Chapter 11
Nicole
It was late and dark outside.
Lila had woken up crying, so Brian read her a story to help her fall back asleep.
I was sitting with Lacey on the couch in the living room, both of us staring at the rolled-down blinds of the large window. Jack Whitman sat in the old TV chair, staring at the blinds too.
He wore an old suit, and his white hair was thinning. His wide nose cast a shadow over his lip. We’d known him for years. He had been my mom’s lawyer at first, then Brian’s after that.
It was dead silent.
Dylan stood by the window, peeking carefully through one side of the blinds.
“Are the TV crews still out there?” I asked.
He pinched his lips. “Yes. Most of them are still there.”
I sighed. “Are you sure the police are going to come for Lacey?” I asked Jack.
“As sure as they say grace in church,” Jack said. “You should have called me right away. Now we don’t even have the coroner’s report before the arrest.”
Dylan walked to the couch and sat next to Lacey, gently taking her hand.
“And there is nothing we can do about it?” I asked.
“Nope. Nothing.” Jack didn’t even flinch. “If they have an arrest warrant, they can take her by force. If they don’t have one, and we don’t cooperate, they’ll get one and we’ll look guilty.”
We sat in silence again. Waiting. Staring at nothing, just like Lacey.
Then a pounding knock rattled the front door, startling me.
“Police!” a man shouted from outside. “Open the door!”
I froze. Panic set my whole body on fire. Then I looked at Jack. But he just nodded once.
I rose with unsteady legs and made my way to the front door. My hand reached for the handle but stopped halfway. Trembling.
How did we get here?
A little over a week ago, we were all sitting here laughing at a funny cat video Dylan showed us. The same couch. The same home.
I took a deep breath, steadied my hand, and straightened. Then I slowly opened the door.
The front lawn was crowded with police officers. Their patrol cars lit up the dark street in red and blue. Behind them, near the edge of the lawn, camera crews pressed against a line of officers. Reporters yelled over one another, their voices sharp and frantic.
“Where is Lacey?”
“Why did she kill Zach?”
“Is she inside right now? Can we talk to her?”
Detective Nolan was there too, right at my door, looking the least intimidating of the bunch. Next to him was some buff officer. The GI Joe type. Broad chest. Tight jaw. Military haircut.
“May we come in?” he asked.
Jack stepped forward. “Do you have a warrant?”
Nolan’s gaze locked on his. “Do we need one?”
“That depends on what you’re here for,” Jack countered.
Nolan gave a slow nod. “We’re here for Lacey. To ask questions.” His eyes found mine and held them. “Questions that really need answering.”
“Well,” I said quickly, before Jack could. “How about we just come with you and answer your questions. Warrant or not. We have nothing to hide.”
Detective Nolan nodded.
“Can you please come around the back, though?” I asked.
“No,” the tall officer next to Detective Nolan said.
Faint noises from upstairs reached us. The ABC song.
“So the kids don’t have to see all this,” I explained.
GI Joe frowned. “Ma’am, you’re not in a position to make demands here. Step aside now.”
He started forward, but Nolan lifted his arm, pushing the officer back a step.
“We’ll meet her at the back door,” Detective Nolan said. Brusque and firm.
“Thank you,” I said.
I closed the door and leaned my back against it.
Jack and Dylan both stared at me.
Lacey hadn’t moved. Still on the couch. Still staring at the floor like an empty shell.
“Well,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”
He grabbed his coat from the hanger. I followed, taking mine, and was about to reach for Lacey’s, but Dylan was faster.
I watched as he walked over and gently lifted her from the couch. Her body was limp, unresisting, as he slid her arms into the sleeves. Carefully. Tenderly. Like he was dressing a porcelain doll that might break if he moved too fast.
It broke something inside me to watch him do this.
“This is all a misunderstanding, right?” I asked Jack. “Lacey didn’t do anything.”
“That doesn’t matter in situations like these,” Jack said coolly, adjusting his tie.
“What do you mean? Doesn’t it matter if someone’s innocent?”
Jack shrugged. “Not really. What matters in the eyes of the court is what you can or can’t prove. Let me do the talking. In the eyes of law enforcement and the world, your daughter is no longer a victim. Now we have to make sure the court doesn’t get the evidence to prove that.”