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Celeste replies, and then Tom asks to see me. I hold my breath, waiting. But Celeste blocks him. Daisy’s busy making dinner, and it should be ready any moment if he wants to join us, and in the meantime, would he take a look at something on her car?
He hesitates, but he knows it will look bad if he flies to my side during the search. So he goes out with her. When dinner’s ready, I open the window and call to them. They come in together, Celeste sticking close, giving me no time alone with Tom.
We eat a meal I barely taste. The whole time, Tom’s trying to get my attention, and I must pretend not to notice.
We’re barely done when Deputy Mazur comes into the kitchen.
“Finally,” Celeste says, rising. “I trust you can leave now?”
Mazur turns to Tom. “I think it’s time for you to go home, son.”
“Daisy was just about to serve—”
“She can give you a doggy bag. Now go.”
Tom bristles, but it won’t help my case if he gets defensive, acts as if I need protecting.
I put a few cookies into a sandwich bag, hoping my hands don’t shake. When I hand it to him, he murmurs, “Come by later, okay?” and I nod.
Once Tom’s gone, Mazur turns to me. “We found something in your room.”
I blink in feigned surprise. “What?”
Even as I say the word, I have my performance ready. First, my brow will crease in confusion.
A cell phone? I don’t have a cell phone.
It’s Liam’s? Wide eyes. How...?
Trail off with dawning comprehension. He must have left it there. Like I said, he’d been drinking. He must have been looking for me in my room.
Have I ever handled his phone? Oh, you mean fingerprints? No, I don’t think... Wait, he showed me a photo the other day. I didn’t take his phone, but I might have touched it. If you find a print, it’ll be one or two. Because I wiped it clean but may have missed one.
Mazur turns to Coleman, who hands him something in a bag. Something that looks cell-phone-sized, but I need to pretend I’m confused.
“What is that?” I say, and then I see it, and my reaction is not feigned.
It’s a gun. My gun. My missing gun.
My mouth opens, ready to give a version of my practiced response. Wherever did that come from? Luckily, my brain clicks in before I say it.
This is my gun. My legal gun. I could almost laugh at that. I’m on a clandestine mission, living under a false name... and I brought a registered gun. Rule following is just so ingrained in me that I would rather risk losing my shot at vengeance than be caught with an illegal firearm.
Admit it. Say it’s my gun and pray that’s enough—that they won’t have any reason to look it up and realize it’s registered to my real name.
“That’s mine,” I say.
“Yours?”
I nod. “It’s registered to me. Legally obtained. I live alone. I’m often on job sites alone, and I’ve been traveling alone.”
“You never thought to mention it to us?”
“Honestly, no. Well, not until about an hour ago. I saw you coming in from the shed, and I remembered the gun, and I freaked out a little, because I forgot it was there. Except you didn’t mention it, so I thought you missed it. I was trying to figure out whether I should show it to you. I was, uh, going to seek legal advice tomorrow.”
I try to look sheepish. “I wasn’t sure of my obligations here. You didn’t ask if I have a gun, so I wasn’t keen to hand it over when Liam had been shot. I wanted advice.”
“We didn’t find this in the shed, Miz Moss.”
