my arm around his shoulders.
I said, “That sucks. A lot. And I don’t know the right thing to say to make you feel better. So I’ll just sit and listen with my mouth shut. You know not to expect any wisdom or miracle cures out of me. I’m no Dr. Phil.”
Chuckling, he said, “That’s the worst pep talk I’ve ever heard.”
I looked over at him. “You’re smiling now, aren’t you?”
He stared at me in disbelief. “Wow. You’re good.”
“Now, how about drowning your sorrows in a big bowl of ice cream? My treat.”
—
That afternoon I had managed to convince him to get up and shake it off, and aside from the occasional frown, he had seemed to have gotten over it. Throughout college, I would find him at the park every once in a while in that same exact spot, alone with his thoughts. I had always been pretty good at pulling him out of his funk.
This time, though, I knew a bad pep talk and an ice cream sundae wouldn’t even begin to help soothe the pain he was experiencing. I was at a complete loss as to what to do to comfort him, but at the same time I was growing more and more nervous about something Ryder had said. The police were going to question Pete about Cecilia’s death. It made perfect sense to question a victim’s boyfriend, but in this case it would surely be a formality. Pete was the gentlest person I knew. He hadn’t killed Cecilia, but that wouldn’t stop the police from following procedure. My worry was that he was in such a bad place right now, he couldn’t handle a police interrogation.
I found Pete sitting in his regular spot, his back against the wall of the Parthenon, gazing out across the lake. I went and sat down next to him. I reached over and took his hand, lacing my fingers through his. Neither one of us spoke for a long time.
His tone raspy, Pete finally asked, “Jules, who would do something like this?”
Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t know.”
Pete didn’t reply. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, his gaze fixed on the lake again.
I said hesitantly, “Pete…I’m here for you. You know that. And later we can cry and get drunk and throw things, but right now you have to keep your head straight. I want you to be prepared for whatever happens next. Since you’re the boyfriend, the police are going to take a closer look at you, and they’re going to question you before you can leave. I’m sorry to have to bring it up, but—”
My phone rang, interrupting me. It was Ryder. “Hello?”
“Detective Cromwell is here to take your statement. Where are you?”
Fantastic. Detective Cromwell was the cop who had harassed me about Dave’s murder. I’d thought I was done with him. “At the Parthenon. We’re on our way back.”
He hung up without saying anything else. Ryder could be very businesslike and emotionless when he needed to be, which was a big change from his normal wisecracking self.
I stood up, pulling Pete with me. “They’re ready for us.” I turned to him and put my arms around his waist. “Do you think you can do this?”
He hung his head. “No.”
“Come on. Everything will be fine, except unfortunately we have to talk to grumpy old Cromwell. Just hold it together a little while longer, okay?”
I took him by the hand, and we walked slowly back to the vendor area. The place was a freaking circus. There were people
everywhere,
and we had to shove our way through the crowd and flash our IDs to a uniformed officer to get inside the newly posted crime scene tape and back to our bench under the trees. Cromwell was there waiting for us, looking pissed off, as usual.
“Ah, Ms. Langley. Mr. Bennett. We meet again,” said Detective Cromwell, his bushy eyebrows furrowing.
“Hello, Detective,” I replied.
Pete didn’t say anything, but I could feel the tension radiating off him.
“I want to start with you, Ms. Langley. Have a seat. Mr. Bennett, if you’d wait on that other bench, I’d appreciate it.”
Pete shuffled over to a
I said, “That sucks. A lot. And I don’t know the right thing to say to make you feel better. So I’ll just sit and listen with my mouth shut. You know not to expect any wisdom or miracle cures out of me. I’m no Dr. Phil.”
Chuckling, he said, “That’s the worst pep talk I’ve ever heard.”
I looked over at him. “You’re smiling now, aren’t you?”
He stared at me in disbelief. “Wow. You’re good.”
“Now, how about drowning your sorrows in a big bowl of ice cream? My treat.”
—
That afternoon I had managed to convince him to get up and shake it off, and aside from the occasional frown, he had seemed to have gotten over it. Throughout college, I would find him at the park every once in a while in that same exact spot, alone with his thoughts. I had always been pretty good at pulling him out of his funk.
This time, though, I knew a bad pep talk and an ice cream sundae wouldn’t even begin to help soothe the pain he was experiencing. I was at a complete loss as to what to do to comfort him, but at the same time I was growing more and more nervous about something Ryder had said. The police were going to question Pete about Cecilia’s death. It made perfect sense to question a victim’s boyfriend, but in this case it would surely be a formality. Pete was the gentlest person I knew. He hadn’t killed Cecilia, but that wouldn’t stop the police from following procedure. My worry was that he was in such a bad place right now, he couldn’t handle a police interrogation.
I found Pete sitting in his regular spot, his back against the wall of the Parthenon, gazing out across the lake. I went and sat down next to him. I reached over and took his hand, lacing my fingers through his. Neither one of us spoke for a long time.
His tone raspy, Pete finally asked, “Jules, who would do something like this?”
Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t know.”
Pete didn’t reply. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, his gaze fixed on the lake again.
I said hesitantly, “Pete…I’m here for you. You know that. And later we can cry and get drunk and throw things, but right now you have to keep your head straight. I want you to be prepared for whatever happens next. Since you’re the boyfriend, the police are going to take a closer look at you, and they’re going to question you before you can leave. I’m sorry to have to bring it up, but—”
My phone rang, interrupting me. It was Ryder. “Hello?”
“Detective Cromwell is here to take your statement. Where are you?”
Fantastic. Detective Cromwell was the cop who had harassed me about Dave’s murder. I’d thought I was done with him. “At the Parthenon. We’re on our way back.”
He hung up without saying anything else. Ryder could be very businesslike and emotionless when he needed to be, which was a big change from his normal wisecracking self.
I stood up, pulling Pete with me. “They’re ready for us.” I turned to him and put my arms around his waist. “Do you think you can do this?”
He hung his head. “No.”
“Come on. Everything will be fine, except unfortunately we have to talk to grumpy old Cromwell. Just hold it together a little while longer, okay?”
I took him by the hand, and we walked slowly back to the vendor area. The place was a freaking circus. There were people
everywhere,
and we had to shove our way through the crowd and flash our IDs to a uniformed officer to get inside the newly posted crime scene tape and back to our bench under the trees. Cromwell was there waiting for us, looking pissed off, as usual.
“Ah, Ms. Langley. Mr. Bennett. We meet again,” said Detective Cromwell, his bushy eyebrows furrowing.
“Hello, Detective,” I replied.
Pete didn’t say anything, but I could feel the tension radiating off him.
“I want to start with you, Ms. Langley. Have a seat. Mr. Bennett, if you’d wait on that other bench, I’d appreciate it.”
Pete shuffled over to a
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