Page 43 of The Family Plot
“The Blackburn Killer’s brand?” I blurt. “Why would it be here? Shouldn’t you be searching Fritz’s house?”
Elijah opens his mouth to reply, but Charlie, still reading, steamrolls over him. “This says the warrant can only be executed in the daytime, six a.m. to ten p.m. And it’s”—he pulls his phone from his pocket, clicking it to check the time—“9:47 right now. I hardly think you can do a competent search in thirteen minutes. I suppose we’ll see you in the morning then?”
He steps forward, as if to usher the officers out, but Elijah stands firm.
“As long as we begin before ten p.m.,” he says, “we can be here as long as we need to. So, yes. Maybe we will see each other in themorning.” Something almost mirthful glints in his eyes as he glances beyond us toward the back hall. “Who else is on the premises right now?”
“Premises!” Charlie echoes. “Such an official word for someone who’s going to be rummaging through our underwear drawers.”
Elijah ignores him, looking at me to answer.
“M-my mom and Tate,” I say, and I hope he doesn’t mistake my stutter for nervousness. Mostly, I’m bewildered, watching his gaze slink across the foyer, sharp and suspicious.
“We’ll need to detain you all for the duration of the search,” he says.
“Detain us?” I picture handcuffs, cold against our wrists. “Are we under arrest?”
“No,” Elijah says. “Not at this time.”
Fear ripples through my confusion in slow, icy waves. “I don’t understand. What about Fritz?”
“We’ve let him go for now.”
“You’vewhat?”
“Amateurs,” Charlie grumbles.
Elijah’s gaze is cool as it shifts from Charlie to me. “He remains a person of interest,” he says, “but without direct evidence connecting him to the room beneath your shed, we have no reason to hold him.”
“It’sFritz’sshed,” I remind him.
“On your family’s property.”
Elijah nods to the officers, prompting a couple to head upstairs while two others breeze past us toward the back hall. The fifth, stocky and bald, remains in front of the door, a statue with crossed arms.
“While my colleagues conduct the search,” Elijah says, “I need to question you all individually.”
Question us. In the past, he’s saidinterview.
“I’m happy to do it here, if you’d like. Or I can take you down to the station.”
I gape at him, unable to form a response. Even Charlie is silent, fingers creasing the warrant.
“Here then?” Elijah says after a moment. He gestures to the man behind him. “Officer Bailey will sit with you while you’re waiting.”
He takes in the living room to his right, squinting at the towers of empty boxes, the artifacts of our childhood that Charlie’s organized into piles. Then Elijah smiles, a flash of his father in his teeth.
“How does the dining room sound?”
“You’re doing a great job, Officer Babysitter.”
Charlie’s at the head of the table, the place where Dad always sat. Mounted on the wall behind him is a deer head, the lashes around its dark eyes thick and feminine. Andy used to stare at that head when we ate the animals he and Dad had hunted, his jaw working at meat he’d eventually spit out when no one but me was watching.
Now, the deer looks like a headpiece Charlie’s wearing. He grins at Officer Bailey, who stands by the doorway, expertly ignoring his taunts. He’s been guarding us for almost an hour, ever since Elijah took Mom to the victim room for questioning.
Across from me, Tate is slumped over, cheek resting on her arm. Her hair spills onto the table in a messy pile, which Charlie—between quips—braids with restless fingers.
From upstairs, there’s a thump, followed by a sound like furniture sliding across the floor. Charlie glances at the ceiling.
