Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(31)

Dead woman walking. If that’s what I’d felt like twenty-four hours ago, then what am I now? Corpse walking? The ghost of a never-realized dream?

I recognize the first detective who walks into the kitchen. The father figure who attempted to question me last night. He still wears his very stern, yet somehow equally concerned expression. Standing next to Mr. Delaney, who is wearing a thousand-dollar suit, the detective appears both slightly frumpy and more human.

My mother is already sitting up straighter, her eyes zeroing in on target. An older male, reasonably attractive and clearly out of his socioeconomic league. She will eat him alive. And relish every bite.

Behind him comes a second detective. Female. Chin-length curly blond hair. Killer cheekbones. Nearly crystalline blue eyes. She’s wearing slim-fitting jeans and sleek black leather boots that match her swagger.

I have that sense of déjà vu again. Her gaze goes straight to me, narrowing slightly.

Smell hits me first. The memory of gunpowder and blood. The refrigerator. Don’t look at the streaked stainless steel. Don’t stare at the wax-doll version of my father on the floor. Sitting at the table. Except not this table. That table. And not in this kitchen, that kitchen.

She’d been the one sitting across from me. Younger. Softer. Kinder, I think. Except maybe because I’d been younger and softer, too. Questions then, questions now.

I look at my mom, Mr. Delaney, the detective, my hands still shaking on my lap. And I can’t help but think, the gang’s all here.

—

THE BLONDE, SERGEANT Detective D. D. Warren, doesn’t speak right away. She lets the older detective, Call Me Phil, run through the particulars. Warren prowls the kitchen. I wonder if she’s noting all the differences—new cabinets, countertops, appliances. Does she think it’s strange my mother still lives, cooks, eats, in a crime scene? That we are sitting, even now, mere feet from where my father died?

My mother is talking. With Mr. Delaney’s approval. She’s also turning her head a certain way—her best side, while periodically fingering a strand of frosted blond hair above her ear, French-manicured nails lingering on the graceful curve of her neck.

I’ve never seen my mother interact with a man without batting her eyelashes. She remains an attractive woman. Slim, graceful, good bones. Not to mention she’s a fanatic for green smoothies and organic this and organic that. In lieu of yoga, she prefers triple-distilled vodka, served straight up. Still seems to work for her.

My father never minded her flirting. He’d watch, a knowing gleam in his eye as she worked the room. I think he liked the way she sparkled. Others admired her. Others wanted her. But she always belonged to him.

I feel like I can’t breathe. Time is collapsing. I’m sixteen. I’m thirty-two. My father. My husband.

The same detective. Still prowling the expansive kitchen while most likely thinking, How many “accidents” can one person have?

I have a second question for her: How many losses can one person take?

My mother is swearing she was with me all afternoon. The detective, politely but forcefully, wants to know if anyone can corroborate. Mr. Delaney intervenes smoothly that if the police don’t believe his client’s statement, the burden is on them to prove otherwise. Do they have anyone placing my mother or myself at the scene of the fire? For that matter, the city is filled with cameras and prying eyes. Surely, if the police had something more concrete, they wouldn’t be wasting everyone’s time with these questions.

Mr. Delaney is fishing. Even I can tell that. Do the police have anything substantial? That’s what he really wants to know. The older detective doesn’t take the bait.

I find it interesting that my own lawyer is curious if the police have evidence that contradicts his clients’ statements. Do all lawyers believe their clients are lying to them? Or is it merely because he’s been a family friend for decades and knows us that well?

“What caused the fire?” When I finally interrupt, the sound of my own voice startles me. I sound hoarse, like I haven’t spoken in years.

The blond detective halts, stares at me. Neither investigator offers an answer.

“You think it was intentional, right?” I continue. “Otherwise, why would you be here? But why would I burn down my own home? I left last night without even a toothbrush. Everything I own … everything I had …” My voice breaks slightly. I force myself to continue, though I sound hollow even to me. “It’s all gone. My entire life … it’s all gone. Why would I do that?”

The blonde speaks for the first time. “This doesn’t look like such a bad place to land.”

Just like that, I’m pissed off. I shove back my chair. Rise to standing. “You of all people should know better. You of all people!” I’m almost yelling at her. Why not? I certainly can’t yell at my mom.

I stalk out of the kitchen. I can’t take the room, with all its creamy wood and expensive marble. A fucking stage setting.

My father was real. His smile, his booming voice, the way he pursed his lips when working a particularly difficult problem, the way he’d sit with his eyes shut and listen to me play the piano for hours.

He loved me. He loved me, he loved me, he loved me.

And Conrad had loved me, too.

The blond detective is following me. Mr. Delaney, too, clearly concerned. Emotional clients are probably a danger to themselves and others. My mother stays behind. With Call Me Phil. She’s probably offering him a glass of water, while briefly touching his arm.