Good Girl, Bad Girl(110)

“The chief inspector was only doing her job,” says Jimmy. “I’m sure it wasn’t personal.”

“It wasn’t,” says Lenny.

Heller-Smith ignores the comment. “I have also received a complaint from the Sheehan family accusing the police of being insensitive and heavy-handed.”

“I’ll draft a response,” says Lenny.

“Yes, you do that.”

Heller-Smith notices Aiden.

“Let me guess—another suspect. Who is it this time?”

Aiden doesn’t move. I glance at Lenny, wanting to talk to her privately, but this isn’t the time or the place.

“This is Aiden Whitaker,” I say. “He wants to make a statement.”

“Did he kill Jodie Sheehan?”

“No. He claims to have got her pregnant.”

“Another one! Should we start compiling a list?”

“She was murdered,” I say through clenched teeth.

“That case is closed,” replies Heller-Smith.

“With all due respect, sir, that’s not your decision,” says Lenny, stepping forward. “This is still my investigation and I decide when it’s closed.”

Heller-Smith smiles crookedly and scratches his cheek. It’s like he’s marking up an unseen ledger, keeping a list of whatever slights and abuses he will revenge later.

“Another example of why you’re being transferred,” he says to nobody in particular.

“Maybe, but not until Monday.”

The men leave. Heller-Smith makes a barking sound all the way along the corridor, growing louder as he passes the incident room, letting everyone know what he thinks of Lenny.

She gives me a lazy sideways glance but doesn’t hold my eyes.

“Your timing is shit,” she mutters, addressing me, but studying Aiden.

“He was with Jodie that night,” I explain. “They were together in the caravan. He claims the baby is his.”

“He’s wrong. Cousins don’t match the DNA profile.”

Aiden shakes his head. “No. I’m the father.”

“How do I know you’re not saying this to protect your old man?”

“I’m not. I loved her.”

Lenny sighs and yells to Antonia. “Get me Ness.”

“On the phone?”

“No. Here. Now!”





61




* * *





ANGEL FACE




* * *



Poppy is barking at a squirrel in the garden.

“Be quiet,” I tell her, worried the neighbors might complain about the noise. The Labrador spins and lopes across the soggy grass, pausing to look back at the squirrel, as if to say, “I’ll get you next time.”

I’m sitting on the back steps, barefoot and in my pajamas, wrapped in a blanket. Poppy’s tail thumps against my thigh as I scratch her behind the ears. Is this how happiness is meant to feel?

I miss Cyrus. I miss hearing his footsteps and the creak of the plumbing when he turns on the taps and the clang of his weights dropping into the cradle. The house feels empty when he’s not here.

Wandering back inside, I think about reading some of his books or beading my hair or watching TV. I flick through the channels, where people are buying houses in the country or showing off kitchen gadgets or yelling at each other in a courtroom.

The mail flap echoes along the hallway. The newspapers are lying on the doormat, wrapped in plastic, along with the morning mail: two letters and a postcard with an Irish stamp. It shows a picture of a rocky coastline in the Aran Islands. Four words are scrawled beside the address: “Leave my parents alone.”

I have no idea what it means, but I leave it on the desk for Cyrus.

Unwrapping the newspaper, I read about Bryan Whitaker’s arrest. The photograph shows him sitting in the back of a police car with a coat over his head, which means it could be anyone. The story gives details of his skating career and how he coached Jodie Sheehan since she could walk.

The doorbell starts ringing and doesn’t stop. Someone is holding his or her finger on the button. I answer, ready to complain, but a woman pushes past me, knocking me off balance.

“Where is he?”

“Cyrus isn’t here.”

She’s moving from room to room. Searching.

“Where’s Aiden?”

“They’ve gone to the police station.”

“Get them back!”

“What?”

“I said get them back.”

“I can’t.”

“GET THEM BACK!” she screams. Frantic. Desperate.

I flinch, backing away. “Cyrus doesn’t have a phone.”

She swallows a deep breath and apologizes. “Please. I have to talk to Aiden.”

This must be Felicity Whitaker, Aiden’s mother. She was at the house last night, but I didn’t meet her.

“I can send him a message.”

Mrs. Whitaker steps closer as I type on my phone.

“He has to bring Aiden. Nobody else. No police.”

I press send. The message disappears.

Poppy has come to the back door, whining and scratching, wanting to come inside.