than the one on Jacob. Whoever murdered Laurel had made sure that she died.
“It’s so strange,” I said. Max gave me a questioning look and I explained, “Anna and her two children were shot to death outside, and Laurel and Jacob had their throats cut in the house. That’s an odd set of circumstances. Why did the killer change weapons? Why didn’t he shoot them all? So much quicker, easier.”
“And less personal,” Max said.
I nodded. “Maybe that’s precisely what he wanted.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe Anna and her children were collateral damage, simply murdered because they were here when it happened. I wonder why they were covered with the sheet.”
“The killer didn’t want to see them?” Max speculated.
“It could be. Maybe the killer was ashamed and wanted to hide their bodies,” I ventured. “If you’re proud of something, you show it off. If you’re not, you’re more likely to hide it. Their deaths, the shootings, are different.”
“What do you mean?” Max asked. “Something in addition to the type of weapon?”
“The killer took more time with Laurel and Jacob. My guess is that they were the primary victims.”
Max gave me a questioning glance. “In at least one way, Laurel’s killing is the same. She was covered, too.”
“Shame again?” I speculated.
“And Jacob?”
“That’s different. There was no attempt to hide his body,” I said. “But if he didn’t matter to the killer, if he was simply collateral damage like Anna and her children, why didn’t the killer just shoot him?”
“It all seems pretty bizarre,” Max said. “Any chance we could have two killers?”
I thought about that. “Possible,” I said. “At this point, anything’s possible. We might find that the killer is a man, a woman, or multiple people.”
While we talked, I looked about Laurel’s room. My instincts guessed that we weren’t looking for a gang of killers, at the most one or two. The scenes were all fairly small, concise. Nothing appeared disturbed; I saw no evidence of a struggle. Laurel had an antique silver brush and comb set, like one my mother had, precisely arranged on the dresser. As a child, I snuck into Mother’s bedroom just to use it, delighted by the soft bristles. The painting over Laurel’s bed was perfectly straight and was of a spray of delicate white and yellow flowers on a beige background. Looking down at her face frozen by death, I figured she couldn’t be older than nineteen or twenty.
“I bet the killer surprised her,” I said. “Attacked her while she was asleep, or she woke up on the bed during the attack.”
“Because there’s no sign of a scuffle?” Max said.
“Yes, because she didn’t try to fight him off,” I confirmed. “Maybe she was lucky in a way, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because she didn’t see it coming,” I said.
Max and I paused our conversation and looked at the body again, each lost to our own thoughts. I wondered about the order of the killings. I wondered which of the victims was the last one to die. How horrible to have watched the others murdered knowing the killer would soon turn his attention to you. I thought about how loud a gunshot is.
“All that considered, what’s the lipstick for?” Max asked. “To make her look cartoonish?”
“Perhaps,” I offered. “Maybe to humiliate her, but there’s something else.”
“What?”
“Red lipstick is considered overtly sexual around here. It isn’t worn by the women. Perhaps painting her with it was like leaving an explanation for this one killing. Labeling her a tainted woman,” I said.
The conversation faded, and my mind picked up where it left off, calculating the sound of the gunshots outside and wondering if it would have carried into the house. Was it possible that Laurel slept through the first three murders? Perhaps even the attack on Jacob? I thought about what Naomi had said, that Laurel and Jacob were expecting her to arrive early that morning. It seemed odd that Laurel would still be in bed sleeping. Although a new mother with a tiny infant is often up well into the night.
Max gently lowered his side of the duvet so that it fell back in place, and I followed suit, covering Laurel’s face and body. We walked toward the door. “How sure are you of all this? Your thoughts on how this unfolded?” he asked from behind me.
I turned and looked at him. “Not sure at all.”
The three medics were loading Jacob to transport him to the hospital when we walked into the kitchen. They’d bandaged the cut in his