fingers - had he lost his watch while he was desperately trying to hang on?
He took out his cell phone and dialed the medical examiner's number. “It's Bartholemew,” he said when Anjali answered. “Did Jason Underhill wear a watch?”
“He wasn't brought in wearing one.”
“I just found one at the crime scene. Is there any way to tell if it's his?”
“Hang on.” Bartholemew heard her rummage through papers. “I've got the autopsy photos here. On the left wrist, there's a band of skin that's a bit lighter than the rest of his arm's skin tone. Why don't you see if the parents recognize it?”
“That's my next stop,” Bartholemew said. “Thanks.” As he hung up and started to slide the watch into a plastic evidence bag, he noticed something he hadn't seen at first - a hair had gotten caught around the little knob used to set the time. It was about an inch long, and coarse. There seemed to be a root attached, as if it had been yanked out.
Mike thought of Jason's all-American good looks, of his dark hair and blue eyes. He held the watch up against the white canvas of his own dress shirt sleeve for comparison. In such stark relief, the hair was as red as a sunset, as red as shame, as red as any other hair on Trixie Stone's head.
* * *
“Twice in one week?” Daniel said, opening the door to find Detective Bartholemew standing on the porch again. “I must have won the lottery.”
Daniel was still wearing his button-down shirt from the funeral, although he'd stripped off the tie and left it noosed around one of the kitchen chairs. He could feel the detective surveying the house over his right shoulder.
“You got a minute, Mr. Stone?” Bartholemew asked. 'And actually
... is Trixie here? It would be great if she could sit down with us.'
“She's asleep,” Daniel said. “We went to Jason's funeral, and she got pretty upset there. When we got home, she went straight to bed.”
“What about your wife?”
“She's at the college. Guess I'm it for right now.” He led Bartholemew into the living room and sat across from him. “I wouldn't have expected you to attend Jason Underhill's funeral,” the detective said.
“It was Trixie's idea. I think she was looking for closure.”
“You said she got upset during the service?”
“I think it was too much for her, emotionally.” Daniel hesitated. “You didn't come here to ask about this, did you?” The detective shook his head. “Mr. Stone, on the night of the Winterfest, you said you never ran into Jason. But Trixie told me that you and Jason had a fistfight.”
Daniel felt the blood drain from his face. When had Bartholemew talked to Trixie?
“Am I supposed to assume that your daughter was lying?”
“No, I was,” Daniel said. “I was afraid you'd charge me with assault.”
“Trixie also told me that Jason ran off.”
“That's right.”
“Did she follow him, Mr. Stone?”
Daniel blinked. “What?”
“Did she follow Jason Underhill to the bridge?” He pictured the light of the turning car washing over them, and the minute Jason wrenched away. He heard himself calling for Trixie and realizing she wasn't there. “Of course not,” he said.
“That's interesting. Because I've got boot prints, and blood, and hair that puts her at the crime scene.”
“What crime scene?” Daniel said. “Jason Underhill committed suicide.”
The detective just lifted his gaze. Daniel thought of the hour he'd spent searching for Trixie after she'd run away. He remembered the cuts he'd seen on Trixie's arms the day she was washing the dishes, scratches he'd assumed had been made by her own hand, and not someone else's, trying desperately to hold on. Daniel had bequeathed Trixie his dimples, his long fingers, his photographic memory. But what about the other markers of heredity?
Could a parent pass along the gene for revenge, for rage, for escape? Could a trait he'd buried so long ago resurface where he least expected it: in his daughter?
“I'd really like to speak to Trixie,” Bartholemew said.
“She didn't kill Jason.”
“Terrific,” the detective replied. “Then she won't mind giving us a blood sample to compare with the physical evidence, so that we can rule her out.” He clasped his hands together between his knees. “Why don't you see if she's about ready to wake up?” Although Daniel knew life didn't work this way, he truly believed that he had the chance to save his daughter the way he hadn't been able to save her the night she was raped, as if there were some running cosmic tally of victory and defeat. He could get a lawyer. He could spirit her away to Fiji or Guadalcanal or somewhere they'd never be found. He could do whatever was necessary; he just needed to formulate a plan.
The first step was to talk to her before the detective did. After convincing Bartholemew to wait in the living room Trixie was, after all, still scared of her own shadow half the time - Daniel headed upstairs. He was shaking, terrified with what he would say to Trixie, even more terrified to hear her response. With every step up the stairs, he thought of escape routes: the attic, his bedroom balcony. Sheets knotted together and tossed out a window.
