Page 7 of The Instruments of Darkness

A smile flickered like a dying bulb and was gone.

“Did he say I’d approached him because of his connection to you?”

“He mentioned it.”

“I’ve read about you. You lost a child. I thought you might understand.”

The quiet of the house was unnerving. Not even a clock ticked. It was, I’d found, one of death’s traits: it muffled the sound in a place of loss, just as it rendered movements awkward and sluggish and made an inconsequence of time. Of course, the boy might still be alive. But, as Moxie had intimated, it felt as though he was gone.

Colleen looked at me, expecting some response, but I was not about to give her access to my pain. It would not benefit either of us.

“I’d like you to tell me about the night your son went missing.”

“I was sleeping. I don’t remember much at all.”

“Nevertheless, if you wouldn’t mind.”

She sipped her tea, lifting the cup to her lips with both hands. She was dressed in an oversized Patriots sweatshirt that might have been her husband’s—the sleeves pushed above her elbows, the hem hanging to thigh level—and a pair of jeans rolled up at the cuffs. Her mode of dress accentuated that sense of withdrawal, of shrinkage, as though these clothes might once have fit her, but no longer, just as the terms “mother” and “wife” were also becoming incompatible with her essence.

“Stephen left on business that afternoon. He’s away from home a lot. He’s trying to get a promotion. He’s very ambitious.” She peered at me over the rim of her cup. “Will you be speaking with him?”

“I’d like to, but he’ll be under no obligation to talk to me.”

“If you do, be gentle. He’s in a lot of pain.”

I searched for traces of anger in her, but could pick up none. Something must have shown on my face, because she added: “We’ve both lost a son, and we both want him back. Stephen’s trying to cope with what’s happened in his own way, but he’s not very good at coping.”

“With life in general?”

“With emotions. Little things get on top of him, so big things…”

She let the implication hang.

“Mr. Castin informed me that you and your husband are temporarily estranged,” I said. “He also suggested that your husband might be holding you responsible for whatever happened to Henry.”

I was choosing my words carefully. There were layers of blame, justified or otherwise, to be mediated here, and many steps between Stephen Clark being confusedly angry at his wife for sleeping too soundly or failing to check the window in their child’s room, and believing her capable of abduction and killing. A memory came to me, unbidden: my mother having her change purse stolen in a restaurant, and my father slapping her hard on the cheek for what he regarded as her part in its loss, even though, as a policeman, he must have dealt with hundreds of such incidents over the years. My mother had not been unduly careless, nor had she conspired with the thieves to deprive our family of money. On one level, she was simply unfortunate, but she was also targeted by individuals who were accomplished at what they did: in this case, a couple who had seated themselves behind her at the restaurant, slipping a hand into the bag between her feet and then leaving before ordering. The combination of one’s own bad luck and the resolve of others can undo even the best of us.

“He thinks I murdered our son,” she said, and again her voice was very even, without recrimination or regret. She might have been communicating her husband’s views on a game in which she had no interest or stake. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I did?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because your answer would be the same either way.”

“Yes,” she said, “I suppose it would. And you’ll make your own determination, won’t you?”

“That’s not the reason Mr. Castin has engaged my services. My main responsibility is to ensure that all relevant information to aid your defense has been uncovered or discovered. That means gathering evidence and witness statements, among other tasks.”

“But there are no witnesses,” said Colleen, “and the only evidence is the blanket.”

“So far.”

“I didn’t do this, Mr. Parker. I didn’t hurt Henry. I never would.”

“I understand that. Now our job may be to prove that to a jury.”

“If I didn’t take him, someone else did.”