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“No,” Jack said. “I don’t think we shouldn’t do it because we know the reality of what could happen. I think it’ll make us really good parents.”
We were silent for the rest of the drive to the Sowers’ house.
“Figures,” I said, when we pulled up in front of a white elephant of a house. It was sleek and modern, and I wasn’t a hundred percent sure where the door was, but that might have been the point. I couldn’t imagine Sowers wanted his neighbors popping by. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more unwelcoming house.”
“Maybe the house fromTheTexas Chainsaw Massacre,” Jack said flippantly.
“Or Lizzie Borden’s,” I said. “Though I kind of always thought that house was cute.”
“Except for the dismembered bodies in the windows.”
“I’m sure they’ve cleaned it since then,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Those crime scene teams work miracles.”
I noticed the squad cars parked along the street, and the front door was open as a deputy carried a box out the front door.
“Cole and Martinez are going to be mad they’re missing this,” Jack said. “They love serving warrants.”
“Odd,” I said. “Considering that’s typically when people try to shoot at you.”
“Depends on the kind of warrant,” Jack said, grinning. “But they like to serve those too.”
“I’m not sure how healthy it is to have a bunch of lunatics with a death wish running around in uniform,” I said. “And you know how men are. The more of them that get together the worse the decisions they make.”
“I’ve always said it takes a special kind of crazy to be a cop,” Jack said.
“And I married it,” I said, patting him lightly on the butt where no one else could see.
Jack snickered and then his face went stoic as we approached the open door. He knocked on the doorframe and then stepped inside as a woman in black leggings and a soft sweater the color of blueberries came down the stairs to meet us.
I’d been expecting a woman in her early thirties, but somehow Nia Sowers seemed even younger. She looked like she’d just had the rug swept out from under her. Her honey-blond hair was swept up into a loose ponytail, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She was a tall woman with sharp features that probably photographed beautifully.
“Mrs. Sowers?” Jack asked.
When she stared at Jack with emptiness I was reminded of Kateryna—they both carried the same look of defeat and hopelessness.
“Call me Nia,” she said. “Please come in.”
I detected the slightest accent, but it didn’t sound British.
“We know this is a difficult time for you,” Jack said. “And we appreciate any help you can give us in finding out who did this to your husband.”
“I need a drink,” she said, leading us into a living room that had an eerie similarity to the apartment where Kateryna lived. She stood behind a bar that was almost as well stocked as the Purple Pig had been. “If you add orange juice to your vodka, Americans don’t look at you quite so strange if you drink before noon. Would you like some?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I’ve already reached my limit for the day.”
Her smile was quick, and she poured a healthy amount of vodka over ice and then a splash of orange juice to give it color. She rattled the ice in the glass before taking a sip. “That is funny. I did not realize cops had a sense of humor.”
“I’m not a cop,” I said. “I’m a coroner. Coroners definitely have a sense of humor.”
“Good to know,” she said.
“I can’t place your accent,” Jack said, taking a seat so he could see the entire room. Officers were moving all around, going through drawers and collecting files and electronics.
She frowned slightly and said, “My husband would be upset to know that my accent is still detectable by strangers. I’ve worked hard to rid myself of it over the years.”
“I think it shows you’re human,” I said. “Strong emotion tends to take us back to what is familiar. You’ve had a lot of strong emotions in the last twenty-four hours.”
She sighed and took the seat across from us, her back facing the stairs.
