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She thinks: Beer Pong. My eight-year-old is playing Beer Pong. She thinks: What if he’s telling the truth? What if there really was a dream?
It’s the same story each time, without significant variations and without the liar’s tells that she’s been trained to look for: a shifting of the eyes to the left, a wetting of the lips, a raising of the voice, as if being loud would convince her of the truth. He doesn’t over-explain, either, and risk getting tripped up by his own lies. Is it possible he’s even convinced himself? That his rational mind, horrified by what the alligator deep inside did, has constructed its own alternate reality?
Is it possible he’s telling the truth?
This morning she called the Jacksons in Manitou and asked Jesse if he would be willing to talk to her. He said yes without hesitation, and here she is, turning into the Jacksons’ driveway. She isn’t here because she believes Danny about the dream. She’s here because she almost believes him about Jalbert. If Frank’s been doing what Danny says he’s been doing, it could very well screw up any chance they have of making a case. More than that, it’s wrong. It’s bad policing. Her unease about her partner is growing. She’s almost ready to be angry at him.
Bullshit, you’re angry at him already.
“True,” she says.
“What, Mommy?”
“Nothing, Lore.”
Mrs. Jackson is hanging out clothes. A little boy who looks to be Laurie’s age is on a swing set nearby, singing that awful “Baby Shark” song. When Davis opens the back door and lets Laurie get out, the little boy hops off his swing and runs over, examining the newcomers. Laurie stands close to Ella, putting one hand on her mother’s leg. Mrs. Jackson turns to Ella and says hello.
“Hi. I’m Inspector Davis, here to see Jesse?”
“He’s just in the house. Jesse! Your company’s here!”
The little boy says, “I’m Luke. Is that an iPad Mini?”
“Yes,” Laurie says. “I got it for my birthday.”
“Radical!”
“My name is Laurie Rose Davis. I’m eight.”
“Me too,” Luke says. “Want to go on the swing?”
Laurie looks at Davis. “Can I, Mommy?”
“Yes, but be careful. Don’t break your iPad.”
“I won’t!”
They run for the swing set.
“Pretty girl,” Mrs. Jackson says. “I’m the mother of boys. I’d pay to get one of those.”
“She can be a handful,” Ella says.
“Try Luke, you want a handful.” She goes back to hanging clothes.
Jesse comes out of the house, dressed in jeans and a plain white tee. He walks to Davis without hesitation and shakes her hand. “Happy to talk to you if it’s about Danny. Tell you up front, though, I don’t think he did what the cops say he did. He’s a good man.”
Davis has heard this several times now, even from Becky Richardson, Danny’s sometime girlfriend. Richardson wants nothing to do with him now, of course, but continues to say that “he seems like the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet.” And Richardson believes the dream story.
“It isn’t Danny Coughlin I want to talk about, at least not directly,” Davis says. “Is it true that Inspector Frank Jalbert came by to see him at the school yesterday?”
“Yeah. I didn’t like him.”
“Oh? Why?”
“He’s made up his mind. I could tell just by the way he looked at Danny.”
Well, she thinks, I have, too. Right?
