all the time,” Hadley tells me, then adds. “I mean, you know that.”
Mr. McCabe points to the necklace in my hand. “She wasn’t wearing it when—” Mr. McCabe stops and wipes a napkin over his mouth like he’s going to mop up the end of his sentence.
She wasn’t wearing it when she was killed.
Is that what he means? I glance over at Hadley, but she’s gazing down at her own necklace. Mr. McCabe looks at us miserably. “The police do the best they can,” he says. “I know that. I have to believe that. But I had thought by now—well, I guess it was only a hope—I had
hoped
by now that they’d have found him.”
Hadley and I are both still. This is new, Mr. McCabe confiding in us about the murder investigation, and I worry that if I move or speak, he might remember himself and stop talking.
Hadley, as always, is bolder. “Do they have any suspects?” she inserts smoothly, still looking down at her hands.
“Huh,” Mr. McCabe huffs. “Huh. They don’t call them suspects anymore.
Persons of interest
, that’s what they say. And, no. None they’ve told me about. No persons of interest. No one’s interesting. Everyone’s boring.” He shakes his head. “My brother keeps saying, ‘Wouldn’t you like ten minutes in a room alone with him? He killed your daughter. Wouldn’t you like ten minutes alone with him cuffed to a chair and the police and lawyers out for a long coffee break?’” Mr. McCabe stops shaking his head and looks right at me. It takes all mywill not to look away. His eyes are not angry, not sad, but startled, as if he is watching something he can’t quite believe is happening. “And I would. I’d take those ten minutes. But not to hit him, not to . . . just to ask him, ‘Why? Why did you? How could you?’”
I break his gaze.
“Well, it’s good luck, in any case,” he repeats. “The necklace is.”
I bring the seed up to my eye. I wonder how long it’s been suspended in the glass. I wonder if it was planted now, like, in the ground, could it still sprout? Through the glass globe, I see Hadley staring at me and the necklace.
“Do you want to switch?” I ask.
“No,” she says, and I can tell she’s lying. Then to Mr. McCabe, “No, I love mine.” She holds it up with the clasp open. “Will you help me?”
Mr. McCabe assists each of us, his hands fumbling at the backs of our necks. The globe of my necklace fits in the divot of my collarbone, swinging forward and then bouncing back against my throat when I reach for my cup. When we leave, Mr. McCabe walks us to the door, and we can see the shadow of his face in one of the glass cutouts, watching as we pull out of the driveway and down the street.
I touch my necklace, pushing the globe deeper into my skin until it presses against my windpipe. Hadley glances over at it again.
“Do you want it? You can have it.” I reach to undo the clasp. Really, I’m insincere. I want to keep the mustard seed necklace for myself, so I’m hoping that she’ll say no. In fact, I’ve made my voice eager and my gestures quick in order to startle a no out of her, and I pause with my hands on the clasp, waiting for her to demur.
“No, no, you keep it,” she finally says. After a few more miles, she says, “Zabet really liked it a lot. She believed in the luck part. Guess she was wrong, huh?”
She punches in the cigarette lighter, but when it pops back out, she doesn’t take it. She raps a fist against her forehead. “I don’t want to go home. Do you have to?”
I don’t. Mom is on a date with a car salesman Veronica introduced her to, so she has no need for my company. On her date nights, she paints streaks of blush so high up her cheeks that the pink powder stains her hairline. Her regular poses and pauses change into something less refined, something baser and looser—a blow-up doll, a big dumb girl. Instead of
come hither
, she telegraphs
get on over here, you!
She comes back from these dates late and tipsy. I
Mr. McCabe points to the necklace in my hand. “She wasn’t wearing it when—” Mr. McCabe stops and wipes a napkin over his mouth like he’s going to mop up the end of his sentence.
She wasn’t wearing it when she was killed.
Is that what he means? I glance over at Hadley, but she’s gazing down at her own necklace. Mr. McCabe looks at us miserably. “The police do the best they can,” he says. “I know that. I have to believe that. But I had thought by now—well, I guess it was only a hope—I had
hoped
by now that they’d have found him.”
Hadley and I are both still. This is new, Mr. McCabe confiding in us about the murder investigation, and I worry that if I move or speak, he might remember himself and stop talking.
Hadley, as always, is bolder. “Do they have any suspects?” she inserts smoothly, still looking down at her hands.
“Huh,” Mr. McCabe huffs. “Huh. They don’t call them suspects anymore.
Persons of interest
, that’s what they say. And, no. None they’ve told me about. No persons of interest. No one’s interesting. Everyone’s boring.” He shakes his head. “My brother keeps saying, ‘Wouldn’t you like ten minutes in a room alone with him? He killed your daughter. Wouldn’t you like ten minutes alone with him cuffed to a chair and the police and lawyers out for a long coffee break?’” Mr. McCabe stops shaking his head and looks right at me. It takes all mywill not to look away. His eyes are not angry, not sad, but startled, as if he is watching something he can’t quite believe is happening. “And I would. I’d take those ten minutes. But not to hit him, not to . . . just to ask him, ‘Why? Why did you? How could you?’”
I break his gaze.
“Well, it’s good luck, in any case,” he repeats. “The necklace is.”
I bring the seed up to my eye. I wonder how long it’s been suspended in the glass. I wonder if it was planted now, like, in the ground, could it still sprout? Through the glass globe, I see Hadley staring at me and the necklace.
“Do you want to switch?” I ask.
“No,” she says, and I can tell she’s lying. Then to Mr. McCabe, “No, I love mine.” She holds it up with the clasp open. “Will you help me?”
Mr. McCabe assists each of us, his hands fumbling at the backs of our necks. The globe of my necklace fits in the divot of my collarbone, swinging forward and then bouncing back against my throat when I reach for my cup. When we leave, Mr. McCabe walks us to the door, and we can see the shadow of his face in one of the glass cutouts, watching as we pull out of the driveway and down the street.
I touch my necklace, pushing the globe deeper into my skin until it presses against my windpipe. Hadley glances over at it again.
“Do you want it? You can have it.” I reach to undo the clasp. Really, I’m insincere. I want to keep the mustard seed necklace for myself, so I’m hoping that she’ll say no. In fact, I’ve made my voice eager and my gestures quick in order to startle a no out of her, and I pause with my hands on the clasp, waiting for her to demur.
“No, no, you keep it,” she finally says. After a few more miles, she says, “Zabet really liked it a lot. She believed in the luck part. Guess she was wrong, huh?”
She punches in the cigarette lighter, but when it pops back out, she doesn’t take it. She raps a fist against her forehead. “I don’t want to go home. Do you have to?”
I don’t. Mom is on a date with a car salesman Veronica introduced her to, so she has no need for my company. On her date nights, she paints streaks of blush so high up her cheeks that the pink powder stains her hairline. Her regular poses and pauses change into something less refined, something baser and looser—a blow-up doll, a big dumb girl. Instead of
come hither
, she telegraphs
get on over here, you!
She comes back from these dates late and tipsy. I
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