The Good Daughter (The Good Daughter #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,53

close, and said, “I’m Rick Fahey. I’m Lucy Alex—” his voice caught. “Lucy Alexander’s uncle.” He used the back of his hand to wipe away tears. His face was red. His lips were too pink. “The family has asked me—oh.” Fahey took a folded piece of notebook paper out of his back pocket. His hands were shaking so hard that the paper fluttered as if from a sudden wind. Finally, Fahey flattened the page down on the podium and said, “The family asked me to read this statement.”

Charlie looked back at Ava. She continued to sleep.

Fahey read, “‘Lucy was a beautiful child. She was creative. She loved to sing and play with her dog, Shaggy. She was in Ms. Dillard’s Bible class at Mountain Baptist, where she loved reading the gospels. She spent summers at her grandparents’ farm down in Ellijay, where she helped them pick a-apples …’” He took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and patted the sweat and tears from his round face. “‘The family has put its trust in God to help us through this trying time. We ask for the thoughts and prayers of the community. Also, we would like to express our support for the Pikeville Police Department and the Dickerson County district attorney’s office—Mr. Ken Coin—to do everything they can to quickly bring justice to Lucy’s murd—’” His voice caught again. “‘Murderer.’” He looked up at the reporters. “That’s what Kelly Wilson is. A cold-blooded murderer.”

Fahey turned to Ken Coin. The two exchanged a solemn nod of a promise that had likely been made.

Fahey continued, “The family would like to ask in the meantime that the media and others respect our privacy. No funeral arrangements have been made yet.’” His focus moved off into the distance, past the throng of microphones, past the cameras. Was he thinking about Lucy’s funeral, how her parents would have to choose a child-size casket to bury their daughter in?

She had been so small. Charlie could remember how delicate the girl’s hand had felt when she gripped it inside her own.

“Mr. Fahey?” one of the reporters asked. “Could you tell us—”

“Thank you.” Fahey left the podium. Ken Coin gave him a firm pat on the arm as they passed each other.

Charlie watched her husband’s boss grip the sides of the podium like he was about to sodomize it. “I’m Ken Coin, the district attorney for the county,” he told the crowd. “I’m here to answer your questions about the prosecution of this vile murder. Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen. We will claim an eye for an eye in this egregious—”

Charlie unplugged the television. She turned to make sure that Ava hadn’t woken up. The woman was in the same position, still wearing her pajamas. The bag of clothes was on the floor at her feet. Charlie was trying to remember if they had a blanket somewhere when the back door banged open and slammed closed.

Only Rusty entered the building making that much racket.

Fortunately, the sounds had not awakened Ava. She only shifted on the couch, her head lolling to the side.

Charlie left the sandwich on the coffee table before she went back to find her father.

“Charlotte?” Rusty boomed. She heard his office door pop open. The knob had already dug a hole in the wall. He never passed up an opportunity to make noise. “Charlotte?”

“I’m here, Daddy.” She stopped outside the doorway. His office was so cluttered there was nowhere inside to stand. “Ava Wilson’s in reception.”

“Good girl.” He didn’t look up from the papers in his hands. Rusty was a jittery half-tasker, never fully concentrating on one thing at a time. Even now, he was tapping his foot, reading, spontaneously humming, and carrying on something like a conversation. “How’s she doing?”

“Not great. She dozed off a little while ago.” Charlie talked to the top of his head. He was seventy-four years old and his hair was still a thick salt and pepper that he kept too long on the sides. “You need to go slow with her. I’m not sure how much she’s following.”

“Noted.” He made a note on the papers. Rusty’s bony fingers held a pen the same way he held a cigarette. Anyone who talked to him on the phone expected him to look like a cross between Colonel Sanders and Foghorn Leghorn. He was not. Rusty Quinn was a tall, rangy beanpole of a man, but not in the same way as Ben, because Charlie would’ve thrown herself off the mountain before