A Deep and Dark December(11)

She faced away, her attention on the scenery out the window. Her hair was beginning to dry and curled in clumps around her face. She must have been standing fairly close to Greg when he’d shot himself. Bits of gore had gotten caught in her hair. He frowned over that.

Still, she was beautiful. There was a fragility to her that belied her fiery personality. She looked made of china, the kind his Grandma Byrne only put out on special occasions because it was fine and old, having passed through several generations. And like the danger of handling his grandma’s china, he had to suppress the urge to touch her, run the tips of his fingers along her jaw, her collarbone to make sure she was real. Something as delicate as she belonged to the faery stories Grandma Byrne had told him as a boy.

They pulled up to the police station, which was a Victorian house that had been converted sometime in the seventies. They’d ripped all the gingerbread off the fa?ade, leaving it with awkwardly angled roofs and a tower that looked more like a missile silo than a graceful turret.

Graham grabbed the umbrella from his trunk and came around to let Erin out. He held the umbrella over her head as they climbed the steps.

At the top she turned to him, holding her arms out. “Will I be able to shower before I change into clean clothes?”

“There’s a shower in the bathroom at the back.”

“Thank God.”

Graham opened the door for her and followed her inside. They hit the wall of women two steps in.

“Is it really mur—”

“What hap—”

“I was so wor—”

Jessica, Mabel and Cerie got a look at Erin and froze, eyes wide, mouths gaping.

“Let me get Erin back to the bathroom so she can shower and change.” Graham held his hand out. “Cerie, her clothes?”

“What? Oh.” Cerie handed him a bag. “Erin, dear, are you all right? Please tell me none of that blood is yours.”

“I’m fine. None of it’s mine.”

Jessica wrinkled her nose like she smelled something bad.

“You poor thing,” Mabel chimed in. “You look like a drowned gutter rat.”

“Why don’t I help you change?” Cerie said, reaching for Erin’s arm.

“No. No one touch her.” He gestured for Erin to precede him.

The women jumped back, their eyes wider than before. Erin walked ahead of him down the hall to his office. Once inside, he closed the door after them.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, noticing how pale she was.

She shrugged. “It’s all right.”

“I need to take a couple of pictures of you. You know, to document the evidence.” He was sweating from more than the hot car ride. Why was he suddenly so nervous?

“Where should I stand?”

“Right there’s fine.” He went to his desk and pulled out a camera.

“Is it okay if I don’t smile?”

He looked up from the viewfinder at her remark. “You don’t have to.” He snapped a couple of pictures, then set the camera aside to rummage around in his desk drawer. “Are you right or left handed?”

“Right. Why?”

“Hold out your hands palms down. I need to test for gunshot residue although it’s likely the rain washed it away.”

“What?”

“If there is any, I mean. I know there won’t be. It’s just procedure. Sorry.”

She pressed her lips together, making a muscle at her jaw twitch as she stuck her hands out for his inspection. He pretended not to notice them shaking as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and slowly approached her. He swabbed both sides of her right, then the left hand, paying particular attention to the web area between her thumbs and index fingers.

“All done,” he said. “I’ll get the evidence bags now.”

“Evidence bags?”

“For your clothes and what I’m going to pull from your hair.” When her hand automatically went to her hair he stopped her. “Don’t. Cross contamination.”

“Oh, right.” She stood still, her hands out to her sides.

He changed gloves and moved toward her again with caution. She looked as though she’d shatter under the slightest touch. He wanted to tell her it would be okay and somehow soften the things she’d witnessed. He couldn’t say that he knew her or how she’d react if he tried. Mostly he knew things about her, which was worse than not knowing anything at all because he had no way to sort the truth from the fiction. He cursed small town life and the traps it laid.

Pulling bits of matter from her hair with tweezers, he was careful not to accidentally catch a strand or let her see what he put in the collection bag. There was something strangely intimate between them in that moment. He hoped he wasn’t imagining it at the same time he mentally kicked himself for thinking it. He’d never been this close to her before, had never inhaled her scent or touched her in anyway. Now here they were, sharing personal space and trying not to make eye contact.

When he finished he took a step back, exhaling the breath he’d been holding. “Done.” He pointed to a door across the room. “That’s the bathroom. There should be a towel and washcloth in the cabinet under the sink.”

“Thanks.”

“Leave the door ajar.”