Page 67 of The Family Plot
When I stop this time, Elijah pauses, too. His eyes look curious, unguarded, as if he genuinely wonders what I think. And I’m struck by the word he used—spectacle—which is what I’ve called it, too.
“Charlie is all about spectacle,” I reply. “He’s an actor. He loves an audience.”
“Yeah?” Elijah starts walking again. “Is he any good?”
Trailing behind him, I watch the impressions his shoes leave in the sand. It would be easy, stepping inside those prestamped spaces, using them to guide me along. Instead, I weave around the prints like rocks.
“I wouldn’t know,” I tell him. “I’ve never been to any of his shows.”
“Huh,” Elijah acknowledges. “So… you’re okay with the memorial then?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He slows again until I step into pace beside him. I feel him watching me. “What about the rest of your family? What do they think?”
At the suspicious glance I cut his way, he puts up his hands. It’s a gesture of innocence, surrender, but it forces the folder between us, a thin green barrier.
“Is that a detective question,” I ask, “or a personal one?”
“I’m honestly just curious,” he says. “Look.” He opens one side of his jacket to reveal an inner pocket, the spiral of his notebook jutting from the top. “I’m not even writing this down.”
He lets go of his coat and the notebook disappears. I pull in a mouthful of air, push it back out.
“Tate’s okay with it, I guess. She’s always fine with whatever Charlie does. And anyway, she’s busy making her own kind of spectacle.”
Elijah nods. “I saw her diorama.”
“You did?”
“Just now, at the house. And the other night. During the search.”
I keep my focus on the damp sand in front of us. The shore is narrowing, nudging us closer to the waves.
“It’s very realistic,” he adds. “The trees alone…” He blows out an impressed whistle.
“But is itoddly accurate?” I ask.
I intended a mocking edge to the question, a reference to his ownphrase, but it comes out sounding sincere. I think of Tate’s face in the passageway, when I asked how she knew which way to position the bodies. Her eyes sparked with something hot and raw: hurt, I think; anger for sure. But more than that, I consider now, they flashed like she was threatened.
Elijah’s brow furrows.
“You said her other dioramas, the ones from Instagram, wereoddly accurate,” I continue. “I’m just wondering if this one is, too.”
He thinks it over. “Ask me again tomorrow,” he says, “when I see it at the museum. I’m assuming it’ll be finished by then?”
“That’s the plan…”
“Okay. Yeah, I don’t know—too soon to tell. There wasn’t a body in it yet.”
“Well, there wasn’t one in the grave, either,” I say, the words sharp in my throat. “You said it was just his bones.” I force a painful swallow.
“Right. But we know, roughly, the position he was buried in. We know exactly the point of impact on his skull. And as I’m sure you’re aware, those are details we haven’t divulged.”
“Okay. So it won’t be accurate then.”
“We’ll see,” Elijah says.
Our gaze lingers. In my peripheral vision, I see the green of his folder, the grip of his hand.
