Gina looked away, and he sighed. He’d offended her by being so blunt. But he was too exhausted to apologize properly. And he knew that everything he’d said was true.

Chapter 60

Chapter 60

PIN DRAGGED HER feet as she approached the alley by the shack. The faces of the murdered girls on Henry’s altar still floated behind her eyes, as sweetly fanciful as drawings in the Sunday funnies or picture books. And she was no better than him—in the tunnel, she’d mistaken a murdered girl for a doll or balloon.

The memory sickened her. The girl wasn’t a toy, she’d had a name—Maria—a mother and father, maybe a sister. She leaned for a moment against the side of the empty Kansas Cyclone building, trying not to think that Henry might be a murderer, trying not to throw up.

Outside the Cyclone’s utility room she paused again before ducking inside. She made her way past mops and stacks of empty film cans, until she found the metal sink that occupied most of one wall. She turned on the cold-water tap—there was no hot water—and grabbed the sliver of harsh carbolic soap she kept hidden. She stripped and hauled herself into the sink, which was deep enough to serve as a bathtub. She covered the drain with one foot, gasping at the cold water. When it reached her knees, she crouched and washed herself, trying not to lose the bit of soap. Her chest stung where the awful elastic truss had chafed it, but the water felt wonderful against her sore skin. She let the dirty water drain, filled the sink again, and washed her hair.

At last she clambered out. She retrieved her once-white shirt, scrubbed it vigorously with the soap, and did the same thing with her socks, which were so filthy she was glad she couldn’t see them.

Finally, she wrung out her shirt and socks and stood, dripping, to savor the novelty of being clean. With a sigh she pulled on her trousers, grabbed the wet shirt and socks and her shoes. She nudged the door open and stood warily, listening, before stepping back into the alley.

For a few seconds she stood there, bare chested and exhilarated, all the tiny hairs on her arms stirring. Her nipples tingled where the warm air touched them, and for the first time she was aware of her breasts not as cankers that ached and burned beneath a filthy elastic band but as part of her body, as bound to her as her hands and feet. She touched one nipple, half expecting lightning to jolt from it as punishment. But of course nothing happened.