When he was done, the former detective thanked him, and told him his secret was safe.
Nor did Tsukahara ever tell anyone else the truth. He even went so far as to do some sleuthing to find out where Setsuko and her family was living now. Senba felt a stirring of warmth in his chest when he heard they had returned to Kawahata’s hometown of Hari Cove.
Tsukahara found something on the Internet, too: mention of a Narumi Kawahata in an article about ongoing efforts to protect Hari Cove’s natural environment. Tsukahara learned there would be a hearing in August about the undersea development in Hari Cove she’d been fighting against. He wanted Senba to come to the hearing with him.
“You don’t have to meet her. You could just see her from a distance. Don’t you want to see the girl you protected for so long? Don’t worry, I’ll go with you. Hell, I’ll push the wheelchair.”
Tsukahara’s invitation tore at Senba’s heart. He wanted to see her more than anything else in the world, yet in the end, it wasn’t to be. A man in his condition at the hearing would draw attention. Someone might figure out who he was, causing trouble for Setsuko and Narumi.
Tsukahara went ahead and applied for the hearing without his permission anyway. He came to the hospice one day to show him the letter. He had applied for two tickets, but only received one in the lottery.
“Let’s go anyway,” he said. “I could wait for you outside,” Tsukahara had said.
Senba shook his head. He was grateful for everything the detective had done, but he would not go. Nor could he, physically. His condition had worsened to the degree that a long trip was entirely out of the question.
“It’s a shame,” Tsukahara had said. It was the last time he’d visited the hospice.
But Tsukahara hadn’t given up. He’d gone to Hari Cove by himself, probably to try to meet Setsuko and Narumi. Senba was sure he’d met them. He didn’t want to think about what happened to him there, though he had a pretty good idea.
He deeply regretted not stopping Tsukahara from going. He wished he could’ve reached out and taken that ticket from his hand and ripped it into pieces.
Senba looked down at the photograph of the baby in his hand and whispered, “I’m so sorry.” It’s my fault this happened. It’s my fault you’ve had to bear the burden of yet another sin. But don’t worry. I’ll die before I ever say a word. I only hope that you can forgive your father for being the fool that I am.
FIFTY-NINE
Shinagawa Station came into view. There were a lot of cars, and traffic was moving slowly.
“You can just let me out here,” Yukawa said, gathering his things.
Utsumi pulled over to the side of the road, and Yukawa opened the door. “Thanks for the lift,” he said, getting out.
“Hold on, I’ll see you to the gate,” Kusanagi said, undoing his seatbelt.
“It’s fine, it’s still a bit of a walk to the station.”
“None of that, now.” Kusanagi opened his door. “You go on back without me,” he said to Utsumi as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The two men walked past the line of cars toward the station. It was nearing the end of August, but the heat made it feel like midsummer. Yukawa started sweating, the grime of the city clinging to his face.
“It’s still impossible to say what’s true and what’s not,” he said abruptly. “I have my theories, but I would hesitate to even call them conjecture. In the end, it might all just be my imagination. The only reason I think Narumi might have been the one who killed Nobuko is because it answers several questions. I have no concrete evidence. And there are many things I still don’t know. The entire premise that Narumi is Senba’s daughter might be flawed. And if it is true, does Shigehiro Kawahata know? What about Nobuko’s murder, does he know about that? If so, when did he learn of it? It’s all mysteries within mysteries. The only thing that could clear any of it up would be a confession from those involved, but that’s one thing I am absolutely positive we’ll never get.”
“And what about Tsukahara’s murder?”
“You mean Tsukahara’s ‘death due to negligence.’ It’s the same situation. As long as the Nobuko Miyake case is considered closed, there would be no motive for murdering him.”
“But it is possible to connect the Kawahatas with him,” Kusanagi said. “Tsukahara was the one who arrested Senba. And Senba knew Setsuko.”
“True. But how much does a thirty-year-old connection between a barmaid at a restaurant and one of her customers count for, I wonder.”
“It’s hard to write it off as coincidence.”
“Is it?” Yukawa wondered out loud. “I see coincidences like that all the time. Regardless—” The physicist breathed a deep sigh. “Regardless, as long as Senba isn’t telling his story, I don’t see a way for us to get to the bottom of this case. And he won’t talk. He took a long prison sentence to protect the daughter he loved; he won’t throw that away now. He intends to take his secret to his grave, and he won’t have long to wait. No, I’m afraid this is one fight your side isn’t going to win, Kusanagi.”
The physicist’s tone of indifference irked him, but Kusanagi couldn’t think of a retort. Everything he said was true.
They arrived at the station. Yukawa said farewell and started to walk off toward the ticket gate.
“You’re just going to let it go?” Kusanagi asked to his turned back. “You’re okay with the way things turned out? What about that person you were trying to protect?”
Yukawa turned. “Of course it’s not okay,” he said, his voice ringing out over the din of the station. “That’s why I’m going back to Hari Cove.”
“Wait—” Kusanagi said, but Yukawa just slung his jacket over his shoulder and walked through the gates.
SIXTY
Setsuko was sitting across a small table from Detective Isobe. A younger detective sat next to him, taking notes.
“The temperature in here good for you? Not too cold?” Isobe asked. His face was set in a permanent scowl, but there was a look of real concern in his narrow eyes. Setsuko imagined that the scowl was something of a professional affectation, a look he’d had to wear so often it became his default mode. She’d had customers like that back in the day at Haruhi. They weren’t grumpy, they were just too shy to make a kind face.
“It’s fine,” she said, and Isobe nodded, looking back down at his case report.
The room wasn’t bad for an interrogation room. It was well air-conditioned, and the detectives weren’t smoking. She’d always pictured these rooms as stark places with frightening décor, like one-way mirrors, but there was nothing of the sort here. Well, except for the bars on the one window.
“So, right, I need to ask you about a few more details,” Isobe said, before launching into a long list of questions about the upkeep of the inn, boiler maintenance, whether they had ever considered repairs, whether they knew how much repairs would cost, and other things of that nature. There was no need to lie, so Setsuko just told it like it was.
Maybe we’ll get out of this after all, she thought. The police were definitely moving toward wrapping the case up as professional negligence and corpse abandonment. The punishment for that should be relatively light, not that Setsuko feared punishment. She was happy as long as they could keep what happened sixteen years ago under wraps.
“Sounds like things are pretty rough,” Isobe said, scratching his head. “I guess it’s pretty much the same story for most of the hotels around here.”
Setsuko nodded in silence and thought, If only we’d shut the place down last summer.
“What I’m wondering mostly now is why Mr. Tsukahara chose your inn. You hear anything about that from him? You served him dinner, right?”
Setsuko shrugged. “I did, but we didn’t talk. I just explained the dishes, as usual.”
“Right,” Isobe said, shaking his head. He didn’t seem that concerned either way.
He turned and spoke to the other detective, the one taking notes, and the two left the r
oom. Setsuko’s eyes wandered over to the one barred window in the room. There was a blush of red in the sky. Evening was coming.
The sunset had been glorious that night too, sixteen years ago.
It was a Sunday. The day before, Setsuko had met with an old friend and arrived at Ogikubo Station late, a little tipsy. Walking back, she saw a number of police cars near their house but shrugged it off as another car accident. It was nearly midnight when she got home.
She peeked into Narumi’s room. The lights were out, but she could see a shape buried under the covers. Setsuko smiled and shut the door quietly.
When the call from Hidetoshi Senba came the next morning, she’d been a little bewildered to hear from him now so many years later, but the call wasn’t unwelcome. The surprise mingled with regret in her heart, and, she admitted, a bit of longing.
What he had to say drove all such thoughts out of her mind. Nobuko killed, so close to their home, and her knowing the truth of Narumi’s birth.
She hung up and went into Narumi’s room. She was still in bed, curled up in a fetal position. She wasn’t sleeping, and there were streaks down her cheek. Setsuko understood immediately that she’d been up crying all night.
The knife was on the table next to her bed—a kitchen knife Setsuko often used. It was black with blood. Not just the blade, but the handle, too. Setsuko stood, stunned. Her eyes went to the window, where red streaks of dawn lit the clouds in the distance with an eerie light—an ominous sign, she thought at the time.
Half panicking herself, she began to interrogate Narumi. What happened? What’s this knife? Talk to me, Narumi. The girl’s shock was too deep for her to relate the story with any kind of coherence. Gradually, though, Setsuko learned that a strange woman had come to their house the night before and started saying things to Narumi about her father. Then, after she had left, Narumi had gone to the kitchen, grabbed the knife, and presumably chased her down, though Narumi’s account was particularly vague on that point.
There were still many unknowns, but Setsuko didn’t hold out much hope of getting anything more from her panic-stricken daughter. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t call Shigehiro. What could he do, way down in Nagoya? And how could she explain any of it to him? No, the only person she could call was Senba. When she did, he was ready with instructions. “Bring the knife,” he said. “I have a plan.”
Setsuko knew immediately he was going to try to turn himself in and take Narumi’s place. She also knew she should probably try to stop him. But when she thought of Narumi, she was ready to do anything to protect her. She would gladly take her place if she could, but ironically enough, Setsuko had an alibi. And she couldn’t think of a motive that wouldn’t involve revealing the truth of Narumi’s birth.
Her mind a whirl, she followed Senba’s instructions, leaving the house with the knife. She made Narumi come with her. If she was going to let him go through with this, the least she could do for him was let him see Narumi. He was her true father, after all.
The first thing she noticed when she saw him was how tired and worn he looked. It was clear he’d been through a lot in the many years since they’d last seen each other.
Senba had Setsuko explain the murder in as much detail as she could. Setsuko told him everything she had managed to wring out of Narumi, then, hesitantly, asked him if he was sure he wanted to do this. All he said was, “A parent will do anything to protect their child.” His words were like a firm hand pressing against her back, pushing her toward the inevitable.
She saw on the news when he was arrested two days later, chased down by a detective as he was trying to get rid of the evidence. She was surprised he hadn’t just turned himself in, but she assumed it was a calculated move to make him look even guiltier. It would certainly mean a stiffer sentence, Setsuko thought, and her heart almost burst.
Nothing in the news or the paper indicated the police had any doubt about his story. The police never showed up at Setsuko’s door. Senba’s plan had worked.
She then decided it was time to tell everything to Narumi. It was quite a shock to her, and she stayed home from school for four days. But as talk of the case faded from the news reports, things started to return to normal. It was clear that Narumi had begun to understand better what she had done and who had saved her.
There was an unspoken agreement never to mention this to her father. In fact, they never talked about it again, not even to each other. Nor did they forget. It remained an unfading scar on both their hearts, occasionally surfacing as a dull pain that cast a shadow over their lives. Setsuko could understand why Narumi suddenly became enthusiastic about her father’s plans to move the family to Hari Cove.
Indeed, their new life in Hari Cove was relatively happy. Narumi had thrown herself into environmental issues with a passion that was almost painful for her mother to see. She let Narumi do as she wished, in hopes it might lessen the burden of her guilt. Nor did she try to stop her when Narumi hung the painting Senba had given them in the lobby of the Green Rock Inn.
And so sixteen years passed. She hadn’t forgotten Senba, but it was true that the memories didn’t seem as clear now, with the veil of so many years’ worth of history pulled over them. It was Tsukahara who drew back that veil. She was setting out his dinner when he said suddenly, “He’s in the hospital, you know.”
Setsuko blinked. “Excuse me? Who is?” Tsukahara wet his lips, smiling stiffly. “Senba,” he said. “Senba is in the hospital.”
Setsuko could feel her face tense. Then, in a lower voice, Tsukahara told her he was a former detective, in charge of the murder in Ogikubo.
Setsuko’s heart nearly beat out of her rib cage. She could hear her pulse in her ears.
“There’s no need to be scared,” Tsukahara said. “I’m not here to dig up the past. I do have a request, though.”
“What?” Setsuko asked. Speaking suddenly seemed almost impossible.
Tsukahara looked her straight in the eye and said he wanted Narumi to visit Senba on his deathbed.
“He doesn’t have much longer. Maybe not even a month. I want him to be able to see the person he traded his life to save before he goes. It’s the only way I can think of to make up for the mistake I made sixteen years ago.
“Please,” Tsukahara said, bowing his head deeply.
Setsuko felt her tension ease. This man’s not here to reveal Narumi’s crime. He’s here because he sympathizes with Senba.
Still, secrets were meant to be kept. Setsuko straightened her back and told him she had no idea what he was talking about. She didn’t know who this Mr. Senba was, and she certainly didn’t think he had anything to do with them.
“I see,” Tsukahara said sadly. “That’s unfortunate.” He said nothing more.
Setting down his food, Setsuko walked out of the room to find Shigehiro standing in the hallway. Startled, she asked him what he was doing, and he said, “Nothing, just walking down the hall.”
She couldn’t read his expression, but she wondered if he hadn’t been listening at the door. She watched him go, leaning heavily on his cane in silence.
After that, Setsuko took Yukawa down to the bar and drank with him a while before leaving. She didn’t want to go straight back to the inn, however, mostly because she was worried that Tsukahara might say something again. So she was fretting out in front of the bar when Narumi and her friends showed up. When Sawamura offered her a ride back, she had to accept.
Everything after that happened just like she told the police. She found Shigehiro sitting, dumbfounded, in the lobby of the Green Rock Inn. He told her there had been an accident with a boiler: a guest had died. He wanted to tell the police, and Setsuko agreed, but Sawamura was against it. He thought a different kind of accident would be better for the town’s image. They argued about it a bit, but in the end, Shigehiro and Setsuko agreed. Setsuko in particular was eager to do anything that kept the investigators from connecting her family to Tsukahara.
But was it really an ac
cident? she wondered.
Even if he’d overheard them talking that night in the hall, how could Shigehiro have known what they were talking about? Unless, she thought, he’d realized more than she knew about what had happened sixteen years ago.
Despite the fact that he was down in Nagoya, he could have heard about Senba’s arrest for the murder of Nobuko Miyake from the news, or through a friend. He’d known both of them well enough back in the day. And if he’d learned that the murder had happened near their home, wouldn’t he have put two and two together?
That, and she was pretty sure he knew Narumi wasn’t his daughter. He knows, she thought, and he’s accepted her as his own anyway.
Shigehiro was too smart to not connect Setsuko and Narumi to the murder sixteen years ago. And he’d never mentioned it once, which only made Setsuko even more sure he knew. Nor did she think it was entirely coincidence that he started talking about moving to Hari Cove soon after it happened. Had he been protecting the family, trying to make a physical break with their bloodstained home?
Maybe, she thought, when Tsukahara came to the inn, Shigehiro saw him as an envoy come to open the door on a buried past. Maybe he thought that leaving him alive would destroy their own lives. But Setsuko never learned the truth. Nor did she ask Shigehiro. As long as he was silent, so would she be. For the rest of her life, if she had to.
Setsuko knew better than anyone that silence was the only option.
SIXTY-ONE
Kyohei looked up from the hotel bed. His father was on the phone again. He could picture his mother’s look of exasperation on the other end of the line.
“Well, what do you want me to do?” his father was saying. “He says he wants to stay here another day. I don’t know, something about his homework. I said I don’t know. Well, you tell him,” he said, thrusting his cell phone toward Kyohei. “It’s your mom.”