Page 77 of The Furies

“Even so,” I said.

She held the mug in her hands and regarded me through the steam. Her expression changed, and I saw disappointment and anger swirl, not all of it directed at me. Sarah Abelli, I guessed, had spent many hours engaging in a process of self-examination, and had found herself wanting.

“Are you unwilling to work for me because of who I am, or more importantly, who my husband was?”

I didn’t know enough about her to be able or willing to pass judgment on her, but I knew about the people Nate Sawyer used to run with, and the posthumous revelations about him didn’t add to his appeal. Dave had been right when he said that we all had enough strife to contend with right now.

“Let’s say that I’m aware of your late husband’s associates,” I said. “I’d prefer to keep them at a distance.”

“I don’t blame you,” she said. “I’ve tried to adopt the same policy, circumstances permitting. I’ve even succeeded, for the most part. If it’s a question of money, I can pay. If you’re worried about people finding out you helped me, I can assure you that no one will ever know, just as long as your friend over there can keep a secret. And like I said, it’s not as though this case is likely to drag on.”

I added milk to my coffee. Some of the similarities to Susan were beginning to diminish, but the memory of that first impression persisted.

“Are you used to getting your own way?” I said. I meant it lightly, but she didn’t respond in kind.

“No,” she said, “I’ve never been used to getting my own way. My late husband broke three of my ribs, fractured two of my fingers, and once hit me so hard on the left side of my head that he induced a mild stroke in the occipital lobe, leaving me partially blind in one eye. I suppose I can consider myself lucky he didn’t kill me, considering what he may have done to those other women. My guess is that he didn’t want to have to go to the trouble of looking after our daughter alone.”

She winced, and took a few seconds to collect herself. To give her time, I said, “Do you have doubts about his guilt?”

She welcomed the distraction, I thought, even if it didn’t take her long to provide an answer. After all, she probably considered the subject every day.

“I’d like to believe that he wasn’t responsible,” she said, “if only for my own sake. I don’t enjoy being a pariah for the sins of another. But I know what he was capable of, so it’s likely he did kill those women, although it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be happy to discover otherwise.”

She set the mug down hard. Some of the coffee spilled on the table.

“Look what I’ve done now,” she said.

I reached for a napkin, but she got there before me.

“I can take care of it!”

She was so loud that she drew the server’s attention. I gave the slightest shake of my head, and the server turned away.

“I’m sorry,” said Abelli. She finished cleaning up the coffee and set the stained napkins aside. “Are you aware of what happened to my daughter?”

“I read about it. I understand some small part of what you’re going through.”

“I hoped you might. That’s why I came to you.” She looked at me oddly. “You know,” she said, “I think you’re the first person who hasn’t said they’re sorry, or offered me their sympathies.”

“That gets overused. It’s well-intentioned, but I was never sure what it meant. Is this about your child, Sarah?”

And when I used her first name, her defenses fell away, and all that remained was suffering.

“Yes,” she said, “or what remains of her.”

CHAPTER VIII

Sarah Abelli finally left for Freeport, Maine, three months after the deaths of her daughter and husband. Sarah’s mother used to have a spinster aunt who lived on the outskirts of Freeport, and each summer she and Sarah, along with Sarah’s two younger siblings, would take the bus from Massachusetts to spend a month with the old lady. Sarah’s father would later drive up to join them for a week, entrusting the running of his beloved grocery store to his assistant manager, Theo, if by “entrusting” one meant badgering him constantly with telephone calls to ensure that he hadn’t given away the entire stock to the undeserving poor, or allowed the whole place to go up in smoke. Upon her death, the aunt bequeathed the house to Sarah’s mother, and she in turn left it to her children in her will. Sarah’s brother and sister didn’t have the same affection for the summer retreat as Sarah, and she bought them out in installments over ten years.

Nate Sawyer had rarely troubled the state of Maine with his presence, not unless a job required him to make the trip north. Neither was he bothered by his wife’s increasing desire to spend time in Freeport as their marriage staggered on, since it gave him time to conduct his various casual liaisons and, as it later transpired, kill young women. In Maine, Sarah was known by Freeport residents simply as one of the “Abelli girls,” since that was her aunt’s last name. Following her husband’s death, she submitted, through her lawyer, a petition form to a court in Massachusetts, seeking to use her aunt’s name, and a hearing docket was fast-tracked. Within two weeks, following a closed-session hearing, she was officially Sarah Abelli. She now doubted if more than a couple of people in Freeport could have connected her to her late husband, and they cared enough about her to remain silent, especially after her daughter died.

“Why was the hearing docket fast-tracked?” I said. Changes of name could sometimes take up to six months to be certified by a judge or magistrate. But even as I asked, I could guess the reason.

“Because I told the police and the FBI as much as I could about my husband’s activities without naming names, and in return they facilitated a degree of reinvention for me.”

Bingo.

“That must have been a risky business,” I said.

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