Page 56 of The Family Plot
“My friend.”
Her skin is unusually pale, and the muscles in one arm keep tensing, like she’s squeezing something in her hand.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” she says.
“Talking to my friend?”
She snaps her head in my direction. “Talking to your friend aboutDad. About the police suspecting him. You can’t just… We should keep that private, Dahlia.”
Tate turns back to her diorama, which now bears trees so lifelike I expect to see the wind shaking their branches. The hole is still there, waiting for a body.
“Like you’re planning to keep this private?” I say, gesturing toward her desk.
She exhales impatiently. “We’ve been over this.”
“Well, sorry, but I don’t see why it’s okay for you to share Andy with thousands of strangers, but I can’t tell my one friend what’s going on in the investigation.”
Her arm tenses again. I try to see what’s in her hand, but she pulls it toward her, tucking her fist into the folds of her sweater.
“There’s a monumental difference between the two,” she says. “The diorama’s only part of it. It’s the thing that gets people’s attention. And when they read the caption, they’ll know that Andy was more than just his death. Telling people about Dad, though?” She pauses to shake her head. “Why would you go out of your way to confirm people’s suspicions of us?”
I pause at the wordconfirm.
“Wait,” I say. “You agree with the police? You think it was Dad?”
Her eyes flash wide for a moment. Then, just as quickly, they crimp with pain. “Of course not!” she says, the phrase a whip she lashes through the air.
“I just meant,” she adds, gaze slinking toward her lap, “that you have to be more careful. You can’t be giving people more ammunition than they already have. It’s a slap in the face to all the work Charlie’s been doing.”
“The work? He’s turning Andy’s death into a spectacle. Both of you are.”
“You’re notlistening,” she groans, punctuating her last word by slapping her hand onto the desk. The sound it makes is strange, like a teacup rattling onto a saucer, and when I look at the space in front of her, I see why.
She’s built a body. That’s what she was squeezing in her hand, what she’s just smacked onto the desk: the little doll that, once inside the hole, will complete the diorama.
The body is flat on its back. I brace myself for the four-inch doll to resemble Andy, but when I lean closer, I see it’s featureless, still missing the details that would make it seem human—an outfit, a hairstyle, a specific tint to its skin. Right now, it’s just a cloth torso with porcelain head and limbs, indistinguishable from the ones Tate has showcased in her #BehindTheCrimeScenes stories, usually posted after the diorama itself, taking her followers through her process, from scattered materials to finished product. I always get goose bumps when I watch those posts, where, at the very beginning, the doll is blank and anonymous, but by the end, it’s a murder victim.
My hand trembles as I reach for the doll. I feel the sting of tears.
“You say you’re trying to show people that Andy was more than just his death. But how are you going to paint Andy’s face? With his eyes open? With crinkles around them?”
She looks from me to the doll, biting her lip. “You know that’s not how I—”
“You’re obsessed,” I cut in, suddenly so weary, “with showing off his death.”
“I’m notobsessed.”
“Yes. You are.” My words are slow, sapped of energy, my shoulders sagging like someone’s holding them down. “I saw the passageway.”
Tate frowns, forehead creased as she tries to catch up. “Between the closets?” she asks—and just like that, anger flickers through my fatigue.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Idon’tknow what you’re talking about. I haven’t been in that passageway in years.”
