She could barely speak. “I don’t know.”
“You have my word on it, Marianne.”
Then he pushed himself inside the college girl slowly, so as not to hurt her with a thrust. He knew he shouldn’t spend a lot of time here, but he didn’t want to give up her tight insides. Hell, I’ll never see Marianne, Marianne after tonight.
At least she was smart enough not to scream or try to fight him with her knees or nails. When he was finished with his business he showed her a couple of photographs he carried around. Just to be sure she understood her situation, understood it perfectly.
“I took these pictures myself. Look at the pictures, Marianne. Now, you must never speak of tonight. Not to anyone, but especially not to the police. You understand?”
She nodded without looking at him.
“I need you to speak the words, little girl. I need you to look at me, painful as that might be.”
“Understood,” she said. “I’ll never tell anybody.”
“Look at me.”
Her eyes met his, and the change in her was amazing. He saw fear and hatred, and it was something he enjoyed. It was a long story why, a growing-up-in-Brooklyn story, a father-and-son tale that he preferred to keep to himself.
“Good girl. Strange to say—I like you. What I mean is, I have affection for you. Good-bye, Marianne, Marianne.”
Before leaving the bathroom, he searched through her purse and took her wallet. “Insurance,” he said. “Don’t talk to anybody.”
Then the Butcher opened the door and left. Marianne Riley let herself collapse to the bathroom floor, shaking all over. She would never forget what had just happened—especially those horrifying photographs.
Chapter 7
“WHO’S UP SO EARLY in the morning? Well, my goodness, look who it is. Do I see Damon Cross? Do I spy Janelle Cross?”
Nana Mama arrived promptly at six thirty to look after the kids, as she did every weekday morning. When she burst through the kitchen door, I was spoon-feeding oatmeal to Damon, while Maria burped Jannie. Jannie was crying again, poor little sick girl.
“Same children who were up in the middle of the night,” I told my grandmother as I aimed a brimming spoon of gruel in the general direction of Damon’s twisting mouth.
“Damon can do that himself,” Nana said, huffing as she put down her bundle on the kitchen counter.
It looked as if she had brought hot biscuits and—could it possibly be?—homemade peach jam. Plus her usual assortment of books for the day. Blueberries for Sal, The Gift of the Magi, Goodnight Moon.
I said to Damon, “Nana says you can feed yourself, buddy. You holding out on me?”
“Damon, take your spoon,” she said.
And, of course, he did. Nobody goes up against Nana Mama.
“Curse you,” I said to her, and took a biscuit. Praise the Lord, a hot biscuit! Then came a slow, delicious taste of heaven on this earth. “Bless you, old woman. Bless you.”
Maria said, “Alex doesn’t listen too well these days, Nana. He’s too busy with his ongoing murder investigations. I told him that Damon is feeding himself. Most of the time anyway. When he’s not feeding the walls and ceiling.”
Nana nodded. “Feeding himself all of the time. Unless the boy wants to go hungry. You want to go hungry, Damon? No, of course you don’t, baby.”
Maria began to gather together her papers for the day. Last night she’d still been laboring in the kitchen after midnight. She was a social worker for the city, with a caseload from hell. She grabbed a violet scarf off the hook by the back door, along with her favorite hat, to go with the rest of her outfit, which was predominantly black and blue.
“I love you, Damon Cross.” She flew over and kissed our boy. “I love you, Jannie Cross. Even after last night.” She kissed Jannie a couple of times on both cheeks.
And then she grabbed hold of Nana and kissed her. “And I love you.”
Nana beamed as if she’d just been introduced to Jesus himself, or maybe Mary. “I love you too, Maria. You’re a miracle.”
“I’m not here,” I said from my listening post at the kitchen door.