to explain it in specific detail, but Zoe couldn’t focus on the words anymore. Just the voice and the nausea that spread through her stomach as she listened to it.
She gaped at Tatum. “That’s Rod Glover.”
CHAPTER 28
Bill sat in front of his computer, staring blankly at the screen. He’d meant to prepare a flyer that he’d print and tape around the neighborhood. But he needed to select a photo first. And scrolling down the photos, he found the one he’d taken that perfect afternoon at the beach. Henrietta and Chelsey hugging, their cheeks flattened against each other, grains of sand scattered on their faces and hair. Both grinning at him, that same impish glee reflected in their identical eyes.
It was the wrong photo for the flyer, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from it.
Chelsey had been difficult that morning. He found it harder and harder to explain where Mom was, and when he’d claimed she was at work, she’d demanded they call her. He’d had to go shut himself in the bathroom before he either lost his temper or started sobbing uncontrollably.
The loud knock startled him. He got up and trudged heavily to the door, opening it without checking who it was.
Officer Ellis stood at the door, and behind him was an unfamiliar blonde woman in a gray suit. Their expressions were somber, the faces of bad news.
“Mr. Fishburne, this is Detective O’Donnell,” Ellis said. “Can we come in?”
“Sure,” Bill croaked, moving aside. Perhaps he should have asked if there was any news. But as long as he didn’t ask, he could stretch the moment, live in the realm of possibilities.
They came inside, and O’Donnell shut the door behind her.
“Mr. Fishburne,” she said. “Your wife is dead. Her body was found this morning. I’m sorry for your loss.”
He walked over to the living room and sat down on the couch. “What happened?” he whispered.
“She was killed on Monday night, in the train station’s parking lot,” O’Donnell said.
“Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Do . . . do you know who . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Not yet. But I assure you we’re doing everything we can to find the person who did this.”
“How did she . . .” He was about to ask the question but realized he didn’t want to know. Not yet. “Did she suffer?”
“We believe her death was very fast.”
Had there been a slight pause there? He didn’t dwell on it. He glanced at the clock. Chelsey would be home in less than four hours. He would have to tell her. He had no idea how. Mommy is gone? Mommy is in heaven? They weren’t religious, had never discussed heaven at length, but now he wished they had. It would have been so much easier to tell Chelsey that her mother was somewhere lovely, watching them from above.
And then, randomly, he recalled that Hen was supposed to organize Chelsey’s birthday in two months. He’d have to do it now.
He’d have to learn to braid her hair.
What did that say about him? That his first thoughts after learning his wife was dead were centered on things he needed to do? Instead of thinking of their shared memories and moments?
“Should I . . . do you need me to identify her body?”
“No,” O’Donnell said softly. “We don’t do that anymore. Your wife had to provide her fingerprints when she started working in her last job. We identified her using those fingerprints.”
“Oh.” He didn’t know what else to say.
O’Donnell talked a bit about the autopsy, explaining the schedule, the process. He took it all in. He would need to get his wife’s remains. She wanted to be cremated; he knew that much. He had to take care of the funeral.
He had to tell Chelsey, somehow. It seemed like an impossible task.
“Mr. Fishburne, do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“No, go ahead.”
Did his wife have any enemies. Did she act strangely lately. How did she sound on the phone when she talked to him. He answered her hollowly, numbly. Reducing Hen’s existence to a series of dry facts. He wanted to tell O’Donnell what a wonderful mother Hen was. And what a wonderful friend she was. How it felt to be hugged by her. Of the conversations they had. About the miscarriage before Chelsey was born and how Hen couldn’t stop crying for days after. How happy she was when Chelsey was born. How she liked cherries. That she was infuriated by the smell of sweaty socks.