All Good People Here(26)

Half an hour earlier, Krissy had been telling the detective her most concrete theory about what had happened to January. She knew, after overhearing Lacks and Townsend outside, that she needed to narrow her focus to just one, and when she thought of the broken basement window and those unnerving words on her kitchen walls, the most obvious explanation in her mind was that it had all been done by an intruder with a personal connection to her daughter. An unstable, lecherous man who took whatever he wanted—that’s what Krissy would think if she were a detective on the case. She put together a list of faces in her mind, cataloging all the men she’d ever been wary of at January’s dance competitions: one man, who wore polo shirts buttoned to his neck and watched the performances with a wolfish look in his eyes; another guy, junkie skinny and balding, who hung around the hallways where the girls flitted between performances. Krissy wanted them arrested, interrogated with a taser.

Halfway through the interview, though, Townsend interrupted with the announcement that their team had found the dead body of a little girl, discarded in a ditch less than two miles from their home. The detective had escorted Billy to the morgue to identify the body, but Krissy knew this was a mere formality. She knew, deep in her bones, that the little girl was January. Of course it was; they lived in a town of less than two thousand people and January was the only one who was missing.

A sudden movement from beyond the window caught Krissy’s attention and she watched as Detective Townsend and Billy appeared through the glass double doors of the police station. Sure enough, in the moment she saw her husband—his eyes red-rimmed, his body strangely slack—Krissy knew she’d been right.

And yet, the confirmation of it still felt like she’d been shot in the stomach. Disjointed thoughts tumbled through her brain. Not my baby. And Where’s Jace? And I need to act how they expect me to act. Then Townsend and Billy were in the room with them and Townsend’s mouth was moving, but Krissy couldn’t make out what he was saying. Her body was thrumming, the edges of her vision beginning to blur and blacken. Suddenly, the two detectives were beside her, Townsend pulling out a chair, Lacks’s hands on her elbows as she guided her into it. In the moment the detectives were distracted, Krissy lifted her eyes to meet her husband’s and saw that Billy was gazing down at her with—what? Fear? Disgust? It crawled up her back like spiders. And then it was gone. She slumped into the chair and buried her face in her hands.

“Mrs. Jacobs, Mr. Jacobs,” Krissy heard Detective Townsend say. She blinked and realized some time had passed. Billy was now sitting next to her. In front of them were two untouched cups of what looked like tea. Her body, Krissy noticed, felt a little steadier. She forced herself to look at the detective.

“We’re very sorry for your loss,” he continued, his gaze flicking between Krissy and Billy. Neither spoke, neither met his eye.

“With this development,” he continued, his tone matter-of-fact, as if finding the dead body of their daughter in a ditch was in fact a mere “development,” “as you can imagine, the investigation has shifted. We’ll loop in a few more detectives from State, but Detective Lacks and I will continue to take the lead here. We’re gonna do everything in our power to find whoever did this.” He paused a moment, letting his words sink in. “We’re going to need your full cooperation for the next few weeks or so, but for now”—he glanced at his wristwatch—“you two have had a long day. Detective Lacks will escort you both to your house to pack a bag, and then she’ll take you to a hotel for the night, okay?”

Krissy frowned. As everything else had that day, this moment seemed to be happening too quickly. They’d just found January’s body at the bottom of a ditch and now they were telling her to pack a bag? It seemed Billy was as lost as she was, because, rubbing one temple, he said, “I don’t understand. Pack a bag?”

Townsend looked at him. “Your house is a crime scene, Mr. Jacobs. We’ll expedite things as best we can, but you three won’t be able to stay there until tomorrow at the earliest.”

It was then, at you three, that Krissy remembered Jace. Fear sliced through her stomach. What would he do when they told him his twin sister was dead? “Where’s Jace?”

“He’s still with Officer Jones,” Lacks said. “Would you guys like to see him now?”

“No.” Krissy realized she must’ve said it too quickly, because all the heads in the room turned to her. “I don’t want to tell him yet. I think it’d be better if we told him in the hotel. Away from…” She looked around. “All this.”

Detective Lacks nodded. “Of course. You can pack a bag for him too, and I’ll tell Officer Jones to meet us at the hotel. Sound good?”

In her mind, Krissy reached out and slapped the detective hard. No, Detective Lacks, she wanted to scream. My daughter is dead. Nothing sounds good. Nothing will ever sound good again.

As her mind spun with the impossibility of what was happening, Krissy had the strange sensation that the last seven years of her life had been a mere fever dream. That she’d gasp in a breath and suddenly she’d be eighteen again, back to the summer of ’87, before everything had changed, before everything had gone so terribly wrong.



* * *



—

With Billy and Dave by her side, Krissy spent the summer after high school in a blur of shimmering nights. All June and July, they drove around in Dave’s car, stole six-packs from garages, and met up with people from school to drink warm beer in abandoned barns outside town. Every once in a while, when there were no other plans, Krissy would sneak onto Billy’s farm, and they’d have sex in the hayloft or skinny-dip in the pond under the stars.