sniffling and involuntary shudders. Milo was ready with tissues that were ignored.
Marissa said, “No, no, no,” and shoved waves of hair away from her tear-soaked face.
Ashley said, “Why would anyone hurt her?”
Milo said, “Don’t know that yet, Marissa.”
“When? When did it happen?”
Milo said, “This morning.”
Ashley said, “It wasn’t Daddy. I’ll tell you that for sure.”
Her sister looked at her. An instant passed before she said, “Shit, no, it wasn’t Daddy.”
Milo said, “Let’s go inside and talk.”
Bawling, the girls stumbled toward the house. Milo and I followed, giving them a four-step lead.
Mourners always head the line.
When they reached the house, Ashley shoved one of the limed-oak double doors and it swung open silently.
Unlocked. The Corey girls had grown up assuming safety.
From now on, they’d never feel completely safe.
Milo and I continued to trail as they staggered, sobbing and clutching each other clumsily, past a flagstone rotunda topped by a wrought-iron chandelier. The fixture was crusted with beautifully forged songbirds and set up with mock candles tipped by LED bulbs. A nicheto the right hosted a crudely fashioned Virgin Mary, the kind you can get all over Tijuana. The girls continued into a huge, high-ceilinged great room backed by windows and walled in rough-hewn granite. The furniture was expensive, perfectly placed, determinedly casual: distressed buckskin sofas and love seats, iron and glass tables, kilim throw pillows, straw-backed chairs painted the color of summer-dried sage.
The Corey sisters collapsed together on the largest sofa.
Marissa Corey snatched a pillow, hugged it to her chest, and dropped her head, weeping and letting out sad little burp-like noises. Her younger sister sat pressed against her, erect and blank-eyed, hands on her knees. Since learning of their shared tragedy, both girls had undergone a strange, contradictory transformation: rendered younger, almost child-like by helplessness, but aged decades around the eyes by the ultimate loss of trust.
Milo said, “Girls, we’re so, so sorry.”
Ashley slung her arm around her sister’s shoulders. Marissa rested her head on Ashley’s bosom. Two years older but more dependent? Maybe that was the reason her sister dormed out but she lived at home.
Ashley said, “Oh my God, Daddy!” As if she hadn’t just mentioned him. “Does he know?”
“We just informed him.”
The girls looked at each other. Ashley said, “He didn’t call us.”
Milo said, “He’s pretty broken up, girls. We offered to talk to you first and as soon as we’re through, he’ll be over.”
“He’s our dad,” said Marissa. “He should be here.”
“He will,” said Ashley. “Poor Daddy.” She sighed, cried a bit. “It’ll be the first time since the divorce.”
Milo said, “That he’s here?”
“Uh-huh.”
Marissa said, “Mommy probably wouldn’t have minded, they got along. But Daddy said it was best that he get his own life in gear.”
Milo said, “At the condo.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You guys spend much time there?”
“Not really,” said Ashley. “Sometimes.”
Marissa said, “I need to throw up,” struggled to her feet and ran across the room. Ashley turned to Milo: “What now?”
“Our only goal is to find out who hurt your mom. That sometimes means questions that can seem out of place, Ashley. So if we ask anything that—”
“Like what?”
“Well, for starts, something you said a few minutes ago. That it wasn’t your dad. I’m curious why you said that.”
“Why I said it was ’cause it wasn’t Dad even though you might think it was.”
“Why would we think that?”
“Because that’s what cops always think, right? They assume it’s the husband, I see it all the time on the murder shows.”
“You watch a lot of murder sho—”
“Dad watches ’em and when I’m over, I do, too.”
“So you wanted to make sure we didn’t
Marissa said, “No, no, no,” and shoved waves of hair away from her tear-soaked face.
Ashley said, “Why would anyone hurt her?”
Milo said, “Don’t know that yet, Marissa.”
“When? When did it happen?”
Milo said, “This morning.”
Ashley said, “It wasn’t Daddy. I’ll tell you that for sure.”
Her sister looked at her. An instant passed before she said, “Shit, no, it wasn’t Daddy.”
Milo said, “Let’s go inside and talk.”
Bawling, the girls stumbled toward the house. Milo and I followed, giving them a four-step lead.
Mourners always head the line.
When they reached the house, Ashley shoved one of the limed-oak double doors and it swung open silently.
Unlocked. The Corey girls had grown up assuming safety.
From now on, they’d never feel completely safe.
Milo and I continued to trail as they staggered, sobbing and clutching each other clumsily, past a flagstone rotunda topped by a wrought-iron chandelier. The fixture was crusted with beautifully forged songbirds and set up with mock candles tipped by LED bulbs. A nicheto the right hosted a crudely fashioned Virgin Mary, the kind you can get all over Tijuana. The girls continued into a huge, high-ceilinged great room backed by windows and walled in rough-hewn granite. The furniture was expensive, perfectly placed, determinedly casual: distressed buckskin sofas and love seats, iron and glass tables, kilim throw pillows, straw-backed chairs painted the color of summer-dried sage.
The Corey sisters collapsed together on the largest sofa.
Marissa Corey snatched a pillow, hugged it to her chest, and dropped her head, weeping and letting out sad little burp-like noises. Her younger sister sat pressed against her, erect and blank-eyed, hands on her knees. Since learning of their shared tragedy, both girls had undergone a strange, contradictory transformation: rendered younger, almost child-like by helplessness, but aged decades around the eyes by the ultimate loss of trust.
Milo said, “Girls, we’re so, so sorry.”
Ashley slung her arm around her sister’s shoulders. Marissa rested her head on Ashley’s bosom. Two years older but more dependent? Maybe that was the reason her sister dormed out but she lived at home.
Ashley said, “Oh my God, Daddy!” As if she hadn’t just mentioned him. “Does he know?”
“We just informed him.”
The girls looked at each other. Ashley said, “He didn’t call us.”
Milo said, “He’s pretty broken up, girls. We offered to talk to you first and as soon as we’re through, he’ll be over.”
“He’s our dad,” said Marissa. “He should be here.”
“He will,” said Ashley. “Poor Daddy.” She sighed, cried a bit. “It’ll be the first time since the divorce.”
Milo said, “That he’s here?”
“Uh-huh.”
Marissa said, “Mommy probably wouldn’t have minded, they got along. But Daddy said it was best that he get his own life in gear.”
Milo said, “At the condo.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You guys spend much time there?”
“Not really,” said Ashley. “Sometimes.”
Marissa said, “I need to throw up,” struggled to her feet and ran across the room. Ashley turned to Milo: “What now?”
“Our only goal is to find out who hurt your mom. That sometimes means questions that can seem out of place, Ashley. So if we ask anything that—”
“Like what?”
“Well, for starts, something you said a few minutes ago. That it wasn’t your dad. I’m curious why you said that.”
“Why I said it was ’cause it wasn’t Dad even though you might think it was.”
“Why would we think that?”
“Because that’s what cops always think, right? They assume it’s the husband, I see it all the time on the murder shows.”
“You watch a lot of murder sho—”
“Dad watches ’em and when I’m over, I do, too.”
“So you wanted to make sure we didn’t
Similar Books
