Fragile

“Great.”

Wanda was waiting for him when he pushed through the exit door. It was a quiet night in The Hollows, he guessed. She was the only one sitting in a long row of plastic chairs against the wall.

“How’d it go?” she said, rising.

“Good. He took the information.” He zipped up his jacket.

“See?” she said, looping an arm through his. “I told you it would be fine.”

“You were right,” he told her. He was glad she was there. He felt calmer, more stable, just looking at her. “He wants me to think about the vehicle. I just don’t know much about cars.”

“I do,” said Wanda, with an excited little inhale. “My daddy worked for Ford. He was a clay modeler. He knew everything about cars. Maybe I can help?”

He held the door open for her, and they walked out into the cold. He felt like they’d been together for a hundred years, he was so comfortable, so sure of what he needed to do to make her feel good. Outside, he laced his fingers through hers, noticing her square, perfectly manicured nails, and they walked to his car.

“You don’t mind?” he said. “Talking it through with me?”

“No!” she said, squeezing his hand. “It’ll be like our own mystery to solve.”

He opened the door for her and waited until she slid inside, then closed it gently. He walked around to the driver’s seat, already thinking about what he’d seen last night.

“It was green,” he said, when he’d climbed inside. “Big, you know? A gas guzzler.”

He started the engine. He was suddenly glad he’d sprung for the new Prius a couple of months ago, that he had something nice to drive Wanda around in, not the old Volkswagen he’d beaten into the ground. The Prius wasn’t exactly a manly car. But it looked nice inside, and he thought it said something about him, that he cared about the world enough to sacrifice a little speed, a little of the cool factor he might achieve from the new Charger or maybe a Mustang. He had some money saved, had inherited quite a bit when his grandparents passed on. He could have had a sexier car. But he was glad to have something more sensible for Wanda. He thought that was what she was looking for-safe and sensible.

“Okay,” said Wanda, putting on her seat belt. “Do you remember a hood ornament?”

“Um, no. Well, maybe. Maybe there was something.”

Wanda let go a little gasp. “You know what we should do?”

“What?”

“We’ll go home and get on the computer. Look at pictures of old cars. Maybe that will help.”

Home. She’d said home. Could it happen this fast? You work with someone for more than a year, finally get the guts to ask her out, and the very next night you feel like you’ve loved her forever? And she was using words like we and home. Maybe they were just that right for each other. And just that lonely.

“That’s a great idea.”

He reached over and put his hand on her thigh. Then she placed her hand on top of his.

“Wanda,” he said, and he was surprised at how thick with passion his voice sounded. He found he couldn’t look at her, kept his eyes on the dash. The flood of emotion, the wash of gratitude he felt just not to be alone right now embarrassed him.

“I know, Charlie,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. “I know.”

He put the car in gear and started to drive. A light snow was starting to fall.

17

Blood cannot be cleaned. Not totally. The proteins react to heat and certain chemicals, tending to bind. Even if the stain is removed, those proteins might remain, making them easily discoverable with today’s forensic technology. But it generally didn’t take fancy police work or high-tech equipment, just an unyielding gaze. Blood splatter is insidious, hiding in the doorjamb or on the baseboards or where the light switch cover meets the wall, any place stressed and tired eyes might miss. And, in Jones’s limited experience with such things, people in general weren’t that smart, thorough, or calculating. Maybe it was just The Hollows. The five homicides that had occurred on his watch had been predictable and easily solved.

In the case of the Murray home, it wasn’t just the three large spots of blood on the outer gasket of the refrigerator door. It was the Google history on the computer-“how to clean bloodstains”-that told the tale. But Melody Murray wasn’t talking. She’d taken to a silent rocking that Jones didn’t find quite sincere.

“Melody,” he said, standing in her living room near the arched entry. She reclined in a ratty old La-Z-Boy, her eyes glassy, gaze distant.

“Whose blood is that? What happened here?”

“What blood?” she asked, dreamily. “There’s no blood.”

Seeing her like that made him think of Sarah’s funeral. Melody had gone silent and traumatized like this in the days her friend was missing and was virtually catatonic when Sarah’s body was found. Even then, though she had plenty of reason to lose herself to grief and fear, he didn’t quite buy it.

In the laundry room, Jones had seen a baseball bat leaning beside the dryer. He walked away from Melody now, went over and picked it up with a gloved hand, stood for a moment feeling its heft and width. An open box of fabric softener on the shelf above released the lightest scent of lilac into the air. Her house was clean, which surprised him. He would have predicted it to be a pigsty. But it was orderly, floors and surfaces free from collected dust.

Jones could hear the two other detectives moving around upstairs. Katie Walker, the town’s only crime scene tech, a graduate of John Jay College in Manhattan, had already photographed the blood and the position of the bat and now sat at the kitchen table labeling items in crime scene bags-some rags from the washing machine, a pair of dishwashing gloves from the garbage can on the side of the house. She glanced up at him as he passed with the bat. Katie, another graduate of Hollows High, had moved back home to be near her sister, who’d just had twins. Jones liked her; she was quiet, thorough, into details. She didn’t make assumptions, just collected evidence and coolly analyzed it. Of course, they didn’t really need her in The Hollows, not often. But there was money in the budget for a part-time tech. So when Katie asked the Hollows police chief, Marion Butler, for a job, she got it. Tonight, he was glad for it, glad not to have to call in the state police.

He stood in front of Melody, who was staring at the television with the volume all the way down. Melody looked up at him, her eyes falling on the bat in his hand.

“Graham play?” he asked.

She laughed a little. “That lazy shit? I wish.”

Jones forced a smile. “What’s the bat for?”

“Protection.”

“Protection?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “In case someone breaks in or something, you know.”

Jones nodded. He sat on the couch next to her chair, carefully put the bat on the coffee table. It rolled a bit; he steadied it with a finger.

“It must be rough, Mel. Graham is not an easy man to be married to, I’m sure. Can’t hold a job. Always running around. Drinking with his boys.”

She kept her eyes on him, looking a little less blank.

“And then, of course, if you suspected he had his eyes on Charlene… That would be enough to make anyone go off the deep end.”

She offered him a slow blink, and it occurred to him that she’d taken something. He’d found a bottle of prescription painkillers in the medicine cabinet upstairs. All the heat she’d shown in his office-the indignation, grief, fear-was gone. She had that hazy look he remembered from high school, when she was always stoned.

“No one would blame you for trying to protect your daughter,” he said.

She put her head in her hands, seemed to fold into herself, and after a moment her shoulders started to shake.

“Just tell me, Melody,” he said, after she’d released a few shuddering sobs. “What happened here last