schools. We went to different churches, different stores. My God, Thad was only …’
Six , Byrne thought. He was six years old.
Before Byrne could respond, Theresa continued. ‘And when she … dies, we may never know what happened.’
‘No,’ Byrne replied. He wanted to say more, but there was nothing to say.
They sat in silence for a while, the afternoon trade at Starbucks flowing around them. Every so often Byrne would glance at Theresa Woodman. He noticed that she watched the other women in the coffee shop – women who were about her age, all of whom wore wedding rings – with what looked like a mixture of envy and a terrible sense of longing. He noticed that Theresa did not make eye contact with these women. He understood this. The connection it might make – one that spoke of a shared bond, one that whispered the silent promise that exists between a mother and her child – would be too great to bear.
In the end, Byrne thought, no matter how much you rely on others for support, the inconceivable tragedy of losing a child is something that takes up permanent residence in the darkest corner of your heart, and must be endured alone.
14
Mr Marseille enjoyed reading newspapers, and he took four of them on a daily basis – The New York Times , The Wall Street Journal , USA Today and, of course , The Philadelphia Inquirer.
Whenever there was something in which he thought I would be interested – generally speaking, something about fashion or music or theater – he would take out his scissors and carefully clip the article. Often, when he prepared my breakfast – usually something light like oatmeal, or perhaps a butter scone and tea, my favorites – there would be a small pile of articles just waiting for me to read them.
It had been a full day since our gala with Nicole, and we were already preparing for our next tea dance, to be held this coming Saturday.
‘Here’s an interesting item,’ Mr Marseille said.
I loved our mornings together. I always have.
Mr Marseille read from the front section of the Inquirer .
‘Police say they have no leads in the investigation of the murder of Nicole Solomon.’
‘Murder?’ I asked.
‘That’s what it says.’
‘Why do they think she was murdered?’
‘It doesn’t say. But the article ends like this: “Police are requesting the public’s help. Anyone with information should call the tip-line listed below. All calls will be kept confidential”.’
‘Do you think we should call?’ I asked.
Mr Marseille considered this for a few moments.
‘I’m not sure that what we could tell them that would be useful.’
He was right, of course. The police tend to be a suspicious lot – and rightfully so, given their jobs – and anything we’d tell them might reflect poorly on Mr Marseille and me.
As I cleared the morning dishes I thought about this strange turn of events. This sort of thing has happened before – not often, I must say, due to the fact that many of the dolls we have mended do not get their names in the newspaper – but whenever it does it fills me with the queerest sensation all day.
Murder .
I don’t like that word, and I’m certain Mr Marseille does not either.
15
Jessica spent the morning pushing through the search warrants they needed to follow up on other calls that David Solomon had made in the days leading up to his daughter’s murder, and his own suicide. Because the David Solomon case was not a homicide, these warrants were not given high priority.
The process involved calling, leaving messages, getting voicemail, returning the call, faxing, waiting.
It was maddeningly slow.
While she waited for callbacks, she accessed ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Maintained by the FBI, ViCAP was the largest investigative repository of major violent crime cases in the U.S designed to collect and analyze information about homicides, sexual assaults, missing persons, and other violent crimes.
Jessica put in details
Six , Byrne thought. He was six years old.
Before Byrne could respond, Theresa continued. ‘And when she … dies, we may never know what happened.’
‘No,’ Byrne replied. He wanted to say more, but there was nothing to say.
They sat in silence for a while, the afternoon trade at Starbucks flowing around them. Every so often Byrne would glance at Theresa Woodman. He noticed that she watched the other women in the coffee shop – women who were about her age, all of whom wore wedding rings – with what looked like a mixture of envy and a terrible sense of longing. He noticed that Theresa did not make eye contact with these women. He understood this. The connection it might make – one that spoke of a shared bond, one that whispered the silent promise that exists between a mother and her child – would be too great to bear.
In the end, Byrne thought, no matter how much you rely on others for support, the inconceivable tragedy of losing a child is something that takes up permanent residence in the darkest corner of your heart, and must be endured alone.
14
Mr Marseille enjoyed reading newspapers, and he took four of them on a daily basis – The New York Times , The Wall Street Journal , USA Today and, of course , The Philadelphia Inquirer.
Whenever there was something in which he thought I would be interested – generally speaking, something about fashion or music or theater – he would take out his scissors and carefully clip the article. Often, when he prepared my breakfast – usually something light like oatmeal, or perhaps a butter scone and tea, my favorites – there would be a small pile of articles just waiting for me to read them.
It had been a full day since our gala with Nicole, and we were already preparing for our next tea dance, to be held this coming Saturday.
‘Here’s an interesting item,’ Mr Marseille said.
I loved our mornings together. I always have.
Mr Marseille read from the front section of the Inquirer .
‘Police say they have no leads in the investigation of the murder of Nicole Solomon.’
‘Murder?’ I asked.
‘That’s what it says.’
‘Why do they think she was murdered?’
‘It doesn’t say. But the article ends like this: “Police are requesting the public’s help. Anyone with information should call the tip-line listed below. All calls will be kept confidential”.’
‘Do you think we should call?’ I asked.
Mr Marseille considered this for a few moments.
‘I’m not sure that what we could tell them that would be useful.’
He was right, of course. The police tend to be a suspicious lot – and rightfully so, given their jobs – and anything we’d tell them might reflect poorly on Mr Marseille and me.
As I cleared the morning dishes I thought about this strange turn of events. This sort of thing has happened before – not often, I must say, due to the fact that many of the dolls we have mended do not get their names in the newspaper – but whenever it does it fills me with the queerest sensation all day.
Murder .
I don’t like that word, and I’m certain Mr Marseille does not either.
15
Jessica spent the morning pushing through the search warrants they needed to follow up on other calls that David Solomon had made in the days leading up to his daughter’s murder, and his own suicide. Because the David Solomon case was not a homicide, these warrants were not given high priority.
The process involved calling, leaving messages, getting voicemail, returning the call, faxing, waiting.
It was maddeningly slow.
While she waited for callbacks, she accessed ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Maintained by the FBI, ViCAP was the largest investigative repository of major violent crime cases in the U.S designed to collect and analyze information about homicides, sexual assaults, missing persons, and other violent crimes.
Jessica put in details
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