The Turnout(93)

It was like seeing someone who’s been away so very long, their face changed, the shadows heavy now, but in the eyes a flash of something ancient and pure.

Oh, Marie, she thought. I’ve missed you for the longest time.



* * *



*

She told Marie to go straight to the Ballenger.

“I have to meet with the insurance lady,” she said. “She wants to talk to you, so you can’t be there.”

“No,” Marie said, pulling their father’s sweater over her shoulders, “I’d rather not.”

“We can’t let her in,” Dara said firmly. “We have to get her out.”

They’d had invaders enough.



* * *



*

As they put on coats, gloves, silently, the shush of their shoes, the scatter of bruises on Marie’s neck as she threw a scarf around it, Dara kept thinking of what could happen. All-Risk Randi suspected it wasn’t an accident. The likeliest and most convenient suspect? The wife with the big, fat insurance policy her bosses will have to pay out. But how many steps might it take to find out about Marie? About Charlie? There were things investigators knew how to find out. There were cameras everywhere now, the parking lot, the traffic lights. Phones told them everything. There was no private world anymore. The larger world had turned itself inside out, was seeking to infiltrate every smaller, private one. The home, the family.

Seeking to pass judgment. To prod and probe at a safe remove.

No one wanted to face the truth. That every family was a hothouse, a swamp. Its own atmosphere, its own rules. Its own laws and gods. There would never be any understanding from the outside. There couldn’t be.

“Are you going to tell the police?” Marie asked suddenly. “About Charlie?”

“No,” Dara said. “Not now.”

They both paused. It was one of those moments—they’d had them before, the night their mother struck their father in the head with the cast-iron pan and he dropped to the floor so fast Dara and Marie both burst into tears. For a long moment wondering what to do, like all the times their father had chased their mother around the house or that time he locked her in the garage overnight and Dara and Marie only found out in the wee hours, her screams finally frenzied enough to wake them from their sleep. They didn’t ever call anyone. That was not something any of the four of them ever did. It wasn’t what you did. You kept going.



* * *



*

Driving into the lot, she looked up at the third-floor window, which was dark, its glass smeary.

Randi Jacek was waiting at the front door in a pantsuit and puffy vest, palming a vape pen. “Terrible habit,” she said. “But we all can’t be as healthy as dancers.”



* * *



*

Inside the studio, there was a chill in the air, as if the furnace had broken in the night.

When they stepped inside, Dara had the thought: What if Charlie is here? She couldn’t see him, not now.

But as they moved through the studios, the coolness sinking in their bones, there was no sign of him.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Randi was saying, following Dara to the back office. “I know you have your show coming up.”

“Performances. Sixteen performances,” Dara said, her voice tight. “The detectives said you might be back.”

“Like a bad penny,” Randi Jacek said, repeating the same joke.

“Or a bulldog.”

Randi smiled. “My reputation precedes me. Detective Walters?”

Dara nodded, pulling her coat tighter, setting her hand on the radiator. But Randi Jacek didn’t seem to notice the cold, or the smell in the air, like an electric iron left on the pad too long.



* * *



*

The back office was warmer, its door shut overnight, trapping the last of the heat. But everywhere else, the floorboards and ceiling beams were creaking and popping from the cold.

“All yours,” Dara said, stepping back. “Though I can’t imagine what there is left to look for.”

Randi nodded distractedly, her eyes back on the staircase. “And your sister? She’ll be here soon?”

“She’s at the theater. You know, our ‘show.’”

Randi looked at her, smiling generically.

“Ms. Durant, you know what?” she said. “Last night, my husband made chicken riggies for me.”

“Pardon?”

“Chicken, rigatoni, peppers. We had it on our first date. We’ve made it together on anniversaries, special occasions. And last night, out of nowhere, chicken riggies. I got the point. Fella can’t come out and say he misses me, but . . .”

“Ms. Jacek, I have to get to the theater,” Dara said.

“The son of a gun even put out place mats,” she said. “Cloth napkins. Extra-hot cherry peppers, just like I like it.” She smiled, shaking her head. “But I couldn’t eat a thing.”

“No?”

“No. Because you know what I was thinking about?”

“Ms. Jacek, I—”

“Why. Why was my friend Derek—old D-Wreck—going up the stairs? At that hour? What sent him up there?”

“A noise,” Dara said quickly. Here we go again. Here we go.