They look at her with identical frowns, so Holly explains what Bill told her about most people having either pig faces or fox faces. In every version she’s seen here, Ondowsky’s face is rounded. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, but it’s always a pig face.

Brad still looks puzzled, but his grandfather smiles. “That’s good. I like it. Although there are exceptions, some people have—”

“Horse faces,” Holly finishes for him.

“Just what I was going to say. And some people have weasel faces… although I suppose you could say weasels have a certain foxy aspect, don’t they? Certainly Philip Hannigan…” He trails off. “Yes. And in that aspect, I bet he always has a fox face.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“But you will,” Dan says. “Show her the Pulse clip, Brad.”

Brad starts the clip and turns the iPad to face Holly. Again, it’s a reporter doing a stand-up, this time in front of a huge pile of flowers and heart balloons and signs saying things like MORE LOVE AND LESS HATE. The reporter is beginning to interview a sobbing young man with the remains of either dirt or mascara smudging his cheeks. Holly doesn’t listen, and this time she doesn’t scream because she doesn’t have the breath to do it. The reporter—Philip Hannigan—is young, blond, skinny. He looks like he stepped into the job right out of high school, and yes, he has what Bill Hodges would have called a fox face. He is looking at his interview subject with what could be concern… empathy… sympathy… or barely masked greed.

“Freeze it,” Dan says to Brad. And to Holly: “Are you all right?”

“That’s not Ondowsky,” she whispers. “That’s George. That’s the man who delivered the bomb to the Macready School.”

“Oh, but it is Ondowsky,” Dan says. He speaks gently. Almost kindly. “I already told you. This creature doesn’t have just one template. He has two. At least two.”

13

Holly turned off her phone before knocking on the Bells’ door and doesn’t think to turn it on again until she’s back in her room at the Embassy Suites. Her thoughts are swirling like leaves in a strong wind. When she does power up, to continue her report to Ralph, she sees that she has four texts, five missed calls, and five voicemail messages. The missed calls and voicemails are all from her mother. Charlotte knows how to text—Holly showed her—but she never bothers, at least when it comes to her daughter. Holly thinks her mother has found texting insufficient when it comes to crafting a really effective guilt trip.

She opens the texts first.

Pete: All okay, H? I’m minding the store, so do your thing. If you need something, ask.

Holly smiles at that.

Barbara: I got the movies. They look good. Thanx, will return.

Jerome: Maybe have a line on that chocolate Lab. In Parma Heights. Going to check. If you need something, I’m on my cell. Don’t hesitate.

The last one, also from Jerome: Hollyberry.

In spite of all she’s learned at the house on Lafayette Street, she has to laugh. And she has to tear up a little, too. They all care for her, and she cares for them. It’s amazing. She’ll try to hold onto that while she deals with her mother. She already knows how each of Charlotte’s voicemails will end.

“Holly, where are you? Call me.” That’s the first.

“Holly, I need to speak to you about going to see your uncle this weekend. Call me.” The second.

“Where are you? Why is your phone off? It’s very inconsiderate. What if there was an emergency? Call me!” The third.

“That woman from Rolling Hills, Mrs. Braddock, I didn’t like her, she seemed very full of herself, she called and said Uncle Henry is very upset! Why aren’t you returning my calls? Call me!” Big number four.

The fifth is simplicity itself: “Call me!”

Holly goes into the bathroom, opens her notions bag, and takes an aspirin. Then she gets down on her knees and folds her hands on the edge of the tub. “God, this is Holly. I need to call my mother now. Help me to remember I can stand up for myself without being all nasty and poopy and getting into an argument. Help me to finish another day without smoking, I still miss cigarettes, especially at times like this. I still miss Bill, too, but I’m glad Jerome and Barbara are in my life. Pete, too, even though he can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes.” She starts to stand, then resumes the position. “I also miss Ralph, and hope he’s having a nice vacation with his wife and son.”

Thus armored (or so she hopes), Holly calls her mother. Charlotte does most of the talking. That Holly won’t tell her where she is, what she’s doing, or when she’ll be back makes Charlotte very angry. Beneath the anger Holly senses fear, because Holly has escaped. Holly has a life of her own. That was not supposed to happen.

“Whatever you’re doing, you have to be back this weekend,” Charlotte says. “We need to go see Henry together. We’re his family. All he’s got.”

“I may not be able to do that, Mom.”

“Why? I want to know why!”

“Because…” Because I’m chasing the case. That’s what Bill would have said. “Because I’m working.”

Charlotte begins to cry. For the last five years or so it has always been her last resort when it comes to bringing Holly to heel. It no longer works, but it’s still her default position and it still hurts.

“I love you, Mom,” Holly says, and ends the call.

Is that true? Yes. It’s liking that got lost, and love without liking is like a chain with a manacle at each end. Could she break the chain? Strike off the manacle? Perhaps. She’s discussed that possibility with Allie Winters many times, especially after her mother told her—proudly—that she voted for Donald Trump (oough). Will she do it? Not now, maybe never. When Holly was growing up, Charlotte Gibney taught her—patiently, perhaps even with good intentions—that she was thoughtless, helpless, hapless, careless. That she was less. Holly believed that until she met Bill Hodges, who thought she was more. Now she has a life, and it is more often than not a happy one. If she broke with her mother, it would lessen her.

I don’t want to be less, Holly thinks as she sits on the bed in her Embassy Suites room. Been there, done that. “And got the tee-shirt,” she adds.

She takes a Coke from the bar refrigerator (damn the caffeine). Then she opens her phone’s recording app and continues her report to Ralph. Like praying to a God she can’t quite believe in, it clears her head, and by the time she finishes, she knows how she’ll go forward.

14

From Holly Gibney’s report to Detective Ralph Anderson:

From here on, Ralph, I’ll try to give you my conversation with Dan and Brad Bell verbatim, while it’s still fresh in my mind. It won’t be completely accurate, but it will be close. I should have recorded our talk, but never thought of it. I still have a lot to learn about this job. I only hope I get the chance.

I could see that Mr. Bell—the old Mr. Bell—wanted to go on, but once that little bit of whiskey wore off, he couldn’t. He said he needed to lie down and rest. The last thing he said to Brad was something about the sound recordings. I didn’t understand that. Now I do.