such a mind must be integral to the nursery’s design. Are you listening to Bach? Reading to the baby in the womb? Better yet, what about playing the piano? That kind of auditory, and yet also kinetic, experience would be deeply beneficial.”
My jaw is still hanging open. I don’t know what to say, what to do. Even by the standards I’ve come to expect from my mom, this has caught me off guard.
I find myself already wondering—did she pay bail to get me out of jail, or to save the next family genius? And if I’m found guilty of murder and sent off to prison, leaving her alone to raise the baby, would that even bother her?
“I need to shower,” I hear myself say.
“Of course. I took the liberty of stocking up on some maternity clothes for you. You’ll find them all hanging in the closet.”
Again, when? How? Do I want to know?
I find myself studying my mother. The elegantly coiffed hair, the perfectly made-up face. She really does have beautiful blue eyes. Now, she regards me guilelessly, which makes the hairs rise on the backs of my arms, because nothing about my mother is without guile. As if reading my mind:
“Don’t worry about your job,” she says. “I already phoned your principal and said you wouldn’t be back.”
“You quit my job?”
“What did you think was going to happen? There’s going to be a murder trial, you know. You certainly can’t be showing up at a public high school every day through that. And by the time this nonsense has all wrapped up, you’ll be ready to have your baby. Might as well let the administrators know now.”
She makes it sound so matter-of-fact. The job I loved gone, just like that. Indeed, what did I think was going to happen?
“Do you want to know?” I hear myself whisper.
“Know what, dear?”
“Did I kill him. Did I shoot my own husband.”
She pats my arm. “No need to stress yourself out, honey. Other people will judge. Other people will wonder. Which is why family is so important. We understand each other. I know everything I need to know about you and Conrad.”
“And what is that?”
She regards me directly with those big blue eyes. “That it was an accident, of course. Nothing but an unfortunate accident.”
Chapter 8
D.D.
“WE NEED TO FIND OUT everything about this couple, ASAP,” D.D. said. She and Phil had returned to BPD headquarters. Phil sat in his office chair, leaning way back, his hands tucked behind his head. D.D. walked small circles. They both had their way of thinking things through.
“Conrad Carter,” Phil rattled off now. “Thirty-nine years old. No criminal history. No living family.”
“Shit,” D.D. said.
“Worked for a major window corporation. Already talked to the head honcho. Guess what?”
“Everyone liked him, no one knew him well,” D.D. intoned.
“Exactly. Guy worked out of his home. Had an excellent reputation for sales. Kept up on his quotes, bid sheets, on-site specs. Manager had nothing bad to say about him. Then again, he saw the guy once a month at management meetings. He didn’t even know Conrad and his wife were expecting a baby until he heard it on the news.”
“Pregnant wife accidentally shoots husband. Three times,” D.D. muttered. “Press is going to have a field day with this one.”
“So much for open-and-shut,” Phil agreed. He yawned.
She glared at him.
He shrugged. “Hey, I was the one working the scene half the night. Sergeant.”
“And I was fighting an evil canine for the safety of black boots everywhere. We all have our problems.”
Phil smiled. He was used to D.D. in this mood, was probably one of the only detectives who could handle her, which is why she liked him so much. And missed her original investigative squad terribly. Managing sergeant her ass. Who wanted to sit at a desk all day anyway?
“Wait, there’s more,” Phil said now, in his best TV infomercial voice.
“Should I be sitting down?”
“You’d only pop back up and pace. Before moving to Mass, Conrad lived in …” Phil dragged it out.
D.D. closed her eyes, already seeing the answer. “Florida.”
“Yep.”
“Same state as Jacob Ness and where Jacob kidnapped Flora.”
“Yep.”
“Jacob and Conrad could’ve known each other prior to meeting with Flora at the bar.”
“It’s possible,” Phil agreed.
D.D. shook her head. She could not believe this case was spinning so far out of hand. “Okay, what do we know of Conrad? Don’t suppose techs have anything back on the computer?”
Phil gave her a droll look.
“Cell phone?” she tried.
“Can’t find it.”
“Can’t find it? What does