Page 9 of Fifty-Fifty

That was enough to send the entire group into thick, uproarious laughter that rolled around the room.

Kate’s face flushed red. She pushed around the outside of the group, not daring to go through the middle again, and made her way to the exit. The burning sensation spread across her neck, and she recalled Levy’s final words.

When he was done he would offer her a ride home. That meant he might make another awkward pass at her.

Kate thumped through the front door and onto the street.

THREE

SHE

When they brought her into the First Precinct, the booking sergeant looked her

up and down, explained her rights, then told her what was going to happen.

‘You’ll have your personal property taken as evidence. Including your clothes and underwear. Two female officers will accompany you to a private room where this will take place. An outfit will be provided. The detectives investigating this case want to take a DNA swab, a dental impression, and clip

your fingernails too. Just comply. Don’t fight us. It’ll only turn out bad for you.

The female officers will also take your picture and your fingerprints. You’ll then be moved to an interview room and the detectives will come by and ask some questions. Is there anything you don’t understand?’

She shook her head.

‘Do you have an attorney?’

She shook her head. Said nothing.

‘Well, you will have by the time you leave,’ he said.

The cop had been right. It happened exactly as he’d said it would. She had stripped, silently, in front of two female officers, and given them her bloodstained clothes, which they put into large, clear plastic bags. They gave her some underwear, and an orange jumpsuit. When she was dressed they clipped the tips of her fingernails into a bag, and ran a cotton bud around the inside of her mouth. It left a bad taste.

Then she was taken to an interview room, and left alone. There was a mirror on one side of the room, and she guessed they were watching her from behind it.

She put her elbows on her knees and leaned forward, hanging her head. Her eyes were focused on the white rubber shoes they had given to her. She was quiet for a time. Motionless and silent.

She had not spoken since the police had arrested her in Franklin Street. She’d heard one of the cops mention shock, and she let that play out.

She was not in shock.

She was thinking.

And listening.

The steel table in front of her was pitted with dents, and scratches. She wanted to reach out and run her fingers along those lines, to smell the table, touch it and feel it.

It was a compulsion that had started young. Another little annoyance for mother, who slapped her when she caught her touching and smelling her surroundings. She could pass an hour with a leaf, a stone, a peach. The smells and sensations were almost overwhelming and then Mother – smack – don’t touch that. Stop touching everything, you dirty little girl.

Enjoying the sensation of touch became something else she had to keep secret.

Music helped shield the compulsion. When she fell in love with a particular song, she saw colors and shapes and the music became something all the more

real and physical to her, which helped keep her hands still.

The song was still playing in her head. The one that she had heard when she entered her father’s home at 152 Franklin Street that evening. It had been her mother’s favorite – ‘She’, the Charles Aznavour version. Whereas she had always preferred the Elvis Costello cover. The song floated around in her mind, playing loud and red, blanking out all other thoughts. Sitting in the small, foul-smelling interview room, she mouthed some of the lyrics as the song played only for her.

She may be the face I can’t forget …

Her thoughts flashed images as the music played. Her father’s tie. The knot still tight around his neck. The glint of white bone in her father’s chest. And all those pretty sparkles of light on the blade as she tore it free from his chest, raised it and plunged it into his stomach, his neck, his face, his eyes, again and again and again …