Ana
The sound of the doorbell moves through me like an electric shock, sitting me bolt upright, leaving my skin tingling.
I don’t know why the doorbell should have this effect; this is not even my house. No one else seems bothered, or to have even
registered the interruption.
Iggy glances at her phone, looking at photos of the baby sent—every few minutes it seems—by Brock. Payton and Esme are whispering
about something obviously very important, because they’re so smart, such power brokers. Only Vera acknowledges the ringing doorbell. She doesn’t rise but looks to April, who gives a nod and heads
to the door.
What is it with those two?
How much is Vera paying the mousy little thing that she’s always at my sister’s beck and call, lingering in the shadows of
all our functions? She’s barely there, wisp thin with prematurely graying blond hair, big glasses, and weird eyes—one brown,
one green. The only detail that hints at all at any kind of inner life are the tattoos snaking out the cuff of her (always)
long-sleeve tee, or at the crew neck. Plain white Keds, faded loose-fitting jeans. Basic. If I passed her on the street, she
wouldn’t even register.
She comes back and whispers to my sister. Vera’s eyes catch mine. Then she rises, straight-backed and regal as a queen, and
glides from the room.
“What’s going on?” asks Iggy, still gazing at her phone. Gawd, all she does is look at pictures of that baby.
I shake my head, get up and follow my sister. Stopping in the entrance to the octagonal foyer with its black-and-white tile
floor, I peer around the towering vase of flowers on the round table in the center. Through the open door I see that there
are two police cruisers in the drive. A pair of uniformed officers stand behind a tall man in a suit, who holds out a gleaming
gold shield in a leather case.
Him.
I didn’t think we’d be seeing each other again. My mind starts to grapple for why he would be here at my sister’s door. Under
my confusion, there’s a little thrill.
I don’t like his expression, like he’s in on a joke the rest of us aren’t getting. Eyes heavily lidded, face stubbled, a thick
head of dark hair, mouth kind of pouty. He obviously thinks a lot of himself. One of those men who’s always sure of his position.
A very different bearing than when I first met him.
Also: He’s a cop?
I can tell by Vera’s rigid posture, the way her hand covers her heart, that my sister is distressed. Did something happen
to Brad? One of the kids? I should go to her, but I stay rooted, blood rushing, a loud swish-swishing in my ears, so loud
I can’t hear. Sometimes I just freeze like this, rebuffering.
I force myself to move forward.
“What is it?” I hear myself say. “What’s happened?”
My sister turns to me. She doesn’t utter a word, but I hear it all the same. What did you do?
I’m through a wormhole, back to Agnes’s house, the first time the police came to the door. I was young, still reeling from
our crash course in the world and all its varied cruelties.
“Honey,” Vera says softly. The loving older sibling, offering kindness and support. Her stare is like a cattle prod. “I’m
so sorry.”
She moves and puts her arm tight around my shoulders.
“What?” I ask, heart in my throat. “What’s happened?”
“Ms. Ana Blacksmith?” I don’t like his voice. It’s cold, official, hard like a concrete wall. I guess we’re acting like this
is the first time we’ve met. I’ll go along with that.
“That’s right.” My throat constricts.
“I’m Detective Timothy Bandeau from the Little Valley Police Department. I am afraid we have some difficult news. The body
of Paul Hayes was discovered by hikers this morning. We understand you were in a relationship.”
The space tilts a little. A veil comes down, separating me from reality.
“We broke up,” I manage to say. “A few weeks ago. How? How did he die?”
“It’s unclear at the moment, but we suspect foul play. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt him?”
Wow. He doesn’t waste any time, does he? I guess that shouldn’t come as any surprise.
This is where I’m supposed to break down, right? Let my legs buckle and allow Vera to ease me to the ground. But I stand rigid,
eyes locked with the detective’s. Can I think of anyone who would want to hurt Paul?
Ha.
They are legion. Some of them are even in this house.
“No,” I whisper, leaning into my sister, whose grip on my shoulders is too tight, almost painful like she’s trying to keep
me from getting away. It’s weirdly comforting.
“Paul Hayes’s sister, who we notified as next of kin, thought you might be someone who wished him harm. We went to your apartment.
Your neighbor said you’d be at your sister’s today.”
Paul’s sister? That little witch; she always hated me. And my unbelievably invasive, cloying neighbor Tina. God, she’s never not watching me. I think she steals my mail.
Instead of saying this, I stay silent. The detective and I lock eyes.
“When was the last time you spoke with Mr. Hayes?”
Agnes’s words bounce around my head. Never answer the precise question they ask. Never offer anything of your own volition.
“I’m not sure. A while.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I don’t understand.” My voice doesn’t even sound right. “I thought he was in Aruba with his new girlfriend.”
“Apparently not.”
He pulls his mouth into a sympathetic grimace. But it’s all an act. “Can I ask you to come with us to the station, Ms. Blacksmith?”
What did he say his name was? Timothy? I’d have expected something more manly—like Frank, or Jake. The broadness of his shoulders,
the hard line of his jaw. Those hands are like bear claws. When I met him before, let’s just say names weren’t exchanged.
“As if.” A voice from behind me. “That’s a hard no. Unless you have a warrant for my client’s arrest.”
Payton presses up beside me—all Jimmy Choo and Chanel Number 5. I practically cry out with relief.
The detective smiles wanly, gives Payton an up and down, then takes a step back. She’s intimidating as fuck.
“This is a first,” he says. That smile. It’s infuriating. “Your lawyer got here before I did.”
“It’s brunch,” I say weakly. “Sunday brunch.”
It was supposed to be girl talk and flowers, mimosas and croissants. I leave out the part about how this gathering was called
to erase Paul Hayes from our online lives, the ex-orcism. It seems inappropriate now. Potentially incriminating, actually.
Iggy and Esme join us. “What’s going on?” says Esme.
“Paul,” says Vera, voice taut. The color has drained from her cheeks. She’s very slightly quaking. “He’s dead.”
Iggy draws in a sharp gasp. “Oh my god.”
I never do get to play the fainting card. Iggy beats me to it. She goes down like a stone.