Page 74 of Buried in the Woods Below

A rap at the door. The police.

Eric squeezes my arm. “You stay with the girls, and I’ll talk to them.”

While he stands outside to greet the officers, Emma and Penelope squirrel in their chairs, trying to glimpse the unscheduled visitors. “Why are the police here?” asks Penelope, ever the curious one. “Did you do something wrong?” she says, as if nothing would please her more than to see me carted off to jail. “Off with their heads,” I can picture her shouting.

“I don’t know why they’re here. Probably just checking in with everybody to make sure we’re safe.” Penelope looks at Emma, and the two share skeptical looks concerning the veracity of my statement. After a beat, they decide they’re satisfied and return their attention to the pancakes.

I keep my head forward but glance outside through my peripheral vision so as not to raise more interest from the girls. The lake is glass. Olivia’s definitely no longer swimming. Where did she go? And why is she hiding?

I peek outside. Eric nods to the detective. He turns and gestures toward me, his face grim. I swallow, my throat cotton. Why do they want to talk to me?

The plainclothes detective points in my direction and gestures toward the patio. I glance over my shoulder, hoping, absurdly, that Olivia’s behind me and he means her. But she’s nowhere in sight. I point to myself, questioning, and he gives a single nod.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say to the girls and march toward the back patio. My insides feel hollow as I walk, as though the lightest breeze could tip me over. Eric holds the door open, his face ashen. The scent of the chrysanthemums hits me. But today it’s different. Like flowers at a funeral.

“Charlotte, this is Detective Gonzalez from the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Office.”

Gonzalez nods and extends a thick hand but says nothing.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right,” he says.

“Of course.”

He gestures to the couch and chairs at the north end of the patio. The other officers take Eric inside. Rain clinks against the patio roof, and the stench of worms wafts up from the grass. Suddenly, I feel very alone. As I sit on the couch, my mind races with questions. When did they die? Is my mom a suspect? Am I a suspect? I think of me and Vivek struggling in the woods. The scratches on his face, bruises on his skull. All from me. Then I think of the scratches on my arms. I pull my sleeves down and clasp my hands tight to prevent from shaking.

Gonzalez sits forward in his chair and gives me a closed-lip smile. His round cheeks press up into kind brown eyes. A tiny paunch hangs over his thin leather belt. He places a small recorder on the table and explains that I’m not under arrest, that I’m free to leave at any time. Somehow, it doesn’t feel that way. He starts with the basics, asking me my name and address, how long I’ve been here, whether there are any cameras on the house, et cetera. His voice is higher than I’d expect, his tone warm and curious, like a friend asking about your day. Then, he dives into the meat of the interview.

“How well did you know the Adwanis?”

Sweat beads in my underarms as I realize where this line of questioning is heading. A series of paths leading to a single implication: my involvement in this. If not in this interview, soon enough. Do I spill the beans or play it close to the vest? Normally, I’m the one asking the questions.

“I’ve known Vivek for about five years. We worked together at Winthrop and Company. Freida, I just met two days ago.”

His eyes brighten. “You worked with Mr. Adwani for five years?”

“Yes.”

“Would you say you knew him well?”

Memories of Vivek flash through my mind like a strobe. Late nights at a whiteboard. His hotel room. Moments I’ve forgotten. I search Gonzalez’s eyes. Do I tell him the truth? No, if I tell him the truth, I’m never going home.

“Yes. I knew him well. We worked on a number of projects together.”

“Did he have any enemies at work? Anyone who might want to harm him?”

I stiffen in my chair at the question. “No. Obviously, it’s a competitive workplace, so there were people gunning for him, but no one who would want to harm him.”

“Did you know he owned a home here?”

“No, it was just a coincidence.” At least, I think it was. Maybe I did know. He said he had told me. Why was he really here?

“Huh.” His eyes linger, and I can tell he’s replaying my statements in his mind, debating how much to press.

“You mentioned you met his wife two days ago. How did that happen?”

“I was canoeing and saw them out in front of their house, so I stopped and said hello.”

“I see. Did you notice anything unusual?”