Page 12 of The Instruments of Darkness

“Yes. It started as postpartum, then turned into something longer-term. It was miserable, just awful. I even resented Henry.”

“Did you mention those feelings to anyone else?”

“My physician, and the therapist I’ve been seeing.”

The conversations with her doctor would be subject to the rule of doctor-patient confidentiality, unless Colleen chose to waive that entitlement. The therapist might be more vulnerable to legal pressure, although that would be a matter for Moxie. I’d have to talk to him about it later, but doubtless, he was already considering the angles.

“What about your husband?” I said.

“Stephen knew how hard I was finding motherhood. I hid nothing from him.”

This wasn’t good. A husband couldn’t be compelled to testify against his wife, but from what I was learning about Stephen Clark, duress wasn’t set to be an issue. I couldn’t claim to be an expert on how the judicial system treated women alleged to have committed an offense while suffering from depression, but if it bore any resemblance to the way it treated women generally, especially those accused of a violent crime, Colleen could expect to be hauled over hot coals.

“I have to ask this,” I said, “but were you ever unfaithful to Stephen?”

“No, never. He’s the only man I’ve slept with.”

We spent a few more minutes revisiting her movements on the day of Henry’s disappearance, and what transpired after, but it didn’t seem as though Colleen had a great deal more to add. With her assistance, I compiled a list of her neighbors along with any reflections she had on their attitude toward her. The Clarks weren’t close to any of them, and only Mrs. Gammett had displayed actual solicitude since the finding of the bloodstained blanket. The rest were either keeping their distance or—by look, gesture, and intimation—communicating their hostility. I’d have to talk to all of them, chasing, like some sad dog, the trail left by the police.

“So what happens now?” asked Colleen.

“I know you were scheduled to speak with Mr. Castin—Moxie—later today,” I said. “If neither of you objects, I’d like to be present for that meeting. We can do it here, or I can drive you to the office and back, whichever you prefer.”

Her unease was obvious.

“Pictures are taken of me when I go out,” she said. “They turn up online, and then people write bad things about me under them.”

“I didn’t notice anyone hanging around when I arrived,” I said. “The police presence will discourage them. That doesn’t mean they’re not out there somewhere, but I think we can get you wherever you want to go without too much difficulty. You should also stop reading what people say about you and the case, online or anywhere else. It’s not helpful, won’t tell you anything you don’t already know, and won’t affect the outcome.”

“I haven’t been beyond the house in days,” she said. “Is it cold out?”

“Not so much, but I’d bring a coat if I were you.” If I were her, I’d have worn a coat in summer.

I’d have to call Moxie first. He would have an opinion on a venue for the meeting. By now, word might have filtered out that he was representing Colleen, which meant his office would become another site of interest. There was always the Great Lost Bear. Dave Evans would find us somewhere private to talk. Dave’s instinct was to avoid condemnation—being judgmental didn’t help when it came to owning a bar—and if Moxie and I were working for Colleen, he’d instinctively take her side. I was still patting myself on the back for my choice when I considered the optics of a young mother, about to be charged with the abduction and killing of her child, emerging from one of Portland’s best-loved bars. I couldn’t take a chance on her being seen there because it would do her cause no good at all. Yet it still seemed beneficial to get her out of the house, not only for the sake of her own psychological and emotional well-being, but also because location influenced tone and response, and I now wanted a glimpse of Colleen Clark outside her home environment. Perhaps new surroundings would jog her memory, or stimulate a fresh perspective on events.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“It might do you good to take some air,” I said.

She stared at me.

“But what if Henry comes back and I’m not here?”

Then she started to cry.

CHAPTER VI

Colleen Clark eventually stopped crying, though it took a while. Afterward, she went to freshen up while I contacted Moxie. As it turned out, his secretary had already spotted two local reporters hanging around the parking lot behind his office. Once Colleen had been formally charged, and Moxie officially confirmed as her attorney, there’d be little point in trying to conceal their connection, but for now it made sense to take advantage while we could. Moxie suggested a small diner over in Stroudwater, which didn’t stay open beyond noon. Moxie, it transpired, was a silent partner in the venture, even if he never ate there as the food was terrible. He had a key, and we could bring our own coffee, because the house blend tasted like a rat had drowned in it.

“Why,” I asked him, “are you a partner in a bad restaurant?”

“Because that way,” Moxie replied, “I can make it a better one.”

Which was a good answer, if vaguely reminiscent of something Christ might have said on the way to the cross.

While Colleen got ready to leave, I took a look at her son’s bedroom. One wall was painted cerulean blue with white clouds, but the rest was a delicate eggshell already displaying signs of a child’s occupancy: stains, scuff marks, scratches. The room had built-in closets and shelves, all neatly filled with a young boy’s clothes and possessions, and a toy box stood by the door. The bed was positioned equidistant from the wall on the left and the window on the right. A white teddy bear sat slumped against the bed’s safety bars like a prisoner. On the floor lay a mattress, a comforter, and a pillow, along with a brown-and-white stuffed dog. As Moxie had indicated, Colleen was sleeping in her son’s room.

I checked the window. It had a standard latch, but also an adjustable window restrictor to prevent it being opened more than two inches. Outside, a path ran along the wall of the house, so the police wouldn’t have been able to find footprints. The restrictor’s cable had been neatly severed, but otherwise there was no sign of damage. I took a tape measure from my pocket, ran it over the window and the room, and made a note of the figures.

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