“Who? What?”
“David. How did he know about Riley? Was he there when Riley phoned you?” He made a fist and crashed it down on the desk, making the pistol jump. “ Was he!” Something came into her face then that he had never seen before: it was the look, dismayed, helpless, lost, that she would have when she was old. She stared at the weapon on the desk and nodded listlessly. She said something, but so quietly he could not hear and had to ask her to say it again. She cleared her throat. “He was right,” she said. “We all did it, me, you, all of us. What does it matter who pulled the trigger?”
“It matters, Lou,” he said. “Tell me.”
She buried her hands in the pockets of her coat and drew in her shoulders, folding herself into herself, as if she were suddenly cold. “Yes,” she said, “David was there when Dylan Riley called. He saw how I looked when I heard what Riley had to say. He made me tell him. He said he would go and talk to Riley, that he would reason with him, offer him money, if necessary. I didn’t know”-she reached out a hand as if to touch him but faltered and braced her fingers instead on the side of the desk-“I didn’t know what he would do. He’s so damaged, John. Rubin treated him dreadfully, and then you rejected him-yes, you did, don’t deny it! You could have tried. You could have been a father to him.”
Her words settled heavily between them, a darker darkness where the lamplight could not reach.
“David knew about Varriker?” Glass asked. She nodded. “When did you tell him?”
“Long ago. I shouldn’t have, I suppose. I thought he had the right to know.”
“So the bullet through Dylan Riley’s eye was a memorial to his father, yes?”
“He’s damaged, John!”
“And we all did that, too, is that what you’re saying?” He looked out at the garish night. “Well, at least now I know,” he said, “who the patsy in the room is.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just something someone said to me, once.”
She stood up, very slowly, like a person in pain. “I’m going now,” she said. “You have to decide what to do. You have your”-she laughed shortly-“your ‘story.’” She looked at him with compassion, almost. “It’s up to you, John,” she said. “I’m sorry, but it’s up to you.”