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“Has he talked to the police?”
“Not yet,” Collette said. “We asked him to come here first.”
“You talked to him?” Regan said, her cop-brain taking over. This wasn’t good. “Before the police could interview him?”
“Texted,” Sarina said. “He finally got back to us this morning.”
“But he should—”
“His father and stepmother were killed,” Collette said sharply. “We—okay, I thought he might want to see us before being grilled by the cops.”
“Not grilled—” Regan began to protest.
“Whatever.”
“What about Macon?”
“Don’t know where he is,” Sarina said as she motioned them into a small kitchen attached to an equally sized family area where a huge flat screen dominated the room. An L-shaped couch had been squeezed into the tight area next to a sliding glass door that led to a patio currently being splattered with rain. “He runs with a pretty . . . out there crowd.”
“Meaning what?” Pescoli asked.
“He’s with the Anti-Christs,” she said, opening the refrigerator door as Bianca plopped down on the couch nearest the TV.
“The what?” Regan asked.
“Anarchists,” Collette said. “That’s what she means.” To Sarina, she added, long suffering, “Not ‘Anti-Christs, ’ Sarina. He’s not a devil worshipper, just against . . . I don’t know, everything. Especially everything his father stood for.”
“Except guns,” Sarina reminded her.
“Yes, right. Except for any kind of weapon.” Collette said to Regan, “He’s . . . difficult.”
“Too much testosterone and anger issues with his father,” Sarina corrected.
“Unfortunately she’s right.” Collette’s lips pinched. “About that, anyway. Macon is surly and . . . disturbed.”
“I wouldn’t say there was anything really wrong with him,” Sarina denied. “He’s just always acting out.”
“You think he would harm his father and stepmother?” Regan asked.
“Oh, no!” Sarina pulled a couple of bottles of sparkling water from the fridge. “No, no, no. He’s just, you know . . . testy.”
Collette rolled her eyes and Sarina changed the subject. “This okay?” she asked, holding up the bottles. “Or, let me see”—she eyed the overstocked shelves of the open refrigerator—“I’ve got Coke and Diet Coke, but I thought it was too early for wine. . . .”
Collette said, “It’ll be fine,” and as Sarina busied herself with snacks and drinks, Collette motioned Regan to follow her back to the living area. In a barely audible voice, she said, “Try to keep any upsetting details from her.” She glanced back to the kitchen, as if making certain Sarina couldn’t overhear her. “She’s trying to hold it together but she’s a mess. The separation about did her in and now this . . .” Collette fluttered a hand to take in everything. “With Brindel’s . . . passing . . . well, Sarina’s not handling anything all that well.”
“She seems better today.”
“I think her Prozac has finally kicked in.” Collette was less cold today, more worried. Lines appeared at the corners of her eyes. “I’d been up here for a couple of weeks to lend support when everything blew up with Denny. Sarina was driving Brindel crazy, so I came up a week ago last Sunday and was planning to head back to LA this next weekend, but . . . now . . .” She shook her head. “Thankfully Simon is busy with a major project at the bank.” Collette’s husband, Simon Foucher, was older, pushing sixty, and an investment banker who spoke four languages and worked with international clients.
“I don’t know how this is going to go with Paul’s kids, but I thought they should know that we’re all in this together.”
“As long as the police talk to them.”
“For God’s sake, Regan, give me some credit, would you?”
Sarina returned. She was balancing a tray holding three drinks, ice cubes dancing, and a basket of some kind of crackers. “I’ve got hummus and/or salsa,” she said. “That’s about it. And this.”
“It’s fine,” Collette said, settling onto the couch again. “I mean it’s great. Thanks.” She waved her sister toward the couch. “Just sit down. Let’s hear what Regan has to say.”
