Chapter 57

57

Audrey pulls into Irena’s driveway. The house looks quiet. She sees a flit of the curtain in the front window as Irena peeps out to see who is there. Audrey wonders if she’ll let her in.

Audrey and Irena know each other, of course, but not particularly well. Both are strong women and were willing to stand up to Fred Merton if necessary. Audrey had always admired Irena, while she despised Sheila. Irena did her best for those kids, no one could deny that. She stepped in and did the mothering that Sheila wouldn’t, or couldn’t, do. As the kids got older and were less interested in their aunt and more interested in their friends, and as Sheila made it clearer that she didn’t like Audrey coming to the house, she saw less of the family, and less of Irena. She doesn’t know how Irena will react to her now.

She has always been protective of the kids. And Audrey’s here to try to find out which one of them is a murderer.

She steps out of the car and makes her way to the front door. Before she can knock, the door opens and Irena’s pale face looks out warily at her.

“What do you want, Audrey?” Irena says.

“I just want to talk.”

Irena stares at her for a long moment. “Okay,” she says and lets her in.

Audrey breathes an inward sigh of relief. At least she got in the door. She hadn’t counted on even that much. “How are you holding up?” Audrey asks sympathetically. Irena, when she sees her up close, looks awful, with dark rings under her eyes, the graying ponytail too severe for her lined face. She looks older, but of course, Irena must be thinking the same thing about her.

Irena says, “I’m okay. Would you like coffee?”

“Yes, that would be lovely, thanks.” She follows Irena into her tidy kitchen. As Irena prepares the coffee, Audrey takes a seat at the kitchen table and says tentatively, “I was so glad to hear you got a bequest. It’s only right that Fred and Sheila recognize you for all your years of service.” It sounds awkward, and she feels awkward saying it. “You did so much for the kids.”

“Thank you,” Irena says.

“Will you retire now?” Audrey asks, for lack of any other way to keep the conversation going.

“I don’t know. I’ve told my clients I’m taking some time off while . . . you know. They understand.”

Audrey nods. At least Irena has turned and is facing her now, while she waits for the coffee to brew. Audrey has to broach the elephant in the room somehow. “It’s so awful, what happened,” she says. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” Her own voice sounds hollow.

Irena nods and says, “I know.” She confesses, “I’ve been having nightmares.”

A large tabby cat comes into the kitchen and jumps up on the table. “Oh, he’s gorgeous,” Audrey says, reaching out to pat the friendly cat.

Irena smiles for the first time. “Isn’t he? But he’s not supposed to be on the table.” She lifts him down to the floor, where he rubs against their legs in turns.

Audrey wonders if she and Irena can be allies. “You found them—it’s no wonder you’re having nightmares,” she says. Irena nods. “Anybody would,” Audrey assures her, seeking to build rapport with the one person who knows those kids best. She looks around the small kitchen, her mind working on how best to coax Irena into revealing her secrets.

Reyes perks up.

“A woman just called. Said her neighbor has a truck matching the description we put out to the media. She says she noticed he hasn’t been driving it the last couple of weeks.” He hands Reyes an address as Reyes grabs his jacket. “She wouldn’t give her own name or address.”

Reyes fetches Barr and explains on the way to the car. They drive to an area of run-down homes with garages and unkempt yards, where money goes for necessities rather than niceties. Why would someone who lives here be driving around in Brecken Hill?

They pull up outside the address they’re looking for and park on the street. “I don’t see a truck,” Barr says. “Maybe it’s in the garage.”

Reyes nods. The garage door is closed. He feels a beat of excitement. They need a break in the case so badly—perhaps this is it. They exit the car and approach the front door.

A woman in her fifties answers the door, looking dismissively at them. “Not interested,” she says.

Reyes and Barr hold up their badges. “Aylesford Police,” Reyes says. “May we come in?”

She looks nervous now and steps back, opening the door. “Carl!’ she calls over her shoulder.

A man in his early twenties, needing a shave, comes up behind her. “Who are you?” he asks.

Reyes makes the introductions again, and the man shifts his eyes to their badges apprehensively.

“What’s this about?” the woman asks, but she’s looking at Carl, rather than at the detectives.

“I don’t know, Mom,” Carl says. “I swear.”

Reyes says, “We’re investigating the murders of Fred and Sheila Merton.” The woman freezes. Her son looks worried. Reyes addresses Carl. “Are you the owner of a dark pickup, with flames painted on the sides?” Carl hesitates, as if considering his options, then nods. “We’d like to see it,” Reyes says.

“It’s not his truck you’re looking for,” the mother says.

“It’s in the garage,” Carl says. He puts a pair of sneakers on his bare feet and leads them through the kitchen and out the door into the garage, his anxious mother following. Carl flicks a switch, and the garage fills with light.

Reyes walks toward the truck, looking it over. It’s a dark-colored pickup, with orange and yellow flames painted along the sides. Just like Hot Wheels. Reyes doesn’t touch it, but looks in the windows. It’s messy and dirty and doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned in a long time.

“Do you mind telling us where you were on the night of April twenty-first?” Reyes asks.

Carl answers nervously. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember what I was doing on whatever day.”

“It was Easter Sunday,” Reyes says.

“Oh. I imagine I was home, right, Mom?”

Now his mother looks scared. “I-I’m not sure,” she says. “I can’t remember exactly.” She fumbles. “We had dinner at my sister’s. Then we came home.” She turns to her son, a wobble in her voice. “Did you go out after?”

She knows he went out, Reyes thinks, but she’s leaving the lying up to him. She doesn’t know what he might have done. She looks at her son as if she’s used to being disappointed, he’s just leveled up, and she’s preparing herself.

“No, I’m pretty sure I stayed in that night.”

“Let’s go down to the station and have a chat,” Reyes says.

“Do I have to?” Carl asks.

“No, we just want to talk to you. But if you don’t, I might arrest you and read you your rights and take you downtown anyway. And then we’ll come back with a search warrant. Which would you prefer?”

“Fine,” he says, sullen.