Page 80 of Kill For Me Kill For You
‘Someone took my partner away last night. This is the toughest day of my life. I want whoever did this brought to justice. Patrick worked every day for this city. And now . . . now he’s gone. Please help bring his killer to justice.’
She spoke, despite the obvious strain in her voice, with a quiet dignity.
The camera zoomed in further, tracing every line on Michelle’s face – the tracks of tears through her make-up, the puffiness around her eyes, the quivering strand of hair that hung in front of her face.
It was a stunt, a deliberate and callous one to gain sympathy for Travers. To get people to react and co-operate with the investigation. It hurt the woman to talk about her husband.
Ruth shook her head.
‘They want us to feel sorry for her,’ she said.
Scott threw Ruth a questioning look.
‘I don’t feel anything for her,’ said Ruth. ‘Is that wrong? I just don’t. Now she knows what it feels like. Now she knows how I feel. Now she knows how the pain tastes . . .’
‘What are you talking about? I killed this poor woman’s husband. He wasn’t the one who attacked you . . .’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Ruth through a snarl. ‘They should all suffer. Why should I have to go through this? Why me?’
Scott’s mouth fell open.
‘When we thought he was the prowler, you were relieved he was dead so that he couldn’t hurt you again, so he couldn’t hurt anyone else—’ But he didn’t get to finish the thought.
‘Maybe,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘Maybe I wanted him to hurt the same way I do? Him and his family. That’s fair.’
‘But he’s not the one who hurt you, Ruth. Don’t you see that?’
A headache began at the back of her neck, spreading up, over her skull. She wanted the man who hurt her dead. That’s all she wanted. And she didn’t care about anything else. And if Scott had made a mistake and killed the wrong man – so what. Life is pain, and fear, and she wanted everyone to know what it felt like to be her, because otherwise it just wasn’t fair. That was part of it. Maybe a big part. It helped. And in the knowledge of others suffering just as she suffered she didn’t feel as afraid as before.
Scott shook his head, and they both looked back at the screen.
‘Thank you, Michelle,’ said Starkey. ‘I will now hand you over to Dan Puccini, from media relations, who will give you that number and all the contact details for the precinct. He will answer any questions you have at this time. Thank you.’
Starkey and Michelle got up, the detective holding her arm as they left the stage. Her loss looked heavy on her. Ruth couldn’t take her eyes off the new widow. It was almost as if she was looking into a mirror. She saw her own pain in that woman, and somehow, for reasons she couldn’t understand, Ruth felt better. It was almost as if Ruth’s pain was a large, obsidian stone, dark and alien, that she carried around, inside. And seeing someone else with her pain, and the knowledge that Ruth had in some way played a part in that, made the sinister stone in Ruth’s chest shrink. Like she had passed some of the poison from her system on to someone else.
A hot cramp splashed over the right side of her head and remained there for a few seconds. She often got these flashes, rippling across her skull. The beginnings of a migraine, she thought.
Another policeman stepped to the lectern. He wore a suit. NYPD media manager. Dan Puccini. Tall, with dark hair, a strong cut to his jawline, as if it had been chiseled out of a rock face.
Blue eyes.
Ruth moved forward to get a better look. Her eyes widened. Her body stiffened. That black stone in her chest swelled, the blood rushed to the surface of her skin and a searing flash broke over her head again, as if someone had set her brain on fire. And in that moment she saw him. The monster. His face staring at her. Reflected in a shard of broken glass in her kitchen door. It was fleeting. But it was there. Like a light burned into her retina, so that she saw him with her eyes open, and with them closed.
Dan Puccini looked up from the lectern, and the camera swooped tight to his face. His eyes locked on to Ruth’s and she saw his lips move soundlessly, mouthing those words.
‘Hello, sweetheart . . .’
She raised a hand, shot her finger at the screen and forced her voice through the pain to say, ‘That’shim.’
45
Amanda
Amanda walked into the diner first. Billy held the door open. She still had her fist round the little knife in her pocket. She had no clue who this man was, and until she was satisfied she would be ready to plant this thing in his neck. Public place or not.
They found a booth by the window and sat across from each other. The diner was a piece of retro Americana. Easy-clean red vinyl seats and high-gloss tables with ribbed chrome edging and a long counter with fixed, tall stools spaced out around it. The kind of place tourists like, and New Yorkers loathe.
Billy carried a small laptop with him, which he put on the seat beside him.
