“A what?”
“Freedom of Information Act. But listen, I’m happy to send over my own files. Give me your email address and I’ll send it over today.”
“Thanks, Fred,” I say eagerly. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Your father was none too pleased with my results. But I told him—without DNA or fingerprints, or even a bullet, there’s just nothing to go on.”
“So I keep hearing,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Good luck,” Fred says. “And let me know if I can help in any way. Your mother’s case was a real heartbreaker. She seemed like a very good woman.”
My throat tightens. “She was.”
I decide to set up shop in a room we call the blue study.
It’s in a quiet corner on the western side of the house, and there should still be an old laptop in it I can use. Daisy used to keep her dollhouse in there, and Mom used the study to write correspondence, Christmas cards and thank you notes and stuff like that. I walk through the halls, past the library and the home movie theater, and to where it’s nestled by the portrait of my great-grandmother. I open the door and find a cheerful room much like I remember. The walls are painted blue, and there’s an ivory loveseat, wooden bookshelves, and a small desk with the laptop still on it. Some paintings from local artists adorn the walls and the windows look out onto Mom’s garden.
There’s a framed photograph on the desk—Mom and Dad on their wedding day, a posed picture surrounded by bridesmaids and groomsmen. My chest pinches as I pick it up. They got married at Everton. Mom said it was one of the happiest days of her life.
I wonder where Isla will get married. Probably some expensive hotel in the city. Or maybe she’s having a destination wedding—I picture her barefoot on the beach in a white dress, with Luke by her side. My chest constricts so sharply I grip the desk for support and squeeze my eyes shut. I try to banish the image from my mind but it’s imprinted like a sun flare on the back of my lids.
I sit down and force myself to focus. I press a button and wait as the laptop hums to life. I see Fred’s email, with a whole bunch of attachments. I skip the ones titled “Autopsy” and “Crime Scene Photos.” Fred left a note in the email that he only sent the most non-explicit photos but regardless, I’m not ready for that yet.
Instead, I open one called “911 Transcript.” I see Fred has writtentranscript of 911 call from R. Everton, 6:42 am, June 22ndat the top of the page.
Operator: 911, what’s your emergency?
RE: Oh my god…help me…something is wrong with my wife.
Operator: Okay, what’s wrong with her?
RE: I don’t know…she’s bleeding…Marion!
Operator: Sir, where are you calling from?
RE: This is Russell Everton, goddammit! I’m at Everton Estate, 935 Magnolia Way. Marion…
Operator: I’ve got police and an ambulance on the way. You say your wife is bleeding?
RE: (moaning) Marion…oh god…
Operator: Sir?
RE: Somebody shot her! Get your people down here now!
Operator: Is she breathing?
RE: I don’t…I don’t know.
Operator: Okay, do you know CPR?
RE: No…Marion!
Operator: Sir, I’m going to need you to check and see if she’s breathing. I want you to look at her chest. Is it moving?
(Long pause)
RE: No. No it’s not moving.
