Page 49 of Not a Word

“You have to ask?”

“Two. Lots of syrup.”

McCabe got up, put them in the toaster, hovered over the appliance to make sure they didn’t burn, slapped them on a plate and drowned them in butter and maple syrup.

“Bon appétit,” she said, putting the plate, and a fork, in front of her daughter.

While Moira ate, McCabe asked what she might like to do with her Saturday.

“I dunno.”

“Was thinking we could hit the mall. The bra I’m wearing is from the Obama administration and I want to look at some new runners.”

“How long am I a prisoner?”

“You’re not a prisoner. You’re grounded. There’s a difference. Prisoners don’t get to go to the mall.”

“Don’t prisoners get field trips?”

“You’ve been grounded one night, one more to go. Suck it up.”

Moira had a bite of pancake. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know where I was.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it. I have to know you’re not going to do something stupid again.” Of course she would, she was barely into her teens, but you liked to give it your best shot.

“Look,” McCabe said, “you don’t need or want another lecture from me but you were lucky it was me who found you and not someone else from the police who wouldn’t be interested in cutting you any slack just because your mom is a colleague. It’s illegal for anyone under nineteen to have or use or share pot.”

“I wasn’t smoking it.”

“Wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“I need a new pair of jeans.”

“There you go. We’ll leave in an hour.”

“Fine,” she said.

McCabe’s cell, sitting on the table next to her coffee, started to buzz.

“Here we go,” Moira said.

McCabe picked up the phone. “Yeah.”

“It’s Jase.”

Jason. When the reports from the forensic science center came in, they landed in Jason’s inbox.

“Whatcha got for me?”

“So that Beretta had recently been fired, the slugs in the Kennard woman and Brent Chartwell came from that gun. There was gunshot residue on Chartwell’s right hand, and his prints were on the gun.”

“Okay.” Slam dunk. Murder-suicide.

“So Chartwell shot the woman, shot himself.”

At the mention of the name Chartwell, Moira glanced at her mother for half a second, then went back to her pancakes. She’d finished off the first and was drowning the remaining one in more syrup. She used the edge of her fork to cut it.

“That would seem to be the conclusion,” Jason said. “No powder burns on the woman, though.”