“Malcolm—”
“No, Jen. I know you’re going to try to spin some kind of story for this guy, but it’s not going to work.”
She turned in her chair, staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “You’re going to tell him the truth?”
Malcolm gave a dry laugh. “Any lie we invent is going to fall apart. What can you say to explain it all?”
Hope leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “This should be interesting.”
Malcolm watched him. “I’m going to tell you the complete truth, Detective. No beating around the bush. But I’d like you to do one quick thing for me before I do. It’ll only delay you five or ten minutes, and I swear that delay hurts us a lot more than it does you.”
“Go on.”
“Call Paxson Keates at Keates Funeral Home in Elkhart, Indiana. Explain the situation to him. He’ll confirm who we are and that our mother died yesterday at dawn. He’s the one who sewed her into the canvas shroud you found her in.”
Detective Hope cocked his head. “That’s going to explain everything, is it?”
“Not by half. But it’s a start.”
Jennie crossed her arms on the table and rested her chin atop them. “Also, if you want us awake for the next conversation, you might give us some of that shitty coffee.”
The detective seemed to surprise himself by laughing. He slid his chair back. “You two are something else.” He stood and knocked on the door from the inside. “Tell you what: I’ll call Mr. Keates, and if I like what he has to tell me, I’ll bring a couple of cups of shitty coffee back for you.”
Malcolm exhaled. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
The officer opened the door, and Hope stepped out, shutting it behind him. Malcolm didn’t bother to check if it was locked. They were prisoners, after all. No way would the cops forget to lock the door, even in a tiny little town like this one. He hated the stereotype about people in small towns. Quiet places didn’t make you stupid.
Gray light spread gloom through the window. Rain pattered the glass. Another time, another place, it would’ve made him sleepy, but no matter how tired he felt, his thoughts remained desperate, frenzied. They had to get out of here.
He went to the window, looked out. “Son of a bitch.”
Jennie turned to him. “What?”
“Alfie’s out there.”
“The giant Irishman?”
“He was on our side.”
Jennie stood and came to join him. “Whose side is he on now?”
Malcolm didn’t have to explain. The window looked out into a grassy lot beside the police station. Two figures stood in the rain—Alfie and the little boy who’d accompanied Root on the train. Their faces were blank. They stared at the building, rain-soaked and intent but unmoving.
“How did they find us?” Malcolm looked away. The way they stared at this window unsettled him.
“Asked around,” Jennie replied. “This is what they do. Duringthe day, they do whatever the Morák need them to do. They’re eyes and ears, hands and feet.”
“As long as they’re not the teeth, we can deal with them.”
Jennie nodded. “We can. But we can’t do a damn thing from in here. And with them waiting for us, it’s that much more important that we get out long before the sun goes down again.”
“It’s still early,” Malcolm said.
“Not as early as it was a minute ago. We’re on the clock.”
Malcolm studied the faces of Alfie and that little boy, out in the storm. Detective Hope would be back soon. They would tell Hope the truth. Maybe the presence of the two figures out in the rain would help the detective believe them. But maybe not.
