Chapter Fifty-Three

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Is someone growing angry, their emotions swirling into a frenzied peak?

They are good at concealing it; they can slip on a mask when necessary.

I've set everything up to tip them over the edge. Now all I have to do is wait and see how they respond.

I can still hear the echo of Rose saying "Hi!" in a faint, faraway voice, but the passage of time is lessening my certainty that it really happened. I was tilted off-kilter, as I am every time I go into the Barclay home. Could it have been something else—a snippet of a video Ian was watching on his phone in the kitchen seeping through the thin floorboards, or a hiss from a radiator, gearing up for the colder weather ahead?

Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me.

I force myself to go to the grocery store to pass some time. I rarely cook, but I like to have the ingredients for smoothies and sandwiches on hand. More critically, I'm nearly out of coffee.

When my phone rings as I'm selecting bananas, I park my cart and snatch it up.

"Stella, are you home?" Detective Garcia asks.

It's a strange question to lead with.

"No, but I'm ten minutes away," I tell her. "Why?"

"I'm in your neighborhood. Thought I could pop by."

I've never given Detective Garcia my address, but I'm sure that's not the only piece of information she has dug up on me.

I start to abandon my cart and walk toward the exit. "I'll see you in a few." Then I spin around and look at the bag of dark-roast beans I just ground, nestled in the baby seat like the precious cargo it is. "Actually, make it fifteen minutes."

"Nice place," Detective Garcia tells me as she follows me into the kitchen. "You live here alone?"

"Why am I pretty sure you already know the answer to that?" I set down my groceries on the counter and take out the big bottle of green juice I use as my smoothie base, putting it on an empty shelf in my refrigerator.

"Isn't it going to be lonely in there all by itself?" Detective Garcia's voice is teasing. She's showing me a side of herself I've never seen. "Your fridge is as bad as mine. At least I buy lettuce and stuff and stick it in the bin until it rots."

"I have lettuce! It's organic, so it probably rots faster." I pull a clamshell container of arugula out of my shopping bag and hold it up like a trophy.

I can't believe how comfortable I am with her in my kitchen; Detective Garcia's presence is washing away the aftereffects of my disturbing visit to the Barclays'. Despite the fact that we met under strange circumstances and I barely know her, joking around with her in my kitchen feels like the most normal thing that has happened to me in a while.

Instead of a dark suit, Detective Garcia is wearing jeans and a red V-neck sweater that looks great against her golden-brown skin. Her hair is down again, long and shining. I've met a lot of cops through work, and I know they always carry their guns, even when they're off duty. But I can't see where Detective Garcia would hide one in her slim-fit jeans, unless it's in an ankle holster.

"You need a better lock on that window," Detective Garcia tells me, gesturing to the one above my sink.

"You think?" I put a new one on myself after Marco moved out.

"All someone needs is a flat-head screwdriver and they can get through in about ninety seconds."

"They'll also need a ladder," I point out. The window is ten feet above ground.

Detective Garcia looks at me— really looks at me—and I see intensity burning in her dark eyes. Her playfulness has vanished.

"So you think you're safe because rapists are lazy? None of your neighbors are ever going to leave out a ladder when they're doing lawn work or cleaning the gutters? Spend the damn five bucks and buy a pin for the corner of that window."

All the laughter and ease has been sucked out of the room. There's a beat of silence as the tension peaks, then begins to dissipate.

She closes her eyes briefly, and when she opens them, the intensity is gone.

"I used to work SVU."

That's all she needs to say by way of explanation. SVU handles sexual assault cases.

"I'll buy a pin," I tell her. "I mean it."

I pull the coffee out of my bag and spoon some into the built-in filter of my machine. I take two mugs down from the counter and put one in front of Detective Garcia.

She slides onto a counter stool as I fill the machine's reservoir with filtered water from the tap inside my fridge. I get the sense she's taking in everything in my kitchen—from the sad little plant that looked much better when Marco was its caretaker to the stack of mail I need to go through that's piled in a basket by my toaster.

I also catch her studying me.

A flush rises to my cheeks. I turn around so she doesn't see it, feeling an unaccustomed swooping in my stomach.

It takes me a moment to identify what it is: excitement.

I can't deny it: Detective Garcia is very attractive.

But I've been around beautiful women before. This feels different.

I've never been attracted to women. My emotions have been all over the place recently; this is just the latest manifestation, I tell myself.

By the time the last drop of coffee falls, my cheeks feel cool again. I fill our mugs and sit down on the stool next to hers, swiveling my body so I'm facing her.

"I found your mother's old court files," she tells me.

"That was fast."

She shrugs. "I pulled a few strings. Now you've got me wondering if it's a homicide. I like puzzles."

She came here to show me the court folder. I'm going to find out more about my mother's final months.

"I didn't mean for that to sound insensitive. Hazard of the job." Detective Garcia is peering at me, her forehead creased.

"No, you didn't, it's just hard to remember those times," I assure her. I don't even think about it; I instinctively reach out and touch her hand.

As soon as I feel her skin, an electric jolt travels all the way up my arm.

I jerk my hand back. I have no idea what's going on.

Is she affected, too? I can't tell. She's trained to have a poker face. Maybe she's uncomfortable that I'm sitting so close to her and that I just touched her. She could be uninterested in women romantically. Or she could have someone at home.

Get a grip, I tell myself.

"Do you have the files with you, or are they electronic?" I blurt out to cover my unease.

"I printed the documents." She juts her chin toward her bag.

She must want information from me before she shares them. That's how this works.

"I still don't know if any of the Barclays killed Tina," I begin. "But I'm following some loose threads. Beth Barclay attended both Yale and Hamilton College, but I'm not sure of the order. I'm wondering if there's something in her past that the family covered up, some reason she had to leave Yale. And Harriet, the grandma. She's so tough on Ian. She doesn't think he should get custody. I'm starting to wonder if maybe she thinks Ian pushed Tina, and that's why she wants to keep him away from Rose."

I take a sip of coffee. "But the biggest open box is Rose. There's something about her that's really off—she switches moods so fast."

"Look, that's not why I came here. I mean, I'm glad you told me. But the reason I came is to ask if you really want to be the one to dig into what happened to your mother."

I feel my eyebrows lift. "Who else is there?"

Detective Garcia takes a long drink of coffee, then sets down her mug. "Me."

"I can't ask you to do that."

"You didn't. I offered."

"Why?"

"I saw the look on your face when you ran out of the precinct last time."

She came all the way out to my house to offer to help because she knows it's painful for me? I can't read too much into this. She could have an agenda I'm not even aware of, some sort of quid pro quo I'll discover later.

"And I told you, I like puzzles," Detective Garcia says.

"Thanks. But I think I need to do it." I hesitate. "The stuff you saw—the court records and autopsy report—my mom wasn't always like that. That wasn't the real her."

Detective Garcia nods. She reaches for her bag and pulls out a few folded pieces of paper. "That's all there is."

She drains her mug and stands up. I find myself feeling disappointed. She's leaving, and I don't want her to.

"I can look into that Yale thing for you," she offers.

"That would be great," I tell her.

"Let me know how it goes."

"Yeah, I'm hoping to get more info on the Barclays very soon."

"No, I meant—your mom. You can talk to me about what you find if you want."

I carry our mugs to the sink so I can gather myself before I answer her. As I pass behind her, I smell a trace of light citrus. Maybe her shampoo, or a lingering hint of her perfume.

What's happening is a little disorienting, like being told your eyes are actually gray when you've always thought they were light blue.

But Detective Garcia plays everything cool. I have no idea if her interest is purely professional or if there's something else mixed in. If it is, maybe that's what I'm responding to: her interest in me.

"Thanks," I tell her.

I walk to the front door and open it—I can see her assessing the locks on it as I do—and she steps out. I watch as she walks down the steps. When she reaches the last one, she turns around and gives me a smile.

I've always been a sucker for a nice smile. Hers is a knockout.

When I close the door and go back to the kitchen, I see she left me something on the counter. A business card.

Her work numbers are listed. And next to it, in blue ink, is a handwritten number for her personal cell phone.