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“Here.” Pushing up to stand, I reach in with my good hand and take hers in mine. Wrapping my palm around hers and locking our thumbs in place—I’ll be damned if I drop her—I slowly bring her out while keeping an eye on the machinery operator.
One sneeze, one muscle spasm, and he could send the scoop spinning around to kill us both.
Dragging her free of the hole and onto her feet on the ground, I back up half a dozen paces and keep her hand in mine for every step I take.
Let me go,her eyes are saying.Release me before I look soft on record.
Dropping her hand when we’re a safe distance from the hole, I look back to the KC33 and watch as he continues to reveal the crumbling timber of what was once a pine box, bought for a woman who allegedly committed suicide.
There are no adornments to be found. No fancy glitters except for the locket someone threw in after the box was sealed, but before the hole was filled in. There’s no silk inlay inside the coffin, and whatever real flowers that might’ve been buried with Holly, they long ago composted and turned back to the earth.
All things considered; this was a woman who was once young and vibrant and beautiful, and just a few weeks after her wedding, she was laid to rest inside an ugly wooden crate with nothing to express her vitality. No colors. No comfort.
She was merely boxed up and forgotten.
“Let’s get started on the bones,” Minka says to Aubree. “Document. Move. I want every single piece accounted for and placed on my table at the George Stanley.” Then she looks to me. “I’ll work on her all night if I have to. You’ll have my final report as soon as I can get it to you.”
* * *
“That’s a skull.” Fletch stands with me at the entrance to our makeshift tent. Elbowing me, as though worried I didn’t hear him in the first fucking place. “She’s holding a skull, Malone!”
“She is.” My eyes are yet to leave Minka. My attention, solely on her form as she removes each of Holly’s bones, one by one. She works with mini shovels. Brushes. Tweezers. And markers. Each bone she moves, she marks on a worksheet and places in a bag. “She’s holding Holly Wade’s skull right now.”
“Henry’s getting a little noisy outside.”Now, Fletch keeps his voice down. “He was talking to the media.”
“Mmm?” My shoulder burns, but not nearly as much as it did two days ago. Definitely not as much as four days ago. “What’s he saying?”
“That he wishes we would leave her alone. He wishes we could respect his decision and Holly’s right to peace. He thinks we’re doing the wrong thing.”
“It’s only wrong if sheactuallycommitted suicide. If this is homicide, then we got it right and someone needs to answer for what they did.”
“Detective Malone?” At my back, a uniform I’ve come to know and respect for solid work steps forward. “Ms. Trainor has requested to speak to you.” Subtly, he looks to his left so I know to glance that way too. “The sister. She asked for a minute with you and Detective Fletcher.”
“Did she say what she wants?” Fletch asks. “Specifically?”
Officer Clay shakes his head. “Just that it’s important.”
“Fine.” Stepping away, I head toward the doctors and stop by the first baggie Minka filled tonight. Taking out my phone, I snap a photograph of the broken locket. “I’m going outside for a minute,” I tell them both. “Stay in here. Together.” Then I meet Minka’s eyes. “Do not be alone with anyone, and please, for the love of god, don’t get buried or dead.”
She scoffs. “I’ll do my very best, Detective. Where are you going?”
“The sister’s asking to speak to us. None of the family are supposed to be here, but they couldn’t help themselves. Emotions are high, everyone’s blaming someone else.” Locking my phone and holding the device in my hand, I crouch low and stare deep into Minka’s eyes. “Having them all in the same place is a good opportunity to shake something free. Let them swipe at each other. Pretend I’m trying to break it up. Someone usually says something they shouldn’t.”
“Devious,” she smirks in response. “And before you go, Detective?”
I push up to stand and drop my good hand into my pocket. “Mm?”
“I’m already seeing inconsistencies here that shouldn’t exist.” She sets the bagged skull beside her pile. “I’m not yet saying this is homicide, nor am I saying it wasn’t suicide. But I have questions. Lots and lots of them. And the answers may not line up with what the original reports say.”
“Good enough for me.” Pursing my lips for just a second, I kiss the air for Minka to see—and hopefully, the camera doesn’t—then I turn on my heels and head back toward Fletch and Officer Clay. “Let’s start with Lacey, since she’s asking for us. Then we’ll fan out. Keep the family somewhat close so they can hear what the others are saying. They’ll start calling each other out if they hear a lie. Eventually, the truth will shake free.”
“Fact is, even if this is homicide,” Fletch murmurs. “We’re gonna need a confession. Whatever evidence Delicious finds might not be enough to get a conviction.”
“Agreed. The trail’s too cold, so we’re gonna need to dig deep.”
Stepping out of our enclosure and into the sunset outside, I cast my eyes around the crowd and try not to squint when cameras flash.
Lights blind me. Voices shout. Questions are asked by the hungry media demanding an update. Then my eyes stop on the sister who stands alone.
