Page 67 of I Will Find You

“No caller ID,” she says.

“Don’t answer it.”

“Okay.”

“You were saying?”

“It was my daughter-in-law. Ellen. She’s a physician in Revere. An MD.”

I remember this from the file. “She’s married to your oldest son, Marty.”

“Yes.”

“What about her?”

“She had—probably still has—a gambling problem. A chronic one. I didn’t know that at the time. She’s a respectable ob-gyn. Delivered all my friends’ grandchildren. Marty, I guess he tried everything. Gamblers Anonymous. Shrinks, therapy, controlling her access to money. But you know how it is with addictions. You’ll find a way. Ellen did. She got in deep. Too deep to get out of. Hundreds of thousands. That’s what they told me on the phone. Ellen was way behind in the money she owed, but she could get out from under—if I did them a small favor.”

She rubs her face and closes her eyes. Again I stay still.

“You want to know why I testified against you. That’s why. This man, he visits me. He is very polite. Nice manners. Big smile. But his eyes, I mean, they were black. Dead. You know the type?”

I nod.

“He also has poliosis.”

“Poliosis?”

She pointed to the middle of her head. “A white forelock. Dark black hair with a white streak right in the middle.”

I freeze.

“Anyway, this man, he tells me the situation with Ellen. He says I’d be doing the world a favor if I helped them. He says that you definitely did it, smashed your own child’s skull with a baseball bat, but you’re going to get off because your old man is a crooked cop and so the fix is in.”

I swallow. The white forelock. I know the man she’s talking about. “This man mentioned my father?”

“Yes. By name. Lenny Burroughs. He says that’s why they need me. To help assure justice is done. If I help them with this, they’ll help Ellen. He has on expensive loafers with no socks. He lays it all out for me. Do you want to know what I told him?”

I nod.

“No. I say I’m not going to do it. Let Ellen figure a way to pay it back. That’s what I tell him. This little man, he says ‘okay, fine.’ Just like that. He doesn’t argue with me. Doesn’t make any threats. The next morning, the same little man calls me. He says in a polite tone, ‘Mrs. Winslow? Listen.’ And then…” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I hear this loud crack and then Marty starts to scream. Not Ellen. My Marty. The little man snapped my son’s middle finger like it was a pencil.”

In the distance, Hilde Winslow and I hear the sounds of the city—whooshing traffic, faint sirens, the beep of a truck backing up, a dog barking, people laughing.

“So,” I say, “you agreed to help?”

“I had no choice. You understand.”

“I do,” I say, even though I’m not sure that’s true. “Mrs. Winslow, what was the little man’s name?”

“What, do you think he left a calling card? He didn’t give me his name—and I didn’t ask.”

It doesn’t matter. I know who it is. “Didn’t you ask Marty or Ellen about him?”

“No. Never. I did what the man asked. Then I sold my house and changed my name and moved here. I haven’t talked to Marty or Ellen in five years. And you know what? They haven’t reached out to me either. No one wants to go back there.”

It is then that I hear someone out on the street start to shout.

A young woman from the sound of it. At first, I can’t tell what she is saying. Hilde and I both look at one another. I move toward the window. The woman is still shouting, but now I can make out her words:

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