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“The moon, Barbara?”
“It was the underside … of the sink in the laundry room.
“My head. My eye. My leg. Oh, my God. Stephen calling me, calling me, and then he stopped. Everything stopped.”
“Barbara?”
Yuki wasn’t sure if Barbara was frozen in her memories or if she was having a mental block.
“Barbara, are you all right?”
She seemed to awake from sleep. She said, “Yuki, right?”
“That’s right.” Yuki resisted the urge to reach out and hold Barbara’s hand. “Is there anything else you remember from that day?”
“I woke up inside an ambulance. I woke up again in the hospital. Flashes now. Lights in my eyes. Deep sleep. Waking again. Asking for the children. That’s all.”
Yuki needed more. She had taken Barbara to this point. She needed the name of who had done this to her. And she could only ask questions without hinting at answers or Mo Switzer would object that she was leading the witness and shut her down.
Yuki had to play it right down the center line and pray that Barbara could answer the question.
“Barbara. Who hurt you?”
Barbara lifted her arm in the direction of the defense table. “Him. Lew.”
“Can you say his full name?”
“Lewis Sullivan. My husband,” said Barbara.
Yuki thanked her witness, looked up at the judge who was saying, “Mr. Switzer. Do you wish to cross?”
“Not at this time, your Honor. But I reserve the right to recall this witness at a later time.”
Returning to the prosecution table, Yuki caught Len Parisi’s eye. He nodded and smiled. She took her seat and she watched Barbara Sullivan’s slow rolling exit in her wheelchair from the courtroom.
CHAPTER 27
CINDY ENTERED VROMAN’S, the largest independent bookstore in Southern California, and was instantly bathed with well-being. The space was open, bright, suffused with music. There were miles of bookshelves and the ineffable aroma of new books. Life-sized posters announced that the author would be speaking at five, that refreshments would be served, and that she would be signing books at six. Folding chairs had been arranged in a deep semicircle facing the podium.
She gave the store’s owner, Joel Sheldon, a genuine smile as he welcomed her and told Cindy that he was a fan. Together, they toured the premises while he took her through Vroman’s hundred-year history. As the time closed in on five, he escorted her to the podium set on a dais against the backdrop of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Once the audience had packed the available seats, Sheldon delivered an effusive introduction and turned the room over to Cindy.
Adjusting the mic and smiling out over the audience, Cindy began her speech.
“Writing this book with Evan Burke has been the most harrowing experience of my life,” she said and was sucked back into her time with Burke: the revolting research, the in-person meetings in his cell, sitting close enough to smell him, writing in Evan Burke’s voice as he leered at her. She cut off the thoughts before they could bloom.
To do this well, she had to be in an author’s state of mind. Faces turned up to her and she felt the connection with the audience, their empathy for how hard the work had been. They were leaning in, soaking up her well-informed history of a monster as told to her by the monster himself. When she’d concluded her speech to rolling applause, Cindy opened the floor to questions.
At first, there were queries about the process, why she’d written the authorized biography and how she’d been able to handle this intimate work with Burke. And then, as at Book Passage, the questions about Burke increased and came at her like flights of darts.
How could she stand being with him? Had she been afraid of him? What had made him a killer? Had he shown remorse? Was there any chance he would get out of jail?
“None,” Cindy said. “He was sentenced to six life terms without possibility of parole. His permanent address is San Quentin State Prison.”
As a fresh wave of applause washed over her, Cindy was glad she’d fought off her fear of hecklers but sorry that Richie wasn’t here to share this with her. She gave and received a few laughs before a woman dressed smartly in black pants and cardigan over a white silk blouse raised her hand and stood up.
She said, “I’m Marge. It’s my turn.”
“I’m sorry?”
