wearing makeup and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a Helmut Lang tank top I’d been tempted to purchase on my last Bloomingdale’s trip. At her side was a tan pug looking warily with big black bug eyes at the new arrival.
“It’s about fucking time.”
She hadn’t completely changed. “Nice to see you, too, Charlotte.”
THE GIRL INSIDE THE DOORWAY, though only a few years from being a beautiful woman, was still small enough to have been hidden from view by Charlotte’s imposing frame. Once Charlotte stepped inside the apartment, I was able to get a good look at her. Even without context, I might have immediately known her identity.
Buckley Harris had her father’s thin nose and angular chin, and her mother’s strawberry blond hair and a sprinkling of freckles. She was one of those kids who looked like a photo mash-up of her parents. Her shoulder-length hair fell in loose curls, and her light green eyes were enormous. To me she looked haunted, but maybe I knew too much about her life.
“You must be Buckley,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Olivia Randall.”
When she didn’t immediately return the gesture, Charlotte nudged her. “Sorry,” Buckley muttered. She did not sound sorry. “I’ve been going crazy wondering where my dad is. When is he coming home?”
I suggested to Charlotte that perhaps she and I should talk alone. Buckley interrupted with a firm no. “ I’m the one who called you. I can handle it.”
Charlotte closed her eyes. I’d known her long enough to guess thatshe was counting silently. Old habits, etcetera. When she opened her eyes, her voice remained calm as she led the way to her living room. “Olivia, Buckley may look like Taylor Swift’s little ginger-haired sister, but she’s an old soul with the IQ of—I don’t know, some person too smart for me to have heard of. And, Buckley, not everyone gets you, okay? Get over it. Now, both of you: sit. Why the fuck is Jack under arrest?”
I looked at Charlotte to make sure this was really how we were going to do this, and then launched in, telling Buckley that her fears were correct. “The police think your father was involved in the shootings this morning at the waterfront. If I had to guess, they’ll be making an announcement any minute now.”
“ Involved? ” Charlotte asked. “Like, how is he involved ? They can’t just go around holding witnesses, can they? Don’t they need a material witness warrant? Some special order from a terrorism court or something?”
By now, Jack would be getting booked at MDC. He’d soon experience the shock of his first encounter with a real jail cell. He’d be wondering whether he’d ever sleep in a room alone again, on a mattress more than three inches deep, or use a toilet that wasn’t made of metal, or take a private shower.
“They’re not holding him as a witness.” I fixed my gaze directly on Buckley. “They think your father did this. They think he was the shooter.”
Buckley looked five years younger as her face puckered with confusion, then outrage. She looked like what she was: a terrified little girl. A terrified little girl with one parent dead from a mass shooting, the other an accused killer. As if sensing her sadness, the pug managed to leap onto her lap. Buckley gave her a pat and muttered, “Good Daisy.”
“I know it’s hard to process. But this isn’t the end of anything; it’s the beginning. At this point, he’s only under arrest.” I saw no point in telling them that a senior ADA had already made up his mind aboutJack’s guilt. “From what I can tell, a large part of whatever evidence they have right now is based on motive. One of this morning’s victims was Malcolm Neeley.”
Buckley sucked in her breath at the mention of his name. She and Charlotte simultaneously launched into the same arguments I had raised at the precinct—that suing someone wasn’t the same as wanting to kill him, that other people blamed Neeley for his son’s actions just as
“It’s about fucking time.”
She hadn’t completely changed. “Nice to see you, too, Charlotte.”
THE GIRL INSIDE THE DOORWAY, though only a few years from being a beautiful woman, was still small enough to have been hidden from view by Charlotte’s imposing frame. Once Charlotte stepped inside the apartment, I was able to get a good look at her. Even without context, I might have immediately known her identity.
Buckley Harris had her father’s thin nose and angular chin, and her mother’s strawberry blond hair and a sprinkling of freckles. She was one of those kids who looked like a photo mash-up of her parents. Her shoulder-length hair fell in loose curls, and her light green eyes were enormous. To me she looked haunted, but maybe I knew too much about her life.
“You must be Buckley,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Olivia Randall.”
When she didn’t immediately return the gesture, Charlotte nudged her. “Sorry,” Buckley muttered. She did not sound sorry. “I’ve been going crazy wondering where my dad is. When is he coming home?”
I suggested to Charlotte that perhaps she and I should talk alone. Buckley interrupted with a firm no. “ I’m the one who called you. I can handle it.”
Charlotte closed her eyes. I’d known her long enough to guess thatshe was counting silently. Old habits, etcetera. When she opened her eyes, her voice remained calm as she led the way to her living room. “Olivia, Buckley may look like Taylor Swift’s little ginger-haired sister, but she’s an old soul with the IQ of—I don’t know, some person too smart for me to have heard of. And, Buckley, not everyone gets you, okay? Get over it. Now, both of you: sit. Why the fuck is Jack under arrest?”
I looked at Charlotte to make sure this was really how we were going to do this, and then launched in, telling Buckley that her fears were correct. “The police think your father was involved in the shootings this morning at the waterfront. If I had to guess, they’ll be making an announcement any minute now.”
“ Involved? ” Charlotte asked. “Like, how is he involved ? They can’t just go around holding witnesses, can they? Don’t they need a material witness warrant? Some special order from a terrorism court or something?”
By now, Jack would be getting booked at MDC. He’d soon experience the shock of his first encounter with a real jail cell. He’d be wondering whether he’d ever sleep in a room alone again, on a mattress more than three inches deep, or use a toilet that wasn’t made of metal, or take a private shower.
“They’re not holding him as a witness.” I fixed my gaze directly on Buckley. “They think your father did this. They think he was the shooter.”
Buckley looked five years younger as her face puckered with confusion, then outrage. She looked like what she was: a terrified little girl. A terrified little girl with one parent dead from a mass shooting, the other an accused killer. As if sensing her sadness, the pug managed to leap onto her lap. Buckley gave her a pat and muttered, “Good Daisy.”
“I know it’s hard to process. But this isn’t the end of anything; it’s the beginning. At this point, he’s only under arrest.” I saw no point in telling them that a senior ADA had already made up his mind aboutJack’s guilt. “From what I can tell, a large part of whatever evidence they have right now is based on motive. One of this morning’s victims was Malcolm Neeley.”
Buckley sucked in her breath at the mention of his name. She and Charlotte simultaneously launched into the same arguments I had raised at the precinct—that suing someone wasn’t the same as wanting to kill him, that other people blamed Neeley for his son’s actions just as
Similar Books
