When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(66)

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“DO YOU HAVE DOCUMENTATION FOR either of your maids?” the blond detective is demanding.

“What do you mean?” Mayor Howard. His voice is hollow with guilt. If I drew him, I would use reds and golds, with a core of darkest night. He loved his wife, but it couldn’t save them from the corrupt ambition at the center of their marriage.

The Bad Man is pure black. Mayor Howard . . . he has more color, though the end result is not so different.

“Birth certificate for Bonita—”

“Who is Bonita?”

“Sorry, your niece.”

“Her name is Bonita?” The mayor, genuinely confused.

“I don’t know,” the detective replies crisply. “But I’m pretty sure her birth certificate doesn’t list it as Girl.”

Silence. The stove timer chimes. Cook is stirring sausage gravy on the gas range while also eavesdropping shamelessly. She’s clearly distracted. I put on oven mitts, check the biscuits.

They are fluffy and golden on top. I pull the tray out of the oven, place it on the top to cool. I can’t speak. I can’t read. The entire world outside this house is terrifying to me. But maybe if I ever did leave, I could be like my own mother, making people sigh happily over plates of food. Cook has taught me enough, and maybe I have some of my mother in me after all.

I feel her again, brushing my shoulder. Does she like the name Bonita? Maybe I could use it instead.

My eyes burn, though I am much too old to cry.

From the other side of the doorway: “Of course we have the paperwork. My wife . . .” The mayor, choked up and angry. “My wife just died! For God’s sake, I don’t have time for this right now. Have you no compassion?”

Another male voice. The sheriff. I would draw him in shades of deep purples, blues, and reds. Big, like the Bad Man, but softer around the edges. Deeper. For good or evil, I’m not sure yet. But I like his voice. It sounds like a warm blanket, and our rooms in the basement are much colder than anyone thinks.

“Maybe we could wait,” the sheriff starts now. “We did find record of the suicide note on the office computer. Here—”

“No.” The blond detective again. She is a burst of oranges, yellows, reds. There’s no dark in her. Only searing light that will either blind or save. I both fear her presence and lean toward the flame.

My mother brushes my shoulder again. She is agitated today.

Something worse looms ahead. The mayor’s wife is dead, the police are still here, and more will be made to pay. Because I can’t tell the truth about the Bad Man, what really happened to the mayor’s wife, what happens to all of us.

I’m not Bonita.

I’m Stupid Girl once again.

The other female voice speaks up. I don’t understand the two female police. The blonde I met first has a hard, Northern clip. This one has a softer voice, rounder vowels. Of here, but not from here. I would color her in the shades of the forest, with sparks of fireflies. She is of the earth. Quieter, but sparkly in her own way.

“Mayor Howard,” the other police lady says now, “we understand this is a difficult time. But when you start talking about an illegal organ transplant, I don’t care how many years back, the safety of your staff becomes our primary concern.”

Total silence. I hastily cut out more biscuits. At the range, Cook is listening so hard she’s forgotten to stir the gravy. I smell it burn before she does. Or maybe she doesn’t care.

Hélène is gone. She must tend beds, start the daily cleaning regimen. Or she’s made the mistake of returning to her room—in which case, the Bad Man probably already has her, and is playing with his knife, wringing her neck.

When painting, black is not the absence of color. It is the presence of many colors. Which makes pure evil hard to predict.

“Does your wife have a personal office in addition to the inn’s?” The blonde again, sounding as if she’s offering the mayor a break.

“No. Just the one office. For the business.”

“All right. I’ll go through it myself. We find the proper paperwork for your staff, then all is well.”

“You need to leave. The night has been long and hard enough. The guests are headed downstairs. I need to pull things together.”

“With all due respect, sir,” says the other police lady, “that’s not an option.”

“My wife committed suicide—”

“Your wife died a suspicious death.”

“What?” The mayor, sounding bewildered.

“That’s the current classification.” The Southern cop again. “Suicide is an official ruling. The ME hasn’t made it. Meaning currently, your wife died a suspicious death, and your entire lodging establishment is a crime scene. Be happy Sergeant Warren only wants paperwork.”

Another pause. Then a sound I don’t completely understand. Suppressed sobbing. Mayor Howard is crying. In all my years, through all that’s happened . . .

The death of his wife has caused him suffering. Does that make me happy, ease my own pain?

The sausage gravy is smoking now.

I don’t care that the mayor is crying. I have heard so many girls cry and what did it ever get them? I’m happy he hurts. So happy, I slam my round cookie cutter through the biscuit dough and shake the prep table.