Page 19 of The Family Plot
“What we really need,” he says, “is the note itself. Do you know where it is now?”
“No.”
“Hmm,” he muses. “Neither does your mother. Or your siblings.”
I shrug. “I don’t know where it ended up.”
After I read it, I never wanted to see it again.
Elijah cocks his head. “The last words you thought you’d ever hear from Andy and no one knows what happened to them.”
“I didn’t think they were the last words. I was sure he’d come back. Or that I’d find him.”
“Mmm,” he acknowledges, scribbling again. “Well, it would be very helpful to the investigation if you could locate that note.” His eyes, dark as leeches, latch onto my face. “Let’s talk about the party.”
“What party?”
“The birthday party for you and Andy. The night he went missing.”
I wouldn’t call it a party. We didn’t get presents or decorate the house. There was dinner, and a sticky too-sweet cake from the market, and then we capped off the night by honoring our namesakes, Andrew Borden and Elizabeth Short, aka the Black Dahlia. We lit candles for them, chanted the words, blew out the flames—just like how, onCharlie’s birthday, we honored the Lindbergh baby, and on Tate’s, we honored Sharon. And then we’d do it all again on the anniversaries of their murders.
Add to that the Honorings for the Blackburn Killer’s victims, and people like Kitty Genovese and the Boy in the Box, and it’s a wonder there was ever a single day in which our lips didn’t part for our prayer. The squares in our Honoring calendars have always been crowded with ink.
“Can you tell me again,” Elijah says, “what it was like that night? Any tension between family members?”
Notbetweenfamily members. The tension was all in Andy, just as it had been for days. By the time we sat down for dinner, he couldn’t hold his fork without his knuckles turning white.
But Elijah isn’t looking at me, or even his notebook, as he waits for me to answer. Instead, he scans the room, lingering on a portrait of Linda Cook, her permed hair and small mouth, before moving on to Peggy Lynn Johnson, her oval face and prominent gums. Tate was sure to paint both women so they were smiling, and I see Elijah register that, eyes hungry and curious, his hand prepared to jot down assumptions about the room, our family, this house.
“Are you like your father?” I ask him.
He snaps his head toward me. “What?”
“Edmond Kraft was obsessed with us. He was so fixated on exposing whatever dark secrets he’d convinced himself we had that he was willing to break laws to spy on us.”
“Break laws?” He arches a skeptical brow.
“He’d trespass on our property. We’d see him out there, creeping around.”
My mind returns to the women outside. I wonder if they’ve given up and left, or if they’ve only multiplied, swarming like flies on something dead. I think of Ruby, too. Her massive eyes. But at least Ruby stayed in the woods when she watched. At least those women were only on the driveway. Edmond helped himself to our entire lawn, inspecting the grass as if searching for drops of blood, running his hands along the stones of our house as if one would pop out to reveal a hidden tomb. It always agitated Andy. He’d see Edmond’s patrol car return and his fist would instantly tighten. Later, he’d head out back, pick up his ax, and take his frustration out on the trees. Dad had the opposite reaction, watching with amusement as Chief Kraft poked through our hedges, wrote down notes about nothing.Let him, Dad would say.
“Are you like your father?” I ask Elijah again.
Whatever mask he’s been wearing drops in an instant. It’s jarring, really—how quickly he goes from detective to defensive.
“No,” he says. “But this isn’t—”
“But you’ve followed in his footsteps,” I push. “You’re a police officer. You’re here, aren’t you? Investigating crimes on Blackburn Island. Investigating us.”
“I’m questioning your family because your brother was—”
“I see how you’re looking at this room. It’s the same way your father used to look at us.”
Elijah’s mouth hangs open, a fish caught on a line. He shakes his head.
“My relationship with my father is complicated,” he says, and there’s not a note of authority left in his voice. Instead, he sounds sad.
“To be honest,” he continues, “I resented him for most of my life. I hated that he paid such little attention to me so he could basically stalk you all instead.”
