All Good People Here(50)

The moment Krissy turned the corner into the kitchen, she stopped short. The detectives had assured her their house would be returned to normal, but it seemed the spray-painted words had been too much of a hassle. They’d been halfheartedly scrubbed at, so that her white walls were a gory pink. She could just barely make out the word bitch above the coffeemaker. She turned around to stop the women from seeing, but it was too late. They were staring, eyes round as silver dollars.

They censored themselves quickly, pressing their lips in pert little smiles, turning their gazes blank and friendly, but Krissy knew the damage had been done. If the town hadn’t already known of the spray-painted messages, they would soon—and that handful of words would set her and her family apart for the rest of their lives.

Tracey led the fridge-stocking initiative, which she turned into a full production, moving juice boxes and cartons of milk around with overblown authority, snapping at Peggy Shoemaker that they had to “put the big ones in first,” when Peggy tried to put her Frito pie in before Rachel Kauffman’s tuna casserole.

After what felt like a lifetime, Krissy ushered them back outside with a tight, plastered-on smile. As they filed out, each Bird gripped her hand in their own and promised to pray. When she finally shut the door behind them, she let out a breath, closed her eyes, and rested her head against the door.

When she opened her eyes again, she realized she was alone. The detectives and Billy had disappeared. From down the hall, she heard Billy’s voice, and he must’ve been talking on the phone because it was the only one she could hear. After a moment of muffled conversation, she heard a click as the receiver was put back in its cradle, then footsteps in the hall.

“Where did the detectives go?” Krissy asked when he appeared in the doorway.

“They left. For now, at least. Said they’d be in touch tomorrow.”

She sighed. It had been two days of grief and interrogation and it already seemed like it’d been a lifetime. She felt the exhaustion in her bones. “Who was on the phone?”

Billy cleared his throat. “A TV producer. From Headline with Sandy Watters.”

“Headline with Sandy Watters?” Along with 20/20 and 60 Minutes, Headline with Sandy Watters was one of the biggest investigative shows on TV.

He nodded. “They want us to do an interview.”

“Jesus…”

“I think we should do it.”

Krissy snapped her head up. “You—what? Are you insane?”

“That producer, she said our case is already getting twisted in the news. That they’re skewering us on Lisa and Bob in the Morning.”

“Billy—”

“She said if worse comes to worst, if one of us is…arrested, she doesn’t think we could get a fair trial anywhere in the country right now. Because of, like…biases and stuff. Like, the jury would’ve seen how we’re being represented and wouldn’t wanna be fair. She says we need to take control of the narrative—”

Krissy rolled her eyes. “Billy, of course she’s gonna say that. It’s her job.”

“No, Kris.” His voice was unusually firm. “Just listen. She said she bets there are a dozen news teams outside our house right now, which there are, and that the public is gonna expect us to say something to one of them, to make some sort of statement. And she said Sandy would be the best person to help us shape what we actually want to say.”

Krissy, who’d been rubbing the bridge of her nose, dropped her hand. “This isn’t a good idea, Billy. We don’t know what the police are thinking right now and we don’t know what some TV host could ask—”

But Billy interrupted. “She said if we don’t do something, if we don’t make some sort of appearance, it’s gonna look like we have something to hide. And we can’t look like we have anything to hide right now.”

Krissy snapped her eyes to his. “We don’t have anything to hide.”

Billy held her gaze for a long moment and she could tell he didn’t believe her. “Exactly,” he said finally. “That’s exactly why we should go on this show.”



* * *



—

The Headline with Sandy Watters studio in New York City was bigger in real life than it looked on TV. Whenever Krissy watched the show, Sandy and her guest always looked cozy, tucked into leather chairs, flowers on the coffee table between them. But as she, Billy, and Jace walked into the room where they would film the interview, Krissy could see that it wasn’t a room at all, but a set with three fake walls. Where the fourth would have been was a slew of enormous cameras on rolling stands, men in headsets guiding them around. The place buzzed with energy and self-importance.

Their entrance was a whirlwind of introductions—to the producer, who gave them the rundown of what to expect; to the sound guy, who affixed little microphones to their collars; to the makeup woman, who patted their foreheads with a brush; and, finally, to Sandy Watters herself. Unlike her studio, Sandy looked smaller in person. Her iconic red hair was, as usual, hairsprayed into an immovable wisp around her head. Her skirt suit was baby blue, her earrings pearls. In her midforties, she was the perfect balance of down-to-earth enough to be relatable and professional enough to be taken seriously.

After they’d all shaken hands, the four of them were arranged on the furniture, Jace between Krissy and Billy on the couch, Sandy across from them in an armchair. Sandy gave her introduction to the camera, in which she recapped the brutal murder of January in neat bullet points, then announced her very special guests.