Little Girls(42)

For a time, she thought about Susan. Returning to the house weighed on Laurie, but it distressed her in some inexplicable fashion to have Susan there. It wasn’t a revelation that had dawned on her all at once; rather, it had happened—and was still happening—incrementally, bit by bit. Last night she had awoken to sounds in the house. Low talking, it had sounded like—the whispers of little girls. It had reminded her of sleepovers at friends’ houses in her own youth, and all that hushed giggling behind cupped hands in the dark. But there had been a darker component to that sound last night. She had climbed out of bed and tread out onto the landing for a better listen. She first checked Susan’s room, but she was sound asleep. Then she went downstairs and made sure all the doors were locked and the windows were latched. They were, but it didn’t help quell her anxiety. When Ted had found her five minutes later in the upstairs hallway, she had been convinced she had heard footsteps on the other side of the belvedere door.

It occurred to her now that she harbored an imprecise concern for her daughter being in that house. This notion reminded her of all the fears she’d suffered at the onset of motherhood, when she worried about all the dangers of the world out there, ready to take a bite out of her helpless daughter. Strange noises in an old house were nothing compared to the brutality of the real world.

Now, in the bright light of a new day, it was easy enough to believe those noises she had heard last night had been nothing more than sounds carried over from some forgotten dream.

She was on her third refill when a bleached blonde came into the shop. She was young, perhaps in her late-twenties, and possessed the aquiline profile of a Greek bust. The heavy costume jewelry around her neck and wrists jangled as she approached Laurie’s booth. The girl’s smile was surprisingly earnest despite her sharp features.

“Mrs. Genarro? I’m Teresa Larosche.”

“Hi. Please sit down.”

The girl sat across from her on the opposite side of the table. She had iPod earbuds in her ears, which she popped out now. Her ears were adorned with cheap studs and hoops. A diamond stud twinkled on the left side of her nose.

The girl must have sensed something wrong with Laurie. “You’re Mrs. Genarro, right? We spoke over the phone?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I was just expecting someone much older. Someone more like—”

“Dora Lorton, right?”

“Exactly.”

Teresa Larosche smiled again. Laurie decided she was very pretty.

“The truth is, I haven’t been doing the whole homecare thing very long. I got my nursing license a few years back and was working shifts at North Arundel up until about a year ago when they laid a bunch of us off. There are other jobs to be had, but I didn’t want to just pack up and move someplace.” She exhaled a soft laugh. She possessed the sensual rasp of a phonesex operator. “Hell, I didn’t have the money to move nowhere, so I figured I’d see what else was out there.”

“How long had you worked for Mid-Atlantic?”

“Just about seven months or so.”

“Did you quit because of what happened or were you fired?”

Teresa exhaled again. Laurie could smell cigarettes on her breath. “You know, my boyfriend warned me not to get into too much of this stuff. About what happened that night, I mean. Mr. Claiborne did, too.” She began fidgeting with the cluster of silver rings on her left hand. “Everybody thinks you’re gonna sue.”

“I’m not suing anybody. I’m just curious about what happened to my father. I’ve got some questions and I was hoping you might be able to answer some. If you’re uncomfortable with any of it, you don’t have to say a word.”

Teresa nodded and looked suddenly sad.

“Would you like a coffee?” Laurie offered. She waved over the young waitress.

“Café Milan,” Teresa told the waitress.

“Back in a jiff,” said the waitress before moving on to another table.

“Just so you’re aware, I saw the police report concerning my father’s suicide. Any information I might bring up while we talk today, I got from that report. Admittedly, there wasn’t much to the report, but I want you to know that upfront, and not assume that I had been asking Ms. Lorton or Mr. Claiborne about you behind your back. Because I haven’t, and I wouldn’t do that. Okay?”

Again, Teresa nodded. “Okay.”

“And if you want me to sign something saying I won’t sue you, I’ll be glad to, if that puts your mind at ease.”

Relief came readily to the young woman’s face. She stopped fidgeting with her rings. “Okay. I believe you.”

“Good.” She offered the girl a warm smile before proceeding. “The police report said you started working the night shift at my father’s house approximately two months prior to his death. Is that correct?”

“Yes. My previous patient was daycare only—cooking meals, doing laundry, making sure she was able to take a shower without slipping and breaking her hip. Easy enough. Just after Christmas, her family decided she would be better off in one of those assisted living facilities. From there, I was basically a floater until the night shift gig opened up with your dad.”

“What’s a floater?”

“It’s what we call someone just picking up other jobs until a steady one comes through. There’s always a window of downtime when a patient . . . well, moves on . . . before we get reassigned to someone else. I would fill in for permanent caretakers if they took vacation days or were sick or something. Mr. Claiborne had me doing some clerical stuff at the office, too, but I was going bored out of my skull with that, you know? I didn’t go to nursing school to sit around and file office papers and sharpen pencils.”