Regrets Only (42 page)

It was signed by her “loving brother Foster.”

Faith didn’t know her daughter had left boarding school that fateful weekend until she got a call around eleven o’clock. Avery was in trouble. She was almost incomprehensible in her hysteria.

Faith blamed Morgan. It was Morgan’s fault, Morgan’s insensitivity that put Avery in such a tumultuous situation. Morgan didn’t know how to be a mother. She had let the girl drink wine when she’d taken her to dinner even though she was underage. She didn’t realize that being a parent and being a friend were two separate roles. She let Avery drive her car even though she had no license and had yet to complete a driver’s education course. It was irresponsible, more than irresponsible in light of the onslaught of emotions that charged the evening. She was more concerned with winning Avery over than maintaining appropriate boundaries.

After Tripp Nichols didn’t show up at the restaurant, Avery asked to go to where he was—to see the club that was so important to him that he’d stood them up. Seeing him, seeing them both—it was all too much. Neither had ever really cared about this impressionable teenager.

The car accident hadn’t been intended. Avery wasn’t thinking clearly. She pushed the accelerator and crashed into a tree. But no one was hurt. The baseball bat was in the back of the car, and she’d used it to vent her rage. She was young, perhaps drunk, and destroyed by all that had happened, just as the court-appointed psychiatrist said. She’d lost her brother because of this woman. Her own family had fallen apart. Who could blame her for losing control? Hitting Morgan was an accident. She never meant to inflict harm. Morgan had put herself between a confused girl swinging wildly and a car. She may have been unconscious, but she was still breathing when Faith arrived. “She was absolutely alive,” Faith stated without flinching.

It was Faith who fired the shot, who staged the suicide, who cleaned up the crime scene, who took her daughter home. “I needed to protect her. I wanted to protect her. I was watching my daughter be tortured. And I was tortured, too. I made it look like a suicide because . . . because that is a consequence I’ve seen. It’s a death I know.”

Throughout her hours of testimony, she never revealed how she’d had access to David Ellery’s gun. The only possible explanation was that Avery, who’d known of its existence from Foster’s letter, had taken it when visiting Reese’s office and had it with her that night, intending to use it. But Faith would never admit to that degree of premeditation on the part of her daughter, and only repeated vaguely—and possibly perjuriously—that she’d had it for a while. Even on cross-examination, she conceded nothing, and Santoros didn’t press. She had the matching bullets; she’d brought extra bullets in case the first didn’t accomplish its goal. He had a fingerprint and a blood-type match. He had the coat. And she’d confessed. He’d demonstrated the requisite intent.

“Being a mother is everything to me. It’s all I ever wanted. It’s who I am. It’s who I’ve been. Morgan Reese tried to take that from me twice. She succeeded once.”

The jury was out and the court recessed. The court officer had ordered in sandwiches for the jurors to eat before they began deliberations. Faith had thrown herself at the mercy of twelve citizens, and all any of them could do was wait.

The gray sky hovered low over the courthouse steps. Lucy and Jack debated whether to return to the Roundhouse. Santoros would surely page them as soon as the court officer announced that the jury had reached a verdict. There was no doubt work to be done, another case to begin, or a lead from an existing file to follow. But it was hard to concentrate on anything else. Whether Faith’s torment, whether her candor, would pay off in a reduction of the charge to second degree or even manslaughter was out of the prosecution’s hands and in the jurors’ hearts.

“Lucy.”

The familiar voice startled her. Rodman Haverill stood at the bottom of the steps. He wore a trench coat and a canvas hat, and her immediate impression was that he’d attempted a flasher disguise. She almost laughed.

“May I have a word with you?” he called up.

Lucy looked at Jack. “I’ll wait around here,” he said, turning to head back inside. “Keep your pager on.”

She hurried down the steps. “There’s no verdict yet,” she said, assuming that was the reason for his appearance. No doubt he’d read in the paper that today the jury would receive their instructions from Judge Wickham and begin their deliberations. The story in the
Inquirer
from the day before had included an almost verbatim recitation of the powerful closing arguments.

He shook his head. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Lucy said nothing, waiting for him to explain.

“I underestimated you, and I want to apologize. I appreciate all you’ve done.”

She smiled. “It’s my job, sir.”

“Finding Morgan’s killer might be your job. Dealing with destroyed families is something else entirely. Handling Archer and me is certainly beyond the call of duty. And you’ve done it more than gracefully. Perhaps I’ve waited a bit too long, but I’ve come to the realization nonetheless that the Haverill clan could use a bit of the O’Malley influence.” His smile distorted his face, as if his features weren’t familiar with the expression. “But the second reason I’ve come is on Archer’s behalf. We’ve been at my lawyer’s office this morning. He wanted to come to meet you himself, but there was some problem, some problem with the cooling system, that required his immediate attention. I tried to talk him out of it but . . . well, you surely appreciate that business better than I.” He waved his hand, dismissing the problem. “So I’ve come in his place.”

He removed his hat and stuffed it into his pocket. “I’ll cut to the chase. Because of the Herbert girl’s role in Morgan’s death, she cannot be a beneficiary of the life insurance policy. Archer doesn’t want the money—neither his allotted share nor the full amount that he now receives given the circumstances.” He paused, and their eyes met. “Perhaps he spoke out of turn, but he told me of your brother—or rather of your sorrow over the loss of your brother. Archer wants to establish a commemorative foundation, a foundation that would cover the cost of psychiatric treatment and medication for adolescent males. It would be there to make sure that at least some of the millions of boys in trouble aren’t denied access to care because of a lack of funds.”

Lucy felt her heart pounding. Foster Herbert had had all the care money could buy, but others didn’t. The interest on $10 million alone could help hundreds. Maybe it wouldn’t change a single statistic, but she wanted to believe it could.

“Frankly, it’s also consistent with something that would have pleased his mother. As you know, her estate was left to the Medical School. The money will be used for grants, grants to continue the pediatric research that she made her life—or I should say that she gave up so much of her life for.” His voice softened. “Archer suggested his foundation be called the Aidan Foundation. He wanted to surprise you, but I thought that was improper. I thought it imperative that you have choice in the matter. Not every family is brave enough to expose its secrets.”

A legacy in her brother’s honor, one that her parents and their community couldn’t begin to afford to do on their own, but one that would live on in an effort to spare others what the O’Malleys had suffered.

“It’s a remarkable gesture,” she said, feeling overwhelmed. “For once I’m not quite sure what to say. Aidan would be very pleased. I wish he could have met Archer, and you, too. Thank you, thank you both.”

“No. It is we who must thank you.”

He extended his arms, and she stepped forward into his embrace, feeling his stiff posture finally relax as she squeezed a little harder.