You Will Know Me(71)

“Standing at the door?” The way she remembered it, she went to the door only after hearing Devon’s screech, like a cat caught in a hunting trap.

“What a thing,” he said. “It was like you were frozen. Like ice.”



The sexy, slashing violin thrusts.

Her phone again, those opening jabs of “Assassin’s Tango.”

That song, the one from the spring invitational, Devon performing her floor routine to its slinks and jabs, the day Ryan died.

The slippery magenta of her leotard, her buttocks high, those hard-hewn legs, muscles grooved and bronzed. Undulating under her leotard with every move. The staccato march of her colt legs, the sharpness of the foot flick, the haughtiness of the head snap. The slow glides.

There was something different in it, in that performance. At the time, Katie hadn’t been able to put her finger on it. Now it seemed so clear.

That hip swing, slow and mesmerizing. Then down on the mat, lolling and rolling, the straddle. Thump, thump, whip, snap, the purr of her feet. Earthy, carnal.

My God, how had she missed it? All the clues right there.

Before, Devon had always been so intent on her performance—the physics of it, the aerodynamic logic of it—it never even seemed like she heard the music at all.

But that day, Katie realized now, it was as if Devon really heard it, moved with it and in it. And her body was no longer a machine, a tool, a weapon, but a body. Moving. Taking pleasure in itself, in its power. Seducing.

Had Eric seen it too? How could he not?

The exultation as she landed her last dizzying run, her feet bolting to the floor, face piped pink and exultant. Radiant under the fluorescent lights.

The look on her face as they all walked to the car after the meet had been a look Katie had never seen, almost prurient. I finally got it. That’s what it’s supposed to feel like. It was almost too much for Katie. But Eric couldn’t even look at his daughter, averting his eyes, dropping his keys, walking faster.



“Teddy, you just called?”

“Katie, I know you don’t want to talk to me,” he said, his voice scratchy like after a long coaching day.

But she did want to talk to him. She needed to. Before the detectives. She had to be first.

“I hope you heard about the paint chips.” He sounded like he’d aged twenty years in a few days. “We knew the truth had to come out. That eyewitness was a liar or a fool. Here’s a fella, been arrested twice for Jack Daniel’s while under the influence of driving. Nearly lost his commercial license. Get this—turns out he used to deliver for Gwen Weaver and she fired his sorry ass.”

“Teddy, why did you call me?”

“Katie, we’ve brought Hailey home to us.”

She bowed her head, trying to concentrate, to think it through.

“I see,” she said carefully. “Because she’s all better. Just like that.”

He cleared his throat, a roar in her ear. “Katie, dear, we were hoping you and Eric might come over. That we all might talk.”

“Eric’s not here.”

“I know Hailey has some things she’d like to say.”

“Teddy,” she said, “I don’t want to hear anything she has to say.”

“We’d really like you here,” he said, his tone unreadable. “The silver paint changes everything. I think you’ll both want to hear what we have to say. We’ll be waiting.”





Chapter Nineteen



“Drew, I have to go out for a little while.”

In the den, her son’s body was rooted deep into the springless furrows of the sofa, his pajama-clad arms swathed around a book.

“Okay,” he said. “I wonder who won.”

“Won what?” she said, tying her shoes briskly, thinking.

“The science fair,” Drew said, a clicking from his throat as if it still pained him. “Last night.”

The science fair. She felt a pang in her chest, like pliers squeezing.

“I’m sorry, Drew. It’s rotten being sick, isn’t it?”

“You can throw it all away,” he said. “The shrimp must be all dead. Like I said.”

“Honey,” she said, “we’ll get you back to school in a few days. There’ll be another fair soon, right?”

But he just returned to his book.

She looked at him, his head bent, the rosy crook of his neck, the slightly damp curls pressed there, reminding herself the scarlet fever wasn’t her fault, but it felt like her fault, everything did.

Kneeling down behind the sofa back, her fingers reaching for his shoulder, she leaned over, glanced at the sentence next to his thumb, pink from the pressure, which meant he loved the book: “I’ll tattoo you if it’s the last thing I do! I’ll do it for nothing!”

“Is that the one Mr. Watts gave you?”

“Yeah. The Melted Coins,” he said. “It smells funny, but it’s good. A pirate named Needles Ned tries to tattoo Joe.”

“Drew,” she tried, “I need a favor.”

Turning the page back, he began reading aloud: “‘Then he reached down and ripped open the boy’s shirt. “Give me the needle, Lopez!”’”

Katie heard her phone again. Ringing again.