“I understand Celia being angry, but it sounds to me like you tried to do the right thing,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I think she still blamed me for the whole mess. She acted like I raised a monster, like Rochelle acted out because of poor parenting. Thing is, kids can act like monsters when they’re hurting. It doesn’t mean they’re bad people.”
“Where’s your daughter now?”
“Away at college, and she’s doing much better. I wouldn’t say she’s back to her old self, but she’s getting there. And as for Celia, I tried to fix things between us. I mowed her lawn a few times when she traveled and pulled her garbage cans in when the wind knocked them into the street. They may not have been big gestures, but hey, I tried.”
I glanced at Celia’s house, noting the crime scene tape still stuck to the door. “Walk me through the day Holly died.”
She crossed her arms, her biceps pressing against the sweatshirt she was wearing. “I was watching a game show, and I heard a pop. It was sharp and distinct. Not like the sound of something breaking. More like a firecracker.”
“How long before you went outside to check things out?” I asked.
“I was out the door in under a minute. I stood on the front porch for a time, and I listened, but I didn’t hear anything.”
“Did you see anyone in the street?”
She shook her head. “All was quiet. I noticed Holly’s car in the driveway, and I knew she’d been in and out of her mother’s place, packing up her things. I’d checked in on her a few times after the funeral, brought her over some food when I saw she was there, that kind of thing. Thought I’d go over and see if she’d heard what I had.”
“What happened next?”
“When I went to knock on the front door, it opened a little, which seemed odd to me. I called Holly’s name, and I didn’t get an answer. I tried pushing the door open and was met with some resistance. I didn’t realize that resistance was Holly, lying on the ground on the other side. I put my weight against the door, and it opened just enough for me to step in. That’s when I saw her.”
“Can you describe what you saw?” I asked.
“Blood. A lot of it. Holly was on her side, and her eyes were open. I’m a nurse, so I knew to check for a pulse. There wasn’t one.”
“Did you touch anything in the room?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Not the first time through.”
“What do you mean ‘the first time,’” I repeated.
“I walked back to the living room and stood there, trying to make sense of what happened. Then my brain kicked in, and I realized she’d been warm to the touch when I checked for a pulse. I thought whoever killed her might still be in the house.”
“What did you do?”
“I called the police, and then I grabbed a knife out of the drawer in the kitchen. Then I checked every room in the house. When I didn’t find anyone, I went outside and waited for the police to arrive.”
We stood in silence for a moment.
Somewhere down the block, a dog barked.
I thought of her words and the story I’d just been told. It sounded realistic and believable, but it also sounded crafted and rehearsed.
Had she told me the truth?
Or a form of the truth, masking something she wanted to hide?
I wasn’t sure, but there was something I was certain of—the longer we stood, the colder I’d gotten.
“Thank you for your time,” I said.
She stepped back toward the door, reached out, and twisted the knob.
“Good luck with your investigation,” she said. “Oh, and, say hi to your mother for me.”
The comment was calculated and said with intent.
