swept it back slowly through her straight black hair. It felt real. The touch of the bristles through her hair, the scrape against her scalp.
She brushed for a long time, leaning her head back, appreciating each stroke with a soft sigh. This was real. Nothing else in her life felt as real. Nothing else could be as real.
She forced herself to set the hairbrush down. Then she took a long, shuddering breath. She fingered the folded-up photos in her robe pocket and murmured out loud, “I’m going to tell Mark now.”
Isn’t that what her dad always said every time she had to be punished for some crime large or small?
Did that make any sense at all?
The punishment was always the same:
She pictured her brothers smirking as she trudged off to her room, red-faced, fists swinging at her sides, ready to face the music.
Well, after all the years, now she was
She started to the stairs but stopped at the bedroom door when she heard the sirens. Approaching sirens, and there seemed to be a lot of them, a blaring concert of sirens, warring with each other.
Lea spun around and trotted to the bedroom window.
Several dark vehicles squealed up the gravel driveway. She saw the yellow letters
She gripped the windowsill and stared down at them all, her mouth hanging open, uttering small cries of shock.
Four or five dark-uniformed policemen lined up in front of the house, standing stiffly a few feet abreast of each other, weapons tensed in front of them. Were those automatic rifles?
She recognized the big black state police captain from the night before as he came roaring out of the backseat of an SUV. Was his name Franks? Yes. He had a pistol in one hand and motioned to the others leaping from their vehicles to follow him to the house.
They all had guns raised. All of them.
“Mark?” Lea screamed, squeezing the wooden windowsill. “Mark! Do you hear them?”
Finally, she forced herself away from the window. She spun to the doorway, her robe tangling around her. And went running to the stairs.
“Mark! Can you hear me? Mark? What do they
60
At first Mark thought people were screaming. The sound made him drop his coffee mug on the kitchen table. And as he hurried to the front of the house, he realized they were sirens.
And, strangely, the wailing cacophony made him angry. Because they had just been there, just invaded his house and his life, and he didn’t want them back with their foolish accusations and misguided questions and insulting stares.
Mark clenched his jaw tight and squeezed his fists until his fingernails dug into his palm. And then the pounding on the front door and the shouts shook him out of his anger.
He heard Lea calling his name. Turning, he saw her halfway down the stairs, her hand gripping the banister, her eyes wide with fright. “Mark?”
The pounding on the door drowned out the rest of her words.
“Mr. Sutter, police. Open the door.” Barked.
Mark pulled open the door. An army of men-it seemed like an army-led by Captain Franks, who came in with his shoulder low like an NFL blocking tackle, pushed into the house.
Mark stepped back, blinking at the force of it all. The sheer invasion. The anger. He saw the weapons raised. They forced him against the fireplace.
He heard Lea scream.
“Mark Sutter, you are under arrest for the murder of Autumn Holliday.” Franks spitting the words in his face. Standing so close, Mark could smell the coffee on his breath.
“Huh? Autumn? What?”
Beside him, a wavy-haired cop was reading him his rights from the screen of an iPhone.
“Wait! Wait!” Mark raised his hands in the air.
The cops all tensed their weapons.
“What did you say?” His voice shrill, almost unrecognizable, shouting over the droning voice of the cop still reading off the phone screen.
“Did you say Autumn? Killed?”
He couldn’t help it. He pictured her bent over his desk. Her hands gripping the edge of the desktop. That creamy white ass moving under him.
“Nooooooooo!” A howl of protest burst from deep inside.
Two cops stepped toward him menacingly, guns raised. He saw Pavano and Pinto holding back, still in the doorway, as if guarding against any escape attempt.
Were there cops outside in case he made a run for it?
What a joke. The child psychologist makes a run for it.
How could Autumn be dead? Why? Why Autumn? And why did they think he was the murderer?
“I–I can’t. . believe it.” He felt sick. He grabbed his stomach. He felt the coffee rising up his throat. “Not Autumn.”
He let out a long sigh, shut his eyes, and leaned back against the mantel.
“No. There’s some mistake. Why are you arresting Mark?”
He heard Lea’s trembling voice. Opened his eyes to see her step warily past Pavano and Pinto into the living room.
The officers ignored her and kept their eyes on Mark, weapons tensed.
“You don’t have to answer any questions until you have a lawyer present,” Franks said, the only calm voice in the room. “But you can help yourself by-”
“When was Autumn killed?” Mark interrupted, narrowing his eyes at Franks. “Last night? You know I was here all night. You were here with me.”
“How was she killed?” Lea asked, moving up beside Mark, gripping his hand.
“Our initial report says she was murdered this morning. Perhaps an hour or two ago.” His dark eyes locked on Mark’s, probing. “Mr. Sutter, if you’d care to cooperate. Could you tell us your whereabouts this morning?”
“Huh? My whereabouts?” The word didn’t make sense to him. He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. The word didn’t seem like English.
“Did you go out this morning?” Franks rephrased the question. This version sounded more like a threat.
“N-no. I was asleep. On the couch in the den. I woke up and made some coffee.” Again he felt his stomach lurch. He held his breath, forcing it down.
“You didn’t go out this morning?”
His answer came out in a sharp scream. “No. I fucking told you. I didn’t go out. I’ve been in here all morning. Do I have to spell the fucking words for you?”
