Something had been wrong. Robin had known it at the time. Some part of her had. Yet it had been easier to just believe the lie, the way she always believed the lies her father told her, about everything being okay when it wasn’t, about how he and Mom had only beenengaged in a discussion, during those few times they’d woken her up late at night with their harsh, hissed words. About how mama’s baby bird hadflown off to join her flockor how seventh-grade parent-teacher conferences had gonejust fine, when Robin later wound up flunking math that year, how her eighth-grade perm made her looklike a movie staror how the bottomless sorrow she felt sophomore year of high school was nothing serious at all—justteen angst. Everybody has that. It had been Robin’s mother, with her lack of a medical degree, who had finally taken her to a therapist.
For a person whose job it had been to plumb the depths of criminals’ brains in search of the ugly truth, Robin’s father had been awfully comfortable telling little white lies. And Robin had made herself fall for them, every time. It was easier, wasn’t it, to pretend that things weren’t as bad as they seemed?
Some of the guests were lining up now, waiting for their turns to shovel dirt onto Dr. Mitchell Bloom’s grave. The others in the group were starting to disperse. She saw Nick and BrennaMorasco heading away from the group and hurried to catch up with them, brushing past some outstretched hands as she did. “Detective Morasco?”
He stopped, turned around. “Hi, Ms. Diamond,” he said. “It was a lovely ceremony.”
The tall woman stuck out her hand. “Brenna Spector,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She had a strong grip and a steady gaze.
“Thank you.” In one of their early conversations, Morasco had mentioned to Robin that Brenna had that Marilu Henner thing—hyperthymesia, or superior autobiographical memory. Whatever you wanted to call it, it basically meant that she couldn’t forget a damn minute of her life if she tried. Robin couldn’t imagine anything worse.I bet that puts the pressure onyou,she had said to Morasco, half joking.You blow it once, she remembers forever.
But actually she thought that Morasco’s wife’s condition might have had a lot to do with his demeanor—the way he seemed to think all his sentences through before he said them out loud. As though he ascribed a certain permanence to his comments and actions that other people didn’t. “Listen,” Morasco said. “I’m sorry about Ehrlich Baus. I’d tell you he means well, but I don’t know if it’d be the truth.”
Robin smiled. “Yeah, well... You have a lot of patience.”
“He does,” said Brenna. “Believe me.”
“Listen,” Robin said. “I um... I just wanted to get something straight. About the case.”
Brenna and Morasco exchanged a look. “I’ll see you back at the car,” she said, then turned to Robin. “Again, my condolences.”
Brenna headed up the small hill toward the parking lot. Robin watched her go, Dad’s funeral, his death, and everything her husband had told her about it trapped forever in the amber of her perfect memory.
Morasco said, “What can I help you with?”
“Okay, I didn’t really think about this before because I was so surprised by the information,” she said. “But the killer...”
“Yes?”
“He or she shot both of my parents with my mother’s gun.”
“Yes. That appears to be what happened.”
“So... that tells me my mom must have taken it out from wherever she’d been keeping it. You know... to defend herself.”
He said nothing.
“But you guys were asking me about people my parents know. People they might have had fallings-out with...”
“Yes.”
Robin was aware of others leaving the cemetery, their eyes on her as they passed. She saw Mr. Dougherty, the bright sun beating down on the back of his bent head. She gave him a weak wave that he returned as he trudged alone up the hill.
Robin turned her attention on Morasco. “Someone broke in,” she said. “My mother took out the gun she apparently owned. She tried to defend herself. Wouldn’t it make sense that the intruder wasnotsomeone she or my dad knew?”
“There’s a lot of inference in what you just said.”
“Inference?”
“No one would be able to confirm that your mother took out the gun or that she tried to defend herself against an intruder,” he said. “No one except for your mother. And she’s... unconscious at the moment.”
“Yeah, but it seems pretty obvious. People buy guns to protect themselves.”
“Have you been reading the news stories?”
“Not really.” She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “I haven’t been surfing the web very much in the past couple of days.”
“I asked because the media are treating it as a home invasion.”
