All dark grey slate and cool lighting. Happy young people walked here and there, sat and drank coffee, chatted and laughed. None of them lying bleeding, their heads smashed beyond recognition. The image would not leave Ida. Rea at the top step, the life spilled out of her. Flanagan entered the concourse, walking slowly, looking for Ida. Ida considered waving, calling out to her, but instead she watched. The policewoman moved as if she carried a great weight, some dark thing riding on her shoulders. How old was she? Mid forties, Ida guessed. Odd how a woman less than fifteen years her junior should stir motherly feelings in her. Since Flanagan had first entered her home, Ida had wanted to care for her, comfort her, and she had no idea why. Perhaps the sudden vacuum that Rea had left behind needed to be filled. Maybe because Ida had no real friends of her own, only those that Graham allowed her to have, and she desired the warmth of a sister to understand her pain. Silly notions. Ida dismissed them as Flanagan climbed the stairs.
