“Talk to me,” McCoy says into her collar, as she keeps asafe distance from Allison’s SUV, heading south now, away from Sam Dillon’shouse. McCoy left Harrick at Dillon’s house to work with the team, now thatAllison is gone.
“I don’t know,” Harrick says through her earpiece. “I’mlooking. What-hang on.”
McCoy can hear muffled voices now. A team of federal agentsare back in Dillon’s home, trying to figure out what the hell Allison Pagonedid while she was there.
Maybe, McCoy thinks, she just came to say good-bye. To seefor herself. But probably not.
“The award is gone,” Harrick says. “She took the fuckingmurder weapon!”
“The earring, too?” McCoy asks.
“Hang on.” More muffled noise. “No, no, but it’s closer toDillon’s body.”
“Okay. Okay. You know what she’s doing.”
“Hang on,” Harrick says. “There’s gotta be more.”
“Get back to me when you know everything. I’ll see where shegoes.”
“She’s going home, Jane.”
“I’m not so sure,” McCoy says. “Let’s see.”
Yellow like lemon. She remembers it like it was yesterday,her utter relief when she found her five-year-old daughter outside the back ofthe Countryside Grocery Store, pointing at the yellow pole in the ground. Sheno longer shops at this store on Apple and Riordan; it was the place sheshopped way back when, back when she and Mat lived around the corner. Now shelives several miles away, but she always smiles when she passes this particularstore.
It’s still here, the post, and still yellow. But herdaughter is no longer five years old.
Allison has a shovel that she keeps in her SUV for snowremoval, so it takes her little time to dig up the earth. She pushes thestatuette into the ground. Now for the hard part, returning the earth to itsprevious form. She does the majority of the work with the shovel, but she isfinally forced to bend down and use her hands to smooth the ground over. Whenshe is finished, she wipes her forehead with her hands.
She gets up and turns to leave. A flashlight shines in herface. There is illumination out here but it’s still relatively dark. Theflashlight blinds her. She freezes. Her body goes cold. But if it has to startright here, so be it.
“I’m a federal agent, Mrs. Pagone. Please put down thatshovel.”
A federal agent?
“Mrs. Pagone, you didn’t kill Sam Dillon with that trophyand I assume you won’t try to kill me with that shovel. Now please, put downthe shovel and back up ten steps.”
Allison complies, dropping the shovel and back-pedaling.
“I’m Special Agent Jane McCoy.” The agent shines theflashlight on her credentials, which she holds out. “FBI.”
“I don’t understand what this is about,” Allison says. “Idon’t understand what you mean about Sam Dillon.”
“No?” McCoy asks. “And that trophy from the MidwestManufacturers’ Association you just buried? No idea what that is, either?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Let me see your hands, please.”
Allison raises her hands.
“Turn them around, palms facing you.”
Allison reverses her hands.
“I wonder if that broken fingernail matches a nail mypartner just found by Sam Dillon’s body,” McCoy says. “What other clues did youleave, Mrs. Pagone? A business card on the kitchen table?”
“Whoever you are, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know about Jessica, Mrs. Pagone. I know what happened. Iwas there.”
Allison closes her eyes. They even know her name.
“You broke a nail, you moved that earring next to Sam’sbody. You disposed of the murder weapon.”
“She didn’t mean to kill him,” Allison says.
The federal agent is silent.
“Please,” Allison says, realizing how ridiculous her pleamust sound.
“Mrs. Pagone, we have a lot to talk about. We can help eachother.”
Allison’s heart pounds. What is happening?
“We have a lot to discuss. Will you come with me to my cararound the corner, so I don’t freeze my butt off out here?”
Allison slowly moves toward the federal agent. The agent istrying to put her at ease. “What about the shovel?” she asks.
“I’ll take it. Please walk past me and stop.”
Allison passes the shovel, passes the federal agent, whomoves well out of her way, and stops. She hears the agent pick up the shovel,iron scraping against pavement.
“Mrs. Pagone,” the agent says, “I’m prepared to agree withyou. I’m prepared to swear that your daughter didn’t kill Sam Dillon. But Ineed your help.”
Allison drives around Jessica’s two-door coupe parked onthe driveway and parks her own car in the garage. She leaves the garage dooropen and stands next to her car.
She looks at her watch. It’s almost three in the morning.She spent over an hour talking with Agent McCoy. Almost three in the morning,Jessica could very well have fallen asleep, overwhelmed emotionally.
Allison is hoping not.
She waits one, two minutes. Maybe Jessica did fall asleep.That will make this tougher.
The interior door from the garage opens. Jessica sticks herhead out.
Allison brings a finger to her mouth, shakes her headslowly.
Jessica doesn’t speak, which is the point here. She waits amoment, trying to understand.
Allison backs up onto the driveway and waves a cupped handto Jessica.
Jessica slowly closes the door and walks out to her mother.She looks Allison over as she gets closer, her eyes slowly growing in horror.
“Mother-what did you do?” Jessica whispers.
“Everything’s fine,” Allison says, drawing close to herdaughter but not touching her. “Something is going on that neither of us knewabout. Something about Sam.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know, Jess, and you can’t-”
“Tell me, Mother. Tell me what happened.”
“This is what I can tell you. Nobody is going to connect youto this. Sam was-there was something we know nothing about. Sam was involved.”
“Sam was involved in what? How do you know this?”
“Jess, I don’t know, either, not the details. I just-youhave to understand. I talked to somebody. Don’t ask me who because I won’t tellyou. No one is going to say you killed him.”
“I didn’t kill him, Mother.” Jessica stands back. “You don’tbelieve me.”
“Of course, I believe you.”
Allison believes Jessica because she has to believe her. Shecannot fathom not believing in Jessica’s
