Contents ( 85)
- Contents
- Part I
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Part II
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Part III
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- One
- Two
- Reading Group Guide
- A Conversation with the Author
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
As I head to the foyer, Abril scurries deeper into the house. I want to hide, too.
The door is half-open, and as I reach it, I see the man.
He wears a dopey, disarming grin, as if he’s a neighbor going to ask to borrow a couple of eggs.
This unnerves me more than anything else.
Twenty-Two
“Hi, ma’am. Are you Rose Yates?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Colin Pearson with the Milwaukee Police Department.” He holds up a badge that looks authentic, but I also know how easily those can be faked.
“Milwaukee?”
“Yeah, I know. Long way from home.”
My brain tries to process all the little details at once, hoping to get a step ahead of whatever it is he wants. He’s plainclothes, which makes sense for a detective. Nicely dressed: khaki slacks, crisp, white button-down shirt, blue-and-gold-striped tie. All topped off with a blue blazer, cheap but serviceable, the kind a cop would buy. He’s maybe upper thirties, tall and a bit lanky, fit but not muscular, and he’s avoided the cop gut that usually comes with riding either a desk or patrol car.
And his face. It’s so benign. So aw shucks. Light stubble that looks as if he’s a fifteen-year-old getting his first moss of facial hair. Dark hair that’s short but still manages to be a bit moppy. Eyes that convey both warmth and trust. And that grin…so light and disarming. His is the kind of face that puts someone at ease.
Except right now. With me.
“You’re here to see me?” I ask.
“Yes, I am. And I won’t take up much of your time. Just want to ask you a few questions, if it’s not too much of a bother.”
I look past him and see a Bury police sedan parked on the street. A cop in the driver’s seat.
Pearson follows my gaze and then turns back to me. “Oh, that’s Officer Simmons with Bury PD. He’s just my ride. He’ll wait out in the vehicle until we’re through. Mind if I come inside?”
How many times have I talked to cops, interviewing them as necessary research for my books, asking them questions about their procedures, their psychology, their instincts? Now, it’s the other way around. The way I don’t want it to be, because police officers are trained to detect guilt. Some of them are exceptional at it, and some of them are barely serviceable. I don’t have any idea where Colin Pearson falls on that spectrum.
My choices are limited here, and as I open the door to this man, allowing him to pass into my father’s house, I briefly close my eyes and recall a mantra designed specifically for hard moments. Moments of suffocating darkness, those silent, stabbing seconds when I doubt who I am at my innermost core. Who I’ve been. What I’ve done.
I’m stronger than I think.
I’m stronger than I think.
I’m stronger than I think.
Minutes later, with a digital recorder placed between us, our conversation begins.