“You poor devil!” I mutter gently. The bird is about eight inches long, with a rust-red breast and a white throat. Its beak is orange with a dark tip. I walk around the side of the house and go into the barn. I find two thin offcuts in a pile in the corner, then go to the workbench and use the electric drill to screw them together into a cross. I’m about to take it to the front garden when I see a large plastic container in the corner. I bend down beside it and open the lid.
My battery! So this is where Grace put it. I make a note to myself to get Bradley to put it back in my car when he gets home.
The sound of a bird outside reminds me of my mission. I dig a hole in the flowerbed, place the bird inside, and fill the hole back up. I take the cross outside and stand it on top.
It’s not much, and it’s on a jaunty angle, but it’s something.
“Rest in peace,” I whisper to myself, then close my eyes. Even though I haven’t been to church since Mom died—and hadn’t gone as a believer for many years before that—I mutter a prayer. The world is still for a moment, and I imagine that everyone, everywhere, has stopped what they’re doing to pay their respects. Soccer games in London, traffic in Delhi, meetings in Shanghai, they’ve all gone silent for this little bird.
“Is this Pine Ridge?” I see a woman in a grey suit walking down the driveway. I quickly wipe my eyes.
“Sorry, who are you?”
“Apologies. Alice Gelman. Detective.” She fishes a badge from her jacket pocket. “I’m here concerning the disappearance of Grace Little.”
“Oh,” I say. “Bradley’s not here. He’s gone into work.”
“That’s OK. We got his statement this morning, actually, so I was hoping to talk to you.” She looks past me to the cross planted in the garden. Her eyes narrow. “What’s going on? You having a funeral?”
“Yes.”
“For Grace?”
“No, no.” I force a laugh, though her expression doesn’t change. “What? No. For a bird, actually.
“You’re having a funeral for a bird?”
Her skepticism makes me bristle. “Yes. He flew into the window. I couldn’t save him?—”
“Got it,” she interrupts. “Right, I should tell you why we’re here.”
“We?”
“Oh, yes. My colleague Detective Holland is just taking a look around.”
I feel a surge of panic. Are we prepared for this? Can he do that? “Don’t you need a warrant?”
“Interesting question. Not if the owner of the property invites us, Ms. MacKenzie.”
Did I tell her my name? No, she knows who I am. Bradley said he was visiting the police this morning. He must have given her permission to come. There’s an awkward silence—awkward for me, at least—but I resist the urge to invite her inside. I don’t know what Bradley has permitted them to do, but I’m not about to give them more access than they need.
“It’s Brie,” I say, after far too long a pause.
“Brie. Great. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
I look around, then decide on the veranda out front. I point to the wooden chairs, and the detective nods. I feel her eyes on me as I walk up the steps. How much can detectives tell from body language? Does she already know I’m hiding something?
“How long have you known Grace and Bradley?”
“Just from the start of summer. I applied to an ad at college and got the job.”
“You’re a student?”
“I was. I graduated. But the economy isn’t great, and I had difficulty finding something permanent.”
“Really?” She writes in her notebook, and I feel like I’ve already been caught in a lie. “And what are your responsibilities?”
“Gardening. Cleaning.”
