“Of course. You feel okay?”
“Uh, not great, no.”
“If you’re at all faint, put your head between your knees, okay? It really works.”
I thank him, but actually, I wish Icouldfaint. I wish I could face-plant on the asphalt the second we arrive at the station, be hauled off on a stretcher, and then medevacked to a hospital in another state where, for some reason, they decide I need to be placed in isolation for a week.
Because I need time to concentrate, to decide what the hell I’m going to tell the police. Jillian’s been murdered, but I feel sure Claire was, too. I contemplate hinting at my suspicions in the interview and yet I know that if I do, I’ll probably sound utterly ridiculous to the police, and it’s possible I might complicate things even more for the Keatons. But then does that mean Hannah goes free?
The jumble of thoughts is causing a weird rushing sound in my head, like wind in a tunnel. And making it worse: my anxiety over the conversation I had with Keira in the dining room earlier.
“What do you mean?” I’d exclaimed, taken aback by her comment about Marcus, Gabe, and Jillian, which clearly implied something had happened that I shouldn’t bring up to the detectives.
“Oh, it’s nothing important,” she’d said. “They had some words with her about work stuff. In the driveway. I’m not going to bring it up, though. Marcus said we shouldn’t.”
I tried to get more out of her, but she scurried off. At least now I understand why Marcus and Gabe shot each other a look in the den and decided that the less said, the better.
“We’re almost there,” Blake announces, shaking me from my thoughts.
“Did Wendy give you any idea about the questions they’ll have?” I ask him.
“She didn’t have a chance to tell me much but said it was mostly what she expected—how well did she know Jillian, had she spoken to her that day, did she see anyone suspicious on the property. My guess is that it’ll be pretty much the same for all of us other than my father. None of us knew Jillian well besides him, so we have very little to contribute.”
Not long after, he makes a sharp right turn off the road and pulls up in front of a fairly large, nondescript brick building. In the utilitarian lobby, we see we’re the first of our party to arrive, and the officer at the desk tells Blake to take a seat on the bench, and then Bonnie and I are led away by a trooper into separate interview rooms. The one I’m in smells faintly of spray bleach cleanser, and there’s a long mirror on the far wall—two-way, I assume.
A duo of female detectives is waiting at the smudged metal table, both in dark, lightweight blazers, and though they don’t rise out of their seats, they introduce themselves politely—Detectives Russo and Callahan. Callahan’s the one who came into the house at one point and designated whatgroups we’d be in, but it’s Russo, the older of the two, who asks me to take a seat across from them and explains that our conversation will be taped.
In acting classes you’re taught that one of the best ways to project confidence is to claim territory, and I try to do that as soon as I sit, positioning both hands on the table a few inches from my body. Part of my nervousness is due simply from being inside an interview room at a police station, but it’s more than that, of course.
The salt-and-pepper-haired Detective Russo kicks things off, asking for basic details, like my name and relation to the family, then telling me to describe how I happened to come upon the crime scene today, while Callahan takes notes. Needless to say, I don’t mention that one reason I’d gone in search of Bonnie was to ask if she’d noticed any signs of someone drying poisonous leaves in the carriage house kitchen. Instead, I explain that I’d seen a coyote on the property the night before and had headed to the stream to warn her—also true, of course. Russo’s expression never changes, but Detective Callahan’s face contracts slightly, perhaps in skepticism, as if I’m trying to convince her of some mythical story, like those involving a winged horse or a she-wolf.
“Did you or the housekeeper touch the body—or go near it?” Russo asks. It’s clear she’s going to do most of the talking.
“I didn’t, and I assume Bonnie didn’t before I got there. It was hard for us to even look. And it was pretty clear it was too late to help her.”
“Did you see anyone else in the vicinity?”
“No, not a soul.”
“And this was at about what time?”
“Uh, I didn’t have my phone with me, so I can’t be precise. But probably about fifteen or twenty minutes before I called 911 back at the house.”
Russo makes a show out of opening a folder in front of her, then thumbs through a thin stack of papers, skimming the handwritten notes on one of the pages before finally returning her gaze to me.
“How well did you know Jillian Herrera?” She asks it easily enough, still polite.
“Not well. In the six years since I’ve been with my husband, I probably only met her six or seven times, usually at certain events the Keatons had at their apartment.”
“Did you see or speak to her today?”
“No, I never saw her,” I say. “I had no idea she was even on the property, and that’s why at first I didn’t realize it was her lying on the ground. Bonnie and I thought it was Hannah Kane who was dead. Nick’s... fiancée. Because of the dark hair.”
So much for my vow to myself to keep things simple. The two detectives exchange looks.
“When did you realize it wasn’t Ms. Kane?”
“When we reached the house and saw Hannah. She hadn’t been around earlier.”
