Tracey led the fridge-stocking initiative, which she turned into a full production, moving juice boxes and cartons of milk around with overblown authority, snapping at Peggy Shoemaker that they had to “put the big ones in first,” when Peggy tried to put her Frito pie in before Rachel Kauffman’s tuna casserole.
After what felt like a lifetime, Krissy ushered them back outside with a tight, plastered-on smile. As they filed out, each Bird gripped her hand in their own and promised to pray. When she finally shut the door behind them, she let out a breath, closed her eyes, and rested her head against the door.
When she opened her eyes again, she realized she was alone. The detectives and Billy had disappeared. From down the hall, she heard Billy’s voice, and he must’ve been talking on the phone because it was the only one she could hear. After a moment of muffled conversation, she heard a click as the receiver was put back in its cradle, then footsteps in the hall.
“Where did the detectives go?” Krissy asked when he appeared in the doorway.
“They left. For now, at least. Said they’d be in touch tomorrow.”
She sighed. It had been two days of grief and interrogation and it already seemed like it’d been a lifetime. She felt the exhaustion in her bones. “Who was on the phone?”
Billy cleared his throat. “A TV producer. From Headline with Sandy Watters.”
“Headline with Sandy Watters?” Along with 20/20 and 60 Minutes, Headline with Sandy Watters was one of the biggest investigative shows on TV.
He nodded. “They want us to do an interview.”
“Jesus…”
“I think we should do it.”
Krissy snapped her head up. “You—what? Are you insane?”
“That producer, she said our case is already getting twisted in the news. That they’re skewering us on Lisa and Bob in the Morning.”
“Billy—”
“She said if worse comes to worst, if one of us is…arrested, she doesn’t think we could get a fair trial anywhere in the country right now. Because of, like…biases and stuff. Like, the jury would’ve seen how we’re being represented and wouldn’t wanna be fair. She says we need to take control of the narrative—”
Krissy rolled her eyes. “Billy, of course she’s gonna say that. It’s her job.”
“No, Kris.” His voice was unusually firm. “Just listen. She said she bets there are a dozen news teams outside our house right now, which there are, and that the public is gonna expect us to say something to one of them, to make some sort of statement. And she said Sandy would be the best person to help us shape what we actually want to say.”
Krissy, who’d been rubbing the bridge of her nose, dropped her hand. “This isn’t a good idea, Billy. We don’t know what the police are thinking right now and we don’t know what some TV host could ask—”
But Billy interrupted. “She said if we don’t do something, if we don’t make some sort of appearance, it’s gonna look like we have something to hide. And we can’t look like we have anything to hide right now.”
Krissy snapped her eyes to his. “We don’t have anything to hide.”
Billy held her gaze for a long moment and she could tell he didn’t believe her. “Exactly,” he said finally. “That’s exactly why we should go on this show.”
* * *
—
The Headline with Sandy Watters studio in New York City was bigger in real life than it looked on TV. Whenever Krissy watched the show, Sandy and her guest always looked cozy, tucked into leather chairs, flowers on the coffee table between them. But as she, Billy, and Jace walked into the room where they would film the interview, Krissy could see that it wasn’t a room at all, but a set with three fake walls. Where the fourth would have been was a slew of enormous cameras on rolling stands, men in headsets guiding them around. The place buzzed with energy and self-importance.
Their entrance was a whirlwind of introductions—to the producer, who gave them the rundown of what to expect; to the sound guy, who affixed little microphones to their collars; to the makeup woman, who patted their foreheads with a brush; and, finally, to Sandy Watters herself. Unlike her studio, Sandy looked smaller in person. Her iconic red hair was, as usual, hairsprayed into an immovable wisp around her head. Her skirt suit was baby blue, her earrings pearls. In her midforties, she was the perfect balance of down-to-earth enough to be relatable and professional enough to be taken seriously.
After they’d all shaken hands, the four of them were arranged on the furniture, Jace between Krissy and Billy on the couch, Sandy across from them in an armchair. Sandy gave her introduction to the camera, in which she recapped the brutal murder of January in neat bullet points, then announced her very special guests.
“Welcome, Jacobs family,” she said in her honey voice as she turned to them. “Thank you for being here with me tonight.”
Krissy nodded tightly. Before they started rolling, Sandy told them not to be nervous because they weren’t live, but Krissy didn’t think she’d ever been this nervous in her life. She had not wanted to do this with Jace, but Billy had argued that he would make them look like the wholesome family they were supposed to be. Krissy couldn’t insist without telling him the truth, so eventually, she’d given in, though only after telling Sandy’s team there were to be no questions targeted at Jace. The next thing she knew, she was booking the three of them flights to New York at the end of the week and a hotel by the airport, praying that a twenty-four-hour trip in the middle of a long investigation would inflict less damage than sticking around and doing nothing.
When their plane had begun its descent, Krissy had gazed through the little oval window, down at the city of possibility and light, aching with regret. For so long she’d dreamed of coming here, of escaping Wakarusa and her dead-end marriage, dreamed of a big, dazzling life. How different the circumstances of this trip were. How different her life had turned out, so far from how it was supposed to be.
“This story,” Sandy continued, leaning forward slightly, “January’s story—is such a tragedy. Every parent’s worst nightmare. But on top of that, it’s also a confounding one. From everything we’ve seen on the news up to this point, the investigation looks like a bit of a mess. So, tonight, I invite you to tell your version. To set the record straight.”
Sandy’s first few questions were, Krissy knew, intended to be softballs to get her and Billy talking: What was January like? What has the town’s reaction been? Can you walk through that awful morning when you discovered she was gone? That last one Krissy had answered so many times for the police she could probably recite the words in her sleep.
“Now,” Sandy said after they finished. “I think most of America, myself included, is interested in January’s dancing.” Krissy felt Billy shift beside her. “By now we’ve all seen the photos. And those costumes seem so…grown-up.”
Krissy’s cheeks burned, but she’d been expecting this and she’d rehearsed her answer. “The pictures in the media are of the most extreme costumes she ever wore. Most of them were just your run-of-the-mill children’s costumes—bumblebees, ladybugs, that sort of thing.”
“And one of them was of a sexy sailor.”
Krissy blinked. “January loved to dance. And she took it very seriously. The costumes were a part of that world.”
Sandy shifted her narrowed gaze to Billy then back again. “But are the two of you at all concerned that your daughter’s dancing and those costumes are a part of the reason she’s now dead? That it attracted the attention of some sort of predator?”
Krissy bit the inside of her cheek and heard Billy swallow beside her. She knew they shouldn’t have come on this fucking show. No matter how many times she’d rehearsed answers in front of their bathroom mirror, she couldn’t have prepared for this. No matter what they said, they were admitting guilt. They’d either dressed their daughter up as a human lure or they didn’t believe it was a stranger who’d killed her, which would direct the attention of Sandy—and the rest of the country—onto them.