Caren said, making an effort to keep her tone even and flat. She didn’t want to scare her, but she needed her daughter to understand how serious this was. “They’re going to want to talk to you.”
In the mirror, their eyes met again.
“I want you to know you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
“I mean, no one thinks you did anything wrong. They’re talking to everyone at Belle Vie, and because you live there, they want to talk to you, too. It’s going to help them understand what happened. And I’ll be with you the whole time.”
“Who died?”
“It’s no one you know. Everyone at Belle Vie is fine.”
Morgan didn’t say anything. She twirled her index finger on the smudged glass, moss-covered cedars along the highway casting shape-shifting shadows across her face, like dark clouds passing over, then breaking wide again. “I have to prep for an event tonight,” Caren said. “But after that we can talk about your plane ticket, okay?”
“My dad said he would pay for it.”
“I know. We’ll talk about it tonight.”
A car shot around them on the two-lane road, passing at eighty miles an hour, at least. It raced ahead of them, growing smaller in the distance. Caren couldn’t read the license plate number, determine the make or model. But it was a red pickup truck, she was sure.
4
I n the time it took her to drive to Laurel Springs and back, the detectives had turned the old schoolhouse into a base of operations. They were each on their cell phones when she and Morgan entered, Morgan with her backpack in her hands, pressed against her chest. Some of the chairs had been rearranged, and Lorraine had sent over coffee on a room-service tray meant for the guest cottages. Caren put an arm around her daughter and waited for one of the detectives to notice them. The bigger cop, Detective Jimmy Bertrand, was off the phone first. He told them to have a seat. Caren reached for Morgan’s hand, holding tightly as Morgan pressed herself into Caren’s side. They chose two seats near the raised platform where the play was performed. By then, Detective Lang was off his phone as well. He joined them near the stage. He smiled at Morgan and asked if she’d like something to drink, water or juice, though Caren wasn’t sure just where he thought that was going to come from. There were no vending machines at Belle Vie, and it was a ten-minute walk to Lorraine’s kitchen. Morgan shook her head; Caren could feel a damp heat radiating from her small, round body. Lang opened a clean page in his notebook, then looked again at Morgan. “So,” he said, starting with the barest of facts. “Morgan Gray?”
“It’s Ellis,” she said, correcting him. “Morgan Ellis.”
Lang looked briefly at Caren, but she offered no clarification on this point.
This interview was merely an act of courtesy, a show of good faith.
Lang looked at Morgan again and smiled. “I’m Detective Nestor Lang, Morgan, and this is my partner, Detective Bertrand.” Morgan looked back and forth between the two men. Bertrand was on his feet, a hand on his waist. Caren could see a patch of sweat growing in the pits of his dress shirt while he sucked down a cup of black coffee. Detective Lang had meanwhile pulled a chair in front of Morgan. “We just want to ask you a few questions,” he said to her. “This shouldn’t take too long at all.”
“Okay.”
“What grade are you in, Morgan?”
“Fifth.”
“So that makes you, what, about ten?”
“Nine.”
“That’s right, your mom said that.”
He wrote this down, too.
“And you live here with your mother?”
Morgan nodded.
“Well, I assume she’s told you . . . there’s been an ‘incident’ here.”
“Someone died.”
“That’s right,” Lang said. “Someone did something very bad, Morgan, and my partner and I are here to find out what happened.”
“And put someone in jail.”
Lang looked over in Caren’s direction. “She’s sharp, this
In the mirror, their eyes met again.
“I want you to know you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
“I mean, no one thinks you did anything wrong. They’re talking to everyone at Belle Vie, and because you live there, they want to talk to you, too. It’s going to help them understand what happened. And I’ll be with you the whole time.”
“Who died?”
“It’s no one you know. Everyone at Belle Vie is fine.”
Morgan didn’t say anything. She twirled her index finger on the smudged glass, moss-covered cedars along the highway casting shape-shifting shadows across her face, like dark clouds passing over, then breaking wide again. “I have to prep for an event tonight,” Caren said. “But after that we can talk about your plane ticket, okay?”
“My dad said he would pay for it.”
“I know. We’ll talk about it tonight.”
A car shot around them on the two-lane road, passing at eighty miles an hour, at least. It raced ahead of them, growing smaller in the distance. Caren couldn’t read the license plate number, determine the make or model. But it was a red pickup truck, she was sure.
4
I n the time it took her to drive to Laurel Springs and back, the detectives had turned the old schoolhouse into a base of operations. They were each on their cell phones when she and Morgan entered, Morgan with her backpack in her hands, pressed against her chest. Some of the chairs had been rearranged, and Lorraine had sent over coffee on a room-service tray meant for the guest cottages. Caren put an arm around her daughter and waited for one of the detectives to notice them. The bigger cop, Detective Jimmy Bertrand, was off the phone first. He told them to have a seat. Caren reached for Morgan’s hand, holding tightly as Morgan pressed herself into Caren’s side. They chose two seats near the raised platform where the play was performed. By then, Detective Lang was off his phone as well. He joined them near the stage. He smiled at Morgan and asked if she’d like something to drink, water or juice, though Caren wasn’t sure just where he thought that was going to come from. There were no vending machines at Belle Vie, and it was a ten-minute walk to Lorraine’s kitchen. Morgan shook her head; Caren could feel a damp heat radiating from her small, round body. Lang opened a clean page in his notebook, then looked again at Morgan. “So,” he said, starting with the barest of facts. “Morgan Gray?”
“It’s Ellis,” she said, correcting him. “Morgan Ellis.”
Lang looked briefly at Caren, but she offered no clarification on this point.
This interview was merely an act of courtesy, a show of good faith.
Lang looked at Morgan again and smiled. “I’m Detective Nestor Lang, Morgan, and this is my partner, Detective Bertrand.” Morgan looked back and forth between the two men. Bertrand was on his feet, a hand on his waist. Caren could see a patch of sweat growing in the pits of his dress shirt while he sucked down a cup of black coffee. Detective Lang had meanwhile pulled a chair in front of Morgan. “We just want to ask you a few questions,” he said to her. “This shouldn’t take too long at all.”
“Okay.”
“What grade are you in, Morgan?”
“Fifth.”
“So that makes you, what, about ten?”
“Nine.”
“That’s right, your mom said that.”
He wrote this down, too.
“And you live here with your mother?”
Morgan nodded.
“Well, I assume she’s told you . . . there’s been an ‘incident’ here.”
“Someone died.”
“That’s right,” Lang said. “Someone did something very bad, Morgan, and my partner and I are here to find out what happened.”
“And put someone in jail.”
Lang looked over in Caren’s direction. “She’s sharp, this
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