His heart twisted in his chest. He’d been too harsh. He was tense and on edge. If only he hadn’t bought that fucking champagne. This morning, before his run—just a half hour to help him cope with the stress—he’d gone downstairs to examine the carnage. It was then that he saw it, that piece of clear glass wrapped in pink foil, lying in the detritus like a bullet cartridge. He’d picked it up and gingerly placed it in the pocket of his hoodie. On his run, he’d deposited it in a park trash can about three miles from the house. He felt like a criminal, but better safe than sorry. But where was the rest of the bottle? Where were the other bottles?
He glanced over at Hannah, her forehead still pressed against the passenger window. “It’s all going to be fine,” he said, patting her leg. “But the police will want to know where you got the drugs.”
Hannah looked over at him and spoke in a flat voice. “I can’t remember who brought what.”
THE OFFICERS ARRIVED shortly after Jeff and Hannah. Surprisingly, they weren’t the same ones who had interviewed them at the hospital. These two were both male: a slightly chubby white guy in a uniform and an athletic African American in a sport coat. Jeff tried not to read too much into their dress, but didn’t detectives usually wear street clothes? There was no way they’d elevated this incident, was there? The officers introduced themselves as Inspectors Bahar and Davis. Inspectors. But wouldn’t their differing outfits indicate a difference in rank? He’d have to look up police dress code after they left.
It had tortured Kim not to clean up the blood, glass, and vomit in the basement, but she had dutifully complied. Jeff and his spouse hovered near the door as the policemen surveyed “the scene.” The men wandered through the rooms, bending over to peer at the shards of glass on the floor, examining the blood, the puke, but touching nothing. No one took notes, which Jeff found encouraging. Eventually, Davis, the fit cop in street clothes, addressed them. “We need to speak to you and your daughter.”
They all sat at one end of the massive, reclaimed-wood dining table, Jeff, Kim, and Hannah facing the two inspectors. Jeff didn’t know where Aidan was. Kim had obviously sent him out somewhere to spare him the trauma of his family’s interrogation. The policemen covered most of the same ground that their colleagues had the night of the incident. They were thorough but sounded slightly bored: a good sign. As before, Kim was laying it on thick.
“We clearly set the ground rules. No drinking, drugs, porn, or boys.” She shot Hannah a look. “We assumed the girls would follow the rules. Hannah’s never been in trouble before. She’s an excellent student. . . . She plays the piano.” Kim seemed to think that anyone who played the piano was beyond reproach. Had she never heard of Jerry Lee Lewis?
Inspector Bahar, in the uniform, turned to Hannah. “How much alcohol was at your party?”
“I don’t know. Some vodka. And whiskey. Some champagne.”
“Can we see the empty bottles?”
Hannah answered, “We got rid of them.”
Thank God . . . But when? And how?
Inspector Davis read Jeff’s mind. “How did you get rid of them? And when?”
All eyes were on Hannah now. She looked small and terrified. She stared at her fingers, picking at her chipped nail polish. It was black. Since when did she start wearing black nail polish? He’d have to ask Kim about it. “I put the vodka in a stainless-steel water bottle. It’s back in the cupboard, I guess. We put the other bottles in the recycling bin in the alley. Before Ronni fell.”
The inspector addressed Kim. “When does your recycling get picked up?”
“Wednesdays.”
“So the bottles should still be there?”
“Why do you need the bottles?” Jeff asked. He was going for a casual tone, but his voice sounded tense and high-pitched in his own ears.
“To verify quantities. If we found six empty vodka bottles, we’d suspect your daughter was lying.”
Bahar stood up. “I’ll go.”
Kim jumped up, too. “I’ll show you where it is.”
The others sat quietly as Kim led the uniformed officer out the back door. Inspector Davis turned to Hannah. “Your mom seems pretty strict.”
It was Jeff who answered, “She is.”
The inspector allowed himself a smirk before addressing Hannah again. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me while she’s not here?”
Hannah shrugged. “No.”
“Or without your dad here?”
Jeff half stood. “I can go. . . .” He felt so eager to please this policeman, so eager to prove that he had nothing to hide. It was bordering on pathetic. And probably making him look guilty.
“No,” Hannah said, eyes fixed on her nail polish.
“Where did you buy the drugs?”
“I didn’t buy them. Someone had them. I don’t even know who. . . . Ronni took some, I guess. I didn’t see.”
Davis leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Hannah. “So you’ve told us everything?” Hannah nodded. Davis continued, “Because if we find out later that you’ve kept something from us—”
“I’ve told you everything!” Hannah blurted. She looked the officer in the eye. “Ronni wanted to get wasted. She had more than the rest of us. She was stupid. We were all stupid. None of us will ever do it again.”
Inspector Davis held Hannah’s gaze but said nothing. It was probably a police tactic designed to pressure suspects into divulging more information. Any second now, Hannah would throw up her hands and say: “Okay, okay, my dad bought us champagne, too! That’s what really tipped Ronni over the edge!”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Davis said, but he didn’t look glad. He looked disapproving. And suspicious. But that could have been through the lens of Jeff’s guilty conscience.
Kim and Inspector Bahar returned. The inspector spoke. “There are no bottles out there.”
Jeff responded quickly. “There are quite a few vagrants in the area. You put something worth a couple of cents in the alley and it’s gone in a flash.”
“It’s true,” Kim said. “The Terrace and Annex house a lot of low-income people. They’ve even come into the backyard when we’ve left a few beer cans outside.”
The inspectors shared an unreadable look and Jeff realized how he and Kim sounded. Snobby. Elitist. He hoped these cops weren’t part of the anti-gentrification contingent that resented the influx of tech professionals into formerly working-class neighborhoods. Thankfully, Davis clapped his hands on his knees. “I think we’re done here.” He stood, signaling the end of the interrogation.
Kim and Jeff trailed them to the door. Hannah scurried upstairs—to text her friends or maybe cry some more. Davis handed Kim a business card. “If you think of anything else that might be relevant . . .”
“Of course.”
“Thanks for your cooperation,” Bahar said, reaching for the door handle.
Jeff had to say something. He couldn’t let them walk out without knowing where he and Kim stood. “So what happens now?” The officers paused. Jeff felt Kim’s disapproving glare on him, but he plowed ahead. “Are we in any sort of trouble here? Do we need to get a lawyer?”
Davis spoke. “We’ve found nothing to date that would deem you criminally responsible or negligent.”
“Thank you,” Jeff said. He felt, and sounded, vindicated. The officers left, and he closed the door behind them, turning the lock.
He looked at his wife and his own relief reflected back at him. The moment seemed to call for something, some kind of gesture or statement to mark their absolution. He reached out and patted Kim’s shoulder. She smiled back at him.
“I’m going for a swim,” he said.
kim
FOUR DAYS AFTER