“You’re not quite out of the woods yet, however,” she said, and nodded her head toward the backpack.
This time, the process went much faster. She wiped the straps, the zipper, anything Roxy might have touched shortly after firing a weapon. Then, with her right hand, she gingerly removed all the contents from the backpack. The black sweatshirt, a ball cap, a battered blue folder, tons of wrappers from protein bars, some matches, bear spray, a penlight, unused shoelaces, duct tape, a half-consumed bottle of water. Not a bad bugout kit, particularly as I understood the reasoning behind the contents.
But no handgun in the pack. And no traces of GSR inside or out.
“This isn’t a slam dunk,” D.D. said at last, peeling off the second mitt and sealing it in its original plastic envelope. “For all I know, this simply proves you were wearing gloves at the time of the shootings—”
“No gloves this morning.” I spoke up. “I could see skin—pale hands gripping the pistol.”
D.D. slid me a glance. “As I mentioned, the test should’ve been administered immediately after the shooting—”
“But as you said, what are the odds of her having washed it all off? Even removed from beneath her nails, and from her backpack? And haven’t I read cases where traces of GSR were found on the suspect’s belongings weeks after the murder?”
D.D. skewered me with a second glance. “The complete absence of findings,” she provided dryly, “does work in Roxy’s favor. So much so that I don’t think I’ll drag her sorry ass down to headquarters and throw her in jail just yet. But, Roxy, I need you to talk to me. Your family is dead. You’ve been on the run for twenty-four hours. Who are you hiding from?”
“I don’t . . .” She glanced at Sarah and me as if looking for assistance. “I’m not sure.”
D.D. pulled out the other chair and took a seat across from Roxy. “So why’d you buy the gun?”
“What gun? I don’t have a gun. You just searched my entire pack.”
“Then you left it behind at the community theater. Stashed it in a cubbyhole. Maybe buried it in another flower bed, such as you did at your house.”
“I don’t—” Roxy paused. Closed her mouth. “Oh,” she said at last. “That gun.”
“Yes. That gun. The twenty-two I recovered in your backyard. Why’d you buy that gun?”
“It wasn’t mine. I don’t know much about guns. And talking to the group—they don’t recommend guns. Especially if you haven’t been properly trained or don’t have any experience.” She glanced at Sarah and me again. We were both sitting on the floor now, as there wasn’t enough room in the tiny parlor, but no way were we leaving Roxy alone with the detective. Sarah had Rosie snuggled up with her, while Blaze already had his head resting on my lap.
“Gee, how civic-minded of them,” D.D. drawled now. “And yet, in the backyard of your house, raised garden bed, we recovered a twenty-two.”
“Lola,” Roxy whispered. “I found the gun one morning under her mattress. We, um . . . we had a fight. I couldn’t believe she had a gun. I couldn’t believe she’d brought it into the house. Forget Mom—what if Manny had found it? What then?”
“Why did Lola have a gun?”
“She said she was supposed to have it. Las Ni?as Diablas. She’d joined the gang. And members carried guns.”
“Las Ni?as Diablas are known for their knife work,” I said from the floor.
Roxy smiled faintly. “I said that’s what Lola told me. I didn’t say I believed her.”
“Your thirteen-year-old sister acquired a twenty-two and brought it into the house? And you, what, buried it in the garden?”
“It was our compromise. She wouldn’t give it up. Swore she had to have it. I finally got her to agree to keep it out of the house.”
“Sounds to me like your sister was scared.” D.D.’s voice softened almost imperceptibly. “You scared, too, Roxy?”
Roxy nodded, and for just one moment, her shoulders trembled.
“My mom was so happy,” she whispered. “‘I met this great guy. He even has his own house. Three whole bedrooms.’ All we had to do was move back to Brighton. Lola and I . . . We didn’t have the heart to tell her. We’d made a promise, sworn never to talk of those days. How could we bring them up now?” She looked at D.D. “We should’ve talked. We should’ve told everything. But Mother Del’s was four years ago. We thought we were bigger, older, stronger. We honestly thought we could handle it this time.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Roberto. First day at high school, there he was. He actually walked right on by me, his arm around Anya’s shoulders. Then I saw the click. The moment of recognition. The two of them slowed, turned around. He stared at me. Then he smiled. Just like those days at Mother Del’s. That smile that isn’t really a smile. And I knew I was in trouble. I knew it. I just didn’t know how bad.”
“What happened at Mother Del’s?” D.D. asked.
Roxy ignored the question. “I found Mike Davis next. Once I saw Roberto and Anya, reaching out to Mike made the most sense. Of course he still lived at Mother Del’s. He didn’t have any parents left, no get-out-of-jail card for him, he liked to say. He was so skinny. I swear, he must’ve stopped eating the day I left. But we hugged and he bounced and . . . and . . . it seemed more manageable. The two of us had dealt with Roberto and Anya before. We could do this. And Lola wasn’t even in the high school. I told Mike we’d figure this out.
“But, of course, the whispers started. Then Lola came home three days in a row, her clothes torn, knuckles scraped. Kids were talking, she said. About her. About us. About what kind of girls we’d been while in foster care.
“I thought she might break again. Return to being a shadow of herself. But this time . . . she didn’t want to retreat. She was all about the fight. Our mom was called into the principal’s office week after week. New school, the principal assured her. Lola just needed time to settle in. I didn’t know about that. But it turned out, my little sister packs a mean punch. The more they pushed, the harder she retaliated, and within a matter of months, she’d made a reputation for herself. So much so, Las Ni?as Diablas wanted her.
“I tried to talk her out of it. She saw the power. When she was with them, she felt special, she told me. Then she came home to me. She practically spat the word. The big sister who was always telling her what to do, treating her like a baby. I’d spent so much of my life trying to take care of her, when I guess, all along, I’d only made her feel weak.
“She wasn’t going back, she told me. She was never again going to be little Lola, rocking babies at Mother Del’s. She wanted to become a she-devil instead.”
Roxy smiled mirthlessly. “And then, of course, just to seal the deal: Roberto. And that damn photo.”
“It was a picture of you.” I spoke up softly from the floor.
Roxy didn’t say anything right away. “You want to know what happened at Mother Del’s? Everything you think. Every terrible story you’ve read about abused, neglected, assaulted kids. Roberto ran the show. And he was too big for any of us to fight with brute strength, so we did our best to incapacitate him with medications and sleep aids. But we couldn’t win all nights. Someone had to pay the price. Lola was only eight. It wouldn’t be her. I promised myself that.”
“He raped you,” D.D. said.
Roxy shrugged. “He had a way of putting it differently. A favor for a favor. As in, if I gave him what he wanted, he would leave my sister alone.”
“You can say the rest,” D.D. instructed gently. “It’s just us girls here, and we all know.”
Roxy looked up at the detective, tears in her eyes. “You do?”
“I’ve been doing this a long time, honey. Roberto isn’t the first one to use this trick.”
I knew what she meant. Beside me, Sarah was nodding. It was just us girls here, and we understood.