“She didn’t know.”
Ben glanced toward the room where Rosie lay unconscious.
“Claire, trust no one who tells you Rosie was confused.”
Then he walked away.
Daniel Mercer arrived at my house forty minutes later in an unmarked black sedan.
He looked like an older, heavier version of Ben, with the same dark eyes and habit of scanning every doorway before entering a room.
I stood on my porch beneath a sky bruised purple with approaching rain.
“You came alone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
“Show me your badge.”
His eyebrows rose.
“You’ve known me since you were ten.”
“Show me.”
He did.
I stepped aside.
My house had never felt dangerous before. It was a narrow craftsman on Willow Street, with pale green siding, uneven floors, and a kitchen Rosie loved because the cabinets were painted yellow.
She had helped me choose that color.
Sunshine belongs inside too, she had said.
Now every shadow seemed occupied.
