan sleeve, stretched it between her fingers and examined it. For a second I thought she was going to answer, but instead she asked, “What was Rosie like?”

I said, “She was brave. She was stubborn. She was a laugh.” I wasn’t sure where we were going with this, but Holly was watching me sideways, intently, like it mattered. The dull yellow light from the street lamps turned her eyes darker and more complicated, harder to read. “She liked music, and adventures, and jewelry, and her friends. She had bigger plans than anyone else I knew. When she cared about something, she didn’t give up on it, no matter what. You would have liked her.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

“Believe it or not, chickadee, you would’ve. And she would have liked you.”

“Did you love her more than Mum?”

Ah. “No,” I said, and it came out so cleanly and simply that I was nowhere near sure it was a lie. “I loved her a different way. Not more. Just differently.”

Holly stared out the window, winding the bit of wool around her fingers and thinking her own intent thoughts. I didn’t interrupt. Up at the corner, a troop of kids barely older than her were pushing each other off a wall, snarling and chattering like monkeys. I caught the glow of a cigarette and the glint of cans.

Finally Holly said, in a tight, level little voice, “Did Uncle Shay kill Rosie?”

I said, “I don’t know. It’s not up to me to decide that, or to you. It’s up to a judge and a jury.”

I was trying to make her feel better, but her fists clenched and she hammered them down on her knees. “Daddy, no, that’s not what I mean, I don’t care what anyone decides! I mean really. Did he?”

I said, “Yeah. I’m pretty sure he did.”

Another silence, longer this time. The monkeys on the wall had switched to mashing crisps in each other’s faces and hooting encouragement. In the end Holly said, still in that tight small voice, “If I tell Stephen what me and Uncle Shay talked about.”

“Yeah?”

“Then what happens?”

I said, “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and find out.”

“Will he go to jail?”

“He might. It depends.”

“On me?”

“Partly. Partly on a lot of other people, too.”

Her voice wavered, just a touch. “But he never did anything bad to me. He helps me with homework, and he showed me and Donna how to make shadows with our hands. He lets me have sips out of his coffee.”

“I know, sweetie. He’s been a good uncle to you, and that’s important. But he’s done other stuff, too.”

“I don’t want to make him go to jail.”

I tried to catch her eye. “Sweetheart, listen to me. No matter what happens, it won’t be your fault. Whatever Shay did, he did it himself. Not you.”

“He’ll still be mad. And Nana, and Donna, and Auntie Jackie. They’ll all hate me for telling.”

That wobble in her voice was getting wilder. I said, “They’ll be upset, yeah. And there’s a chance they might take that out on you for a bit, just at first. But even if they do, it’ll wear off. They’ll all know none of this is your fault, just like I do.”

“You don’t know for definite. They could hate me forever and ever. You can’t promise.”

Her eyes were white-ringed, hunted. I wished I had hit Shay a lot harder while I had the chance. “No,” I said. “I can’t.”

Holly slammed both feet into the back of the passenger seat. “I don’t want this! I want everyone to go away and leave me alone. I wish I never even saw that stupid note!”

Another slam that rocked the seat forward. She could have kicked my car to pieces for all I cared, if it made her feel any better, but she was going at it hard enough to hurt herself. I leaned around, fast, and got an arm between her feet and the seat back. She made a wild helpless noise and twisted furiously, trying to get a clear kick without hitting me, but I caught her ankles and held on. “I know, love. I know. I don’t want any of this either, but here it is. And I wish to God I could say that everything’ll be all right once you tell the truth, but I can’t. I can’t even promise that you’ll feel better; you might, but you could just as easily end up feeling even worse. All I can tell you is that you need to do it, either way. Some things in life aren’t optional.”

Holly had slumped back in her booster seat. She took a deep breath and tried to say something, but instead she clamped a hand over her mouth and started to cry.

I was about to get out and climb into the back to hug her tight. It hit me just in time: this wasn’t a little kid howling, waiting for Daddy to sweep her up in his arms and make everything all better. We had left that behind, somewhere in Faithful Place.

Instead I stretched out my hand and took Holly’s free one. She held on like she was falling. We sat there like that, with her leaning her head against the window and shaking all over with huge silent sobs, for a long time. Behind us I heard men’s voices swapping a few brusque comments, and then car doors slamming, and then Stephen driving away.

Neither of us was hungry. I made Holly eat anyway, some radioactive-looking cheese croissant thing that we picked up at a Centra on the way, more for my sake than for hers. Then I took her back to Olivia’s.

I parked in front of the house and turned around to look at Holly. She was sucking a strand of hair and gazing out the window with wide, still, dreamy eyes, like fatigue and overload had put her into a trance. Somewhere along the way she had fished Clara out of her bag.

I said, “You didn’t finish your maths. Is Mrs. O’Donnell going to get in a snot about that?”

For a second Holly looked like she had forgotten who Mrs. O’Donnell was. “Oh. I don’t care. She’s stupid.”

“I bet she is. There’s no reason you should have to listen to her being stupid about this, on top of everything else. Where’s your notebook?”

She dug it out, in slow motion, and handed it over. I flipped to the first blank page and wrote, Dear Mrs. O’Donnell, please excuse Holly for not finishing her maths homework. She hasn’t been well this weekend. If this is a problem, feel free to give me a call. Many thanks. Frank Mackey. On the opposite page I saw Holly’s round, painstaking handwriting: If Desmond has 342 pieces of fruit…

“There,” I said, passing the notebook back to her. “If she gives you any hassle, you give her my phone number and tell her to back off. OK?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Daddy.”

I said, “Your mother’s going to need to know about this. Let me do the explaining there.”

Holly nodded. She put the notebook away, but she stayed put, clicking her seat belt open and shut. I said, “What’s bugging you, chickadee?”

“You and Nana were mean to each other.”

“Yeah. We were.”

“How come?”

“We shouldn’t have been. Every now and then, though, we just get on each other’s nerves. Nobody in the world can make you crazy like your family can.”

Holly stuffed Clara into her bag and gazed down at her, stroking the threadbare nose with one finger. “If I did something bad,” she said. “Would you tell lies to the police to keep me from getting in trouble?”