shoulder, took one very deep breath. . and then the door slowly swung open. Justin didn’t move for what felt like a very long time, long enough for him to feel extremely foolish, hunched over, ready to try to ram the door open. He coughed awkwardly, stood up straight. There didn’t seem to be anyone on the other side of the door so he stepped forward, gently pushed the door a few inches farther open with two fingers. He heard a quiet breath, then another, but didn’t see anything until he lowered his gaze. That’s when he saw them: two large brown eyes at about the level of his waist, peering up at him from behind the door. Justin let a little air seep out of him.
“You’re Hannah, I bet,” he said. When the little girl nodded shyly, Justin asked, “Is your mom home?”
The girl nodded a second time. “She’s in the bathroom.”
“Would you do me a big favor?” he asked.
“What?”
“Would you go tell her that I’m here?”
The little girl pondered the request quite seriously, then nodded again and went scurrying up the stairs. Justin stepped farther into the small foyer, peered into the living room. The house was spotlessly clean. Everything was obsessively dusted, waxed, and shiny and there was the pervasive odor of Lemon Pledge everywhere. Odd for a house with two kids. It was
Justin turned around when he heard footsteps on the stairs. The woman coming toward him was probably in her early fifties, tall and bony, with her dark hair pulled into a tight, severe bun. She looked stern, not particularly attractive, but as she got nearer he saw that she had probably been quite attractive. And she wasn’t nearly as old as he’d thought. She could have been in her mid- to late thirties, but fear or worry or sadness had both aged and hardened her. As he took a few steps in her direction, he saw that she was shaking. Her cheek was twitching and the veins in her neck were taut. Her fingernails were bitten down to the quick, but that didn’t stop her from chewing on her cuticles. As she walked, her fingers were in constant motion, and the only way she seemed to be able to keep them still was to pick and scratch at them. He saw that the areas around her nails were bleeding and that her fingertips were picked red and raw.
“Mrs. Cooke?” he asked. “Theresa Cooke?”
“That’s right.” Her voice was as twitchy as the rest of her. He got the feeling that if she didn’t bite off each word, keep each syllable short and terse, she’d just open her mouth and scream as loud as she could. Scream until she couldn’t make another sound. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Justin said. “I’m a policeman. Police chief. Justin Westwood.”
“The police chief of Silver Spring?”
“No, ma’am. I’m from a town in Long Island, New York. East End Harbor.”
She practically wrapped her arms around her chest, as if she were now physically holding herself together. “That’s the town where my husband was killed.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
She seemed to age several more years right before his very eyes.
“What. . what. .” She had to lick her cracked, dry lips to get the words out. “What is it you want?”
“I’m just looking for some information.”
“What kind of. . of. . information?”
Justin lowered his voice to a near whisper. He looked the woman directly in the eye and did his best to give her a gentle smile. “Is there something you’re afraid of, Theresa?” When she didn’t answer, just stared back at him, he said in the same even tone, “You can tell me. What are you so afraid of?” he asked.
“Afraid of?” she whispered back. And when he nodded, she said, “I’m afraid of everything.”
“Then let me help you.”
A laugh escaped through her lips, but there was no humor in it. It was a harsh, crackling sound.
“Then help
“They said it was an accident.”
“But you know it wasn’t, don’t you?”
She stared with her hard, almost lifeless eyes, and then she said, “Yes. I know.”
From upstairs, the sound of the television filtered down. Justin heard frenzied, silly music. The girls must be watching cartoons.
“Do you mind,” Justin said very slowly, so carefully, “if I just sit and have a cup of coffee?”
Another long silence. The woman’s neck was stretched so taut he didn’t think it was even possible for her to speak. Her fingers moved even faster, picking deeper into her own skin, and he could see her shiver. She was like a fragile piece of glass and he was afraid to speak; she’d flinched at his words as if each were a rock being hurled directly at her. But the silence ended when she turned back to the stairs and yelled, “Reysa! Hannah! Stay upstairs and play! I need some quiet so I can talk to this man. Do you hear me? Stay upstairs!”
Justin heard two voices yell down, “Yes, Momma,” and then Mrs. Cooke spun on her heels and headed toward what he assumed was the kitchen. He waited a moment, watching the woman walk, her spindly legs looking as if they were going to snap after each step. When she disappeared around a corner, he emerged from his reverie and realized he should follow. It looked like he was about to get what he’d come for.
Justin sipped the hot black coffee, served in a delicate cup and saucer. He raised his eyebrow to let her know that it was good.
“I’ve lost twelve pounds since my husband died,” she said. “I haven’t been able to eat. Or sleep.”
“Have you been talking to anyone?”
She shook her head. It didn’t move more than an inch in either direction.
“Is there anyone who’s been coming in to help with the children?”
Now she recoiled as if slapped. “You think I don’t know my responsibilities?” she snapped. “I know my responsibilities!”
“I’m sure you do. That’s not what I meant. I was talking about making things a little easier on you, that’s all. You’re under a lot of strain. And you’ve suffered a loss. Everybody needs help in that kind of situation.”
“My husband! Hutch had responsibilities but he didn’t care!”
“I’m sure that he did.”
“No! He didn’t! And now my babies don’t have a father!”
Justin kept his voice soft and soothing. “What was he doing, Mrs. Cooke? What was he doing that made someone rig his plane and cause a crash?”
She didn’t seem to hear the question. She wrapped her arms even tighter around her chest. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“They took him, didn’t they? Those bastards! We don’t even get a real funeral.”
Justin nodded. “Do you know who ‘they’ are?”
“No. Not really.”
“But you have an idea.”
“Maybe.”
That was as far as she was willing to go, at least for the moment. She tried drinking some coffee but she only managed one sip before putting the cup down.
“Theresa, do you know-”
“Terry. People call me Terry.”
“Okay. What was your husband doing over the past year or so, Terry?”
“Flying. Flying like always.”
“But not for the Air Force.”
“No. Special people.”
“What kind of special people?”
“Scary people.”
“Like who?”
She shook her head again. This time it might have swung two whole inches from side to side.
“People at Midas?”
