Page 44 of The Family Plot
“Are you sure you’re safe in here?” he asks Officer Bailey. “If we’re as murderous as you think, who knows what we might do? Maybe you should call one of your friends for backup.”
Finally, the officer acknowledges him. “Is that a threat?”
“No, Officer,” Tate says. Sitting up, she throws a glance at Charlie that slaps the smile off his face. He looks away like a chastised child before his eyes bolt back to hers.
As their gaze lingers, I see it morph, deepening into something anxious and fearful. When Tate slides her hand across the table, Charlie grabs it, his fingers squeezing hers until his knuckles turn white. I study their shared look, their clasped hands, and a thought blazes through my mind.
They know something.
Tate winces as footsteps creak across the floor above us. She glances at Officer Bailey, finds him momentarily distracted by the deer head, and mouths to Charlie,They’re in your room. Charlie nods, slightly, then loosens his grip on her hand just to tighten it again.
For the past hour, I’ve remained baffled about the warrant—why are the officers stomping throughourhouse instead of Fritz’s?—but at the sounds from upstairs, from Charlie’s room, my siblings seem like they’re bracing for the ceiling to crash onto their heads.
The thought pulses again:They know something.
As if hearing the accusation, they let each other go, and it’s then that Mom returns. She shuffles to the table in her slippers before sinking into the seat next to Tate. As Mom releases a heavy sigh, Tate’s quick to rub her arm, to put her head on her shoulder, but I’m still staring at the space between her and Charlie, trying to find the secrets they passed through the air.
“Your father should be here for this,” Mom says, and the comment shoves a laugh out of Charlie.
“Oh yes,” he says, “he’s missing quite the party.”
“I just mean,” Mom clarifies, “that he always knew how to handle things like this.”
“Murder investigations?”
“Of course not.” Mom sets her elbows on the table, massaging her forehead. “He knew how to talk to the police. Every time Chief Kraft came by, Daniel was able to allay his concerns.”
Charlie laughs again, loud and booming, and even Tate suppresses a smile.
“What?” Mom says.
“Dad neverallayedanything. He was an asshole to Kraft.”
Mom’s hands fall into her lap, her back straightening. “No, he wasn’t.”
“Yes, he was,” Tate agrees. “Where do you think Charlie gets it?” She nods toward Officer Bailey. “He didn’t say much to him, which was part of it, of course—it drove Kraft crazy—but when he did respond, he always had some slick, sarcastic remark. He loved to toy with him.”
Look around, Dad said to him once.Any bodies you find are up for grabs.
“Toywith him,” Mom repeats. “No. I don’t think so. Daniel handled the police, the same way he handled everything in this house. Clogged pipe—who called the plumber? Smoke detector chirping—who changed the batteries? He may have been… gruff, sometimes, and he certainly wasn’t chatty. But he took care of us. He kept us safe. And”—she sighs again—“there’s not another man in the world who would have put up with me.”
“Hey,” Tate says, scooting closer. “No one had toput up withyou. Why would you say that?”
Mom waves off Tate’s sympathy. “You know what I mean. I wasn’t a typical mother. Nothing like my own. I didn’t read you bedtime stories. I hardly ever cooked. I taught you about the Alphabet Murders before the alphabet itself. And Daniel…” Tears pool in her eyes, turning them as glassy as the mounted deer’s. “He was fine with allthat. He wasnot”—she grimaces before using Charlie’s phrase—“an asshole.”
“Dahlia?”
Our attention jolts toward the doorway, where Elijah stands, notebook in hand. He squints at Dad’s deer, studying the animal like he thinks he knows it personally. Then he turns to me, expression dark.
“You ready?” he asks.
We resume our positions from the other day—him on the couch, me in the armchair. The victim room, lit by a single lamp on the couch’s end table, is painted with shadows. Even Elijah’s face has an inky sheen.
He starts by repeating his questions from this afternoon—how I discovered the trapdoor, where I got the key, what made me so intent on going down there—and again, I slog through the answers, which, I’m surprised to hear myself articulate, all lead back to Ruby.
“Tell me about your father,” he says next.
“My father?”
