No, Daniel thought. But he led the detective inside to the living room and offered him a seat.
“Where's the rest of the family?”
“Laura's teaching,” Daniel said. “Trixie's upstairs with a friend.”
“How'd she take the news about Jason Underhill?” Was there a right answer to that question? Daniel found himself replaying possible responses in his head before he balanced them on his tongue. “She was pretty upset. I think she feels partially responsible.”
“What about you, Mr. Stone?” the detective asked. He thought about the conversation he'd had with Laura just that morning. “I wanted him to be punished for what he did,” Daniel said. “But I never wished him dead.”
The detective stared at him for a long minute. “Is that so?” There was a thump overhead; Daniel glanced up. Trixie and Zephyr had been upstairs for about an hour. When Daniel had last checked on them, they were reading magazines and eating Goldfish crackers.
“Did you see Jason Friday night?” Detective Bartholemew asked.
“Why?”
“We're just trying to piece together the approximate time of the suicide.”
Daniel's mind spiraled backward. Had Jason said something to the cops about the incident in the woods? Had the guy who'd driven by the parking lot during their fistfight gotten a good look at Daniel? Had there been other witnesses?
“No, I didn't see Jason,” Daniel lied.
“Huh. I could have sworn I saw you in town.”
“Maybe you did. I took Trixie to the minimart to get some cheese. We were making a pizza for dinner.”
“About when was that?”
The detective pulled a pad and pencil out of his pocket; it momentarily stopped Daniel cold. “Seven,” he said. “Maybe seven-thirty. We just drove to the store and then we left.”
“What about your wife?”
“Laura? She was working at the college, and then she came home.”
Bartholemew made a note on his pad. “So none of you ran into Jason?”
Daniel shook his head.
Bartholemew put his pad back into his breast pocket. “Well,” he said, “then that's that.”
“Sorry I couldn't help you,” Daniel answered, standing up. The detective stood too. “You must be relieved. Obviously your daughter won't have to testify as a witness now.” Daniel didn't know how to respond. Just because the rape case wouldn't proceed didn't mean that Trixie's slate would be wiped clean as well. Maybe she wouldn't testify, but she wouldn't get back to who she used to be, either.
Bartholemew headed toward the front door. “It was pretty crazy in town Friday night, with the Winterfest and all,” he said. “Did you get what you wanted?”
Daniel went still. “I beg your pardon?”
“The cheese. For your pizza.”
He forced a smile. “It turned out perfect,” Daniel said.
* * *
When Zephyr left a little while later, Trixie offered to walk her out. She stood on the driveway, shivering, not having bothered with a coat. The sound of Zephyr's heels faded, and then Trixie couldn't even see her anymore. She was about to head back inside when a voice spoke from behind. “It's good to have someone watching over you, isn't it?”
Trixie whirled around to find Detective Bartholemew standing in the front yard. He looked like he was freezing, like he'd been waiting for a while. “You scared me,” she said. The detective nodded down the block. “I see you and your friend are on speaking terms again.”
“Yeah. It's nice.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Did you, um, come to talk to my dad?”
“I already did that. I was sort of hoping to talk to you.” Trixie glanced at the window upstairs, glowing yellow, where she knew her father was still working. She wished he was here with her right now. He'd know what to say. And what not to. You had to talk to a policeman if he wanted to talk to you, didn't you? If you said no, he'd immediately know there was something wrong.
“Okay,” Trixie said, “but could we go inside?” It was weird, leading the detective into their mudroom. She felt like he was boring holes in the back of her shirt with his eyes,
like he knew something about Trixie she didn't know about herself yet.
“How are you feeling?” Detective Bartholemew asked. Trixie instinctively pulled her sleeves lower, concealing the fresh cuts she'd made in the shower. “I'm okay.”
Detective Bartholemew sat down on a teak bench. “What happened to Jason ... don't blame yourself.” | Tears sprang into her throat, dark and bitter.
“You know, you remind me a little of my daughter,” the detective said. He smiled at Trixie, then shook his head. “Being here... it didn't come easy to her, either.”
Trixie ducked her head. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
She pictured Jason's ghost: blued by the moon, bloody and distant. “Did it hurt? How he died?”
