All Good People Here(28)

He was probably only a few years older than Krissy, with acne scars on his cheeks, and he had the same detached look as all the others, his eye contact flat and unfeeling. Krissy was sick of all these people treating the death of her daughter like a Tuesday at the office. “Tommy,” Detective Lacks said. “Why don’t you escort Mr. Jacobs while he packs a bag for him and his wife. I’m gonna take Mrs. Jacobs to get some things for their son.”

Billy’s eyes snapped to Lacks, looking panicked. “I don’t know what to pack for her,” he said as if Krissy weren’t standing right beside him.

Lacks reached out a hand and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out. Just try not to touch anything you don’t need to touch.”

This send-off clearly made Billy more nervous, but he swallowed, nodded, and followed the young officer down the hallway to their bedroom.

He, Krissy, and Detective Lacks were in and out and at the Hillside Inn in Nappanee, overnight bags in tow, in under half an hour. At the sight of the hotel, Krissy felt a bitter laugh bubble at the base of her throat. The exterior was painted red with white wooden crossbeams, making it look like an oversized, bizarrely shaped barn; no matter how hard she tried, no matter what she did, she seemed to be doomed to the farming life.

Inside, as Detective Lacks checked them in, Krissy registered random details. Two clocks hung on the wall, one labeled Nappanee, the other inexplicably France. A terra-cotta pot on the front desk was filled with cheap pens, plastic flowers adjoined to their ends with thick tape. Next to it was a little red barn.

Lacks handed them each a plastic key card, then led them to their room on the second floor, stopping abruptly outside a door with brass numbers that read 218. Krissy could feel Billy’s gaze on her, but when she turned to look at him, he averted his eyes. Why did he keep doing that?

“I made sure there was a second bed for Jace,” Detective Lacks was saying.

Billy nodded. “Thank you.”

“Detective Townsend and I will be in touch tomorrow, but feel free to call us if you need anything or if anything comes to mind.”

Billy gave Lacks an obsequious smile and then, as if he couldn’t help it, he shot Krissy another look she couldn’t read: Was it fear in his eyes? Paranoia? Was there some hidden message in his expression or was he trying to find one in hers? “Thank you, Detective Lacks,” he said. “We appreciate everything you’ve done for us.”

Krissy wanted them both to just shut up. She wanted to punch, to hit, to shred something with her bare hands.

“I want to warn you two,” Lacks said, “that tomorrow could be a bit…chaotic. The press will’ve gotten wind of everything by now and—”

But Krissy had had enough. Billy’s gaze and Lacks’s voice felt like fingernails clawing at her skin. “Detective Lacks,” she interrupted in a tight voice. “My daughter died today. My house is crawling with strangers and I haven’t seen my six-year-old son in hours. I can’t think about whatever it is that you’re saying. So can you please just leave?”

Detective Lacks’s face remained neutral, seemingly unfazed by this outburst.

Billy, on the other hand, began to bubble with apologies. “I’m so sorry, Detective Lacks,” he stammered. “My wife is upset. She doesn’t mean to be rude.”

Lacks gave him a perfunctory smile. “No need to apologize. You’ve both had a long day. Try to get some sleep. I’m afraid tomorrow’s going to be just as bad.” With that, she gave them a nod and turned on her heel.

It took Krissy four tries to get the key card into the slot, but finally the door swung open and she stumbled through. The moment the door clicked behind them, Billy grabbed her shoulder, his fingers digging in hard. He spun her around to face him. “Krissy, what the hell,” he spat. His voice was shaking. “You shouldn’t do that.”

Krissy brushed his hand off and strode to the other side of the room, throwing the Power Rangers backpack she’d packed for Jace onto the bed. “Do what?” she snapped.

“You shouldn’t be rude to a detective investigating the murder of our daughter.”

“Jesus Christ, Billy. What? You think your fucking bowing and scraping is gonna make them like you?”

His whole body was shaking now. “All I’m saying is we don’t want to give them any ammunition, any reason to look at us any closer than they already are.”

Krissy jerked her head back. “Billy,” she said slowly. “What’re you talking about?”

Billy tugged the overnight bag off his shoulder and dropped it to the floor. He crouched down, unzipping and rifling through it furiously. “This”—he tugged something out—“is what I’m talking about. I found this in the hamper. Thank god I got to it before the police did.”

Krissy narrowed her eyes in confusion. In his hand was a mass of baby blue—her robe, she realized suddenly, the one she’d been wearing that morning, the one she’d taken off before the police had arrived. Clutched tightly in Billy’s fingers was the sleeve, and Krissy could make out something on the hem, a red slash. Not blood, but spray paint.

Her eyes jumped to Billy’s, and he looked back at her with a mixture of panic and revulsion. “What did you do?”





TEN