Chapter 20: The Suite

The Marlow suite was on the top floor of the lakefront hotel, and it smelled of coffee and cold cigars.

Knox had walked me as far as the lobby and stopped at the revolving door.

"I'm not on the list," he had said.

"You're not on any list," I had said, and gone up alone.

Mr. Marlow stood at the window with his back to the room.

Mamie sat on the edge of a gold sofa in a gray sweatshirt, with her knees together and her hands between them.

A lawyer in a good suit sat at a desk by the wall.

"Ms. Lindqvist," Mr. Marlow said, without turning. "Thank you for coming."

"You asked."

"I've had three lawyers tell me this morning that I can buy my way out." He faced me. "I'd like to hear it first."

"The recording?"

"Yes."

I put my phone on the glass coffee table and pressed play.

The kitchen on Chester Street came into the room.

My own voice read the storm, and Mr. Marlow's face did not move.

At four minutes, the door opened, and Tripp said what Yvonne had told him.

The lawyer looked up from his desk.

Then came Mamie's recorded voice, the part she had already heard played back to her once.

Mr. Marlow turned his head and looked at his daughter.

Mamie stared at the carpet.

When the memo ended, nobody spoke for a time.

"You said that," Mr. Marlow said.

"Yes."

"About a girl who gave you her sweaters."

"Yes, Dad."

"I never told you to be that."

"You never told me anything," Mamie said, so quietly I almost missed it.

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