The evening air was cool as Geneva and Becca sat beside the gas fire pit on the back patio. Her parents had gone out to dinner, leaving their usual warning about not using the fire pit. Sometimes it seemed to Geneva that they truly believed she was ten years old.
Before she and Becca had come outside, Geneva had turned off the lights in the great room, leaving the backyard dark except for the fairy lights wrapped around the lower trunks of the aspen trees along the right side of their yard, and the string of bulbs that decorated the edges of the patio covering.
With the lights and the flames of the fire, the yard looked magical. She loved sitting in the dark, letting small lights fill the night air. It looked like fairies were flitting around them. Becca’s dark hair and eyes looked mysterious and almost dangerous in the flickering light. She wasn’t sure why she thought that, but the thought wouldn’t go away.
“Why are you so pouty?” Becca asked. She picked up her smoothie and took a long sip.
“If your aunt died, would you be in the best mood of your life? Not just died…beaten to death. It’s disgusting and so sad. It feels awful. And it’s scary.”
“Yeah, it’s scary. And I know you’re sad, but you seem pissed off.”
Geneva bent her head back and stared at the decorative bulbs around her. She liked staring at them until her eyes glazed over and everything got kind of blurry. “My mom’s crying all the time. She can’t talk about anything except my aunt, and a lot of things just kind of suck.”
“That’s how all of us were when Sara died,” Becca said. She lifted her long, curly hair off her shoulders and twisted it into a coil. She tucked the end inside the looped coil and formed a tidy bun.
Geneva had never been able to do that when her hair was long. Geneva’s was too silky and heavier, maybe. It ran through her fingers like ribbons, untwisting itself and falling back to her shoulders, driving her mad when she was trying to concentrate on studying. She loved having it shorter now, partly because it made her eyes look bigger. She should experiment more with makeup. Even though Faith was old, every time Geneva looked at her eyes, she wondered how she did her makeup so they seemed so huge. You couldn’t stop staring into them, watching every time she blinked. It was almost like she was hypnotizing you with those eyes.
“It’s not like I don’t want to talk about my aunt.” Geneva sighed. She couldn’t explain what was wrong. You felt how you felt: That was what the school counselor had said to her after Sara died, and her parents had agreed. They told her she should be honest about her feelings. There’s no right or wrong way to feel. Well, she wanted to be honest now, but no one really wanted to hear that. Not even Becca.
She took a sip of her smoothie. “I feel like all the adults in my life are MIA.”
“What do you need adults for?” Becca asked.
Geneva laughed. She stretched out her legs and propped her feet on the side of the brick ring, close to the flames that danced as if they were alive. “The woman next door—Faith—she was telling me about all the traveling she did. And she bought me this.” Geneva held up her arm, displaying the bracelet.
“You already showed me that.”
“I know, but it’s pretty amazing, don’t you think? A passport? It’s adorable. And classy! And it makes me think that traveling around the world will start turning into a real thing. Not just something I dream about.”
“Graduation isn’t for two years.”
“Two more years to convince my parents I’m smart enough to go traveling without them. It’s going to take a lot of work to convince them, and I thought Faith might help me, because she’s so into it herself. And she treats me like I know what I’m doing, not like a little kid. But now…” She sighed.
“Where did she go?”
“She’s hanging out with my mom all the time. Whispering and making plans. I don’t know. They’re furious that no one has been arrested for killing my aunt. So they’re trying to figure out themselves what happened.”
“How are they doing that?”
Geneva shrugged.
“Do you think they’ll ever catch him?” Becca asked.
Geneva stared at her. How was she supposed to know? It wasn’t as if she had a crystal ball or something. Although that would be very cool. She could gaze into it and find out how her parents would react to every explanation she gave, and then she would know which things to say and which to keep to herself.
“Maybe that’s why your parents are too scared to think about you going off around the world. There are scary people out there,” Becca said.
“I think they’re more worried about me never going to college. Or meeting some gorgeous Italian or Greek guy on a train. Someone who might lead me astray.” She laughed. “So are you coming with me?”
“You’re obsessed.”
“I’m not. Like I told you, I don’t want my life to be like everyone else’s. I want to experience everything,” Geneva said. “Don’t you want that?”
“I don’t know. I’m excited for college.”
Geneva picked up her smoothie. She wished she had a shot of vodka to pour in there right now. Maybe it would help her stop thinking so much about something so far away.
It wasn’t as if she wanted to escape from her family; she just wanted to see the world. She needed to see the world. It was like that was her purpose in life or something. She laughed softly. When Becca asked what was so funny, she just shrugged her shoulders. It was too hard to explain. She couldn’t even explain it to herself. And now, she felt more alone than ever. It didn’t sound like Becca wanted to travel. There was a stinging feeling inside her chest that made her feel like crying.
The following morning, Geneva was woken by the doorbell a few minutes after nine. She loved sleeping late on Sundays, and that drama queen of a doorbell sounded like a gong inside her head. The bell rang a second time. That never happened. Her mom loved rushing to answer the door, always excited to see who might be standing there.
She slid out of bed and put on her robe. She stepped into the hallway. Her parents’ bedroom door was still closed. Even stranger. But they hadn’t come home until after midnight, which she supposed meant her father’s hope of getting her mother out of the house, her mind off Alice for a few hours, had worked. They’d probably stayed up until two watching old movies, which they often did after a dinner out.
She rounded the corner and opened the front door without checking the side window. Detective Taft stood on the front porch. “Hi,” Geneva said. “How come you’re here?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Me?”
He stared at her, obviously not appreciating what he thought of as a delaying tactic, although she hadn’t thought of it that way. She glanced over her shoulder. “My parents—”
“Please ask one of them to join you, if they prefer, although this isn’t an official interview. I just have a few basic questions.”
She stared at him. What was he talking about? “They’re asleep.”
“As I said, this is nothing official. So if you don’t mind, may I come in?”
“I guess.” She turned and headed toward the back of the house, trusting him to follow.
When she was settled on the couch, she glanced toward the kitchen, wishing for a glass of juice, but it was too late. As she gazed longingly at the fridge, her mother appeared in the doorway. It almost felt like her mother had special radar that told her someone who didn’t belong was in the house, or that her daughter might need her.
“What are you doing?” Hadley walked quickly toward the entrance to the great room. Her voice was sharp and loud, like a thunderclap through the quiet room.
Detective Taft stood. “I have a few questions for Geneva.”
“And you thought you could sneak in here first thing on a Sunday morning and interrogate her without me finding out? You’re required to have a parent in the room. She’s fifteen.”
“It’s not an official—”
“You’re a detective, you’re asking questions about a murder, it’s official.”
“I told Geneva she could—”
“I don’t care what you told her. She’s a minor. You talk to me.”
Geneva stared at her mother, shocked to hear her arguing with a police officer.
“Please join us,” Detective Taft said. “This will only take a few minutes.”
“Now is not a convenient time.” Her mother tugged at the sides of her thin cotton robe, pulling it more tightly around her.
“Mom, it’s okay. I’d rather get it over with.” Geneva felt her mother’s icy stare. She really did want to get this over with, to crawl back into her bed and wake up slowly. It was a big deal over nothing. She didn’t know anything. It was hard to imagine what he would ask her.
Hadley walked into the room and stood at the end of the couch.
“Please have a seat.” The detective settled himself in the armchair.
Her mother remained standing.
The detective turned his attention to Geneva. “I’d like to hear about your aunt from your perspective, Geneva.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Hadley asked.
The detective kept his attention on Geneva. “It’s important to have a full picture of the victim, Ms. Walker. This crime is about the victim as much as it’s—”
“That’s all it’s about,” Hadley said.
“Please let me ask my questions without commenting.”
He was still looking at Geneva, talking only to her, it seemed. “The more we know about your aunt and the various aspects of her life, the better we can gain insights into the crime and, through that, her killer.”
Her killer. It sounded almost intimate, the way he said that. As if the killer belonged to Alice, as if they had a relationship even if he was a total stranger.
“She was fun,” Geneva said. “She liked to laugh. She really loved her job.”
“How did you feel about her?”
“I loved her. She read me lots of stories when I was little, and was always buying books and games for me. She took me places without my parents, and after, we always went out for ice cream or pizza. When I got older, she took me out for nice lunches.”
“So you were close.”
“Yes,” Geneva said.
“Did you ever fight?”
Her mother made a sound, but didn’t say anything coherent.
“Not really, no. I don’t remember fighting with her.”
“And what about your parents? Were there disagreements?”
Geneva could feel her mother’s anger, like heat coming off her body, filling the room. “Nothing important. They might argue about what restaurant was better, or whether my school was good, other things like that.”
“Was your father affectionate toward your aunt?”
“That’s out of line,” Hadley said. “You have no right to ask her questions like that.”
“Please, Ms. Walker. This is important. You want us to find your sister’s killer, don’t you?”
“That’s a ridiculous question. But asking about my husband and hounding my daughter is not going to do that.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Geneva said. “It’s not like they were all touchy. He hugged her when she came to visit and before she went back home. That was about it.”
“That was about it—are you suggesting there might have been more?”
“Oh my God,” Hadley said. “You’re s—”
“No,” Geneva said. “Nothing more. They got along. They liked each other, that’s all. Alice asked him advice sometimes.”
“What kind of advice?”
“About her car when it needed service. She asked what he thought about her school when there were controversies around the university.”
Detective Taft nodded. “And there was never any open conflict?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see them alone, or see them interacting in a way that made you feel confused?”
“This is bullshit,” Hadley said. She stepped around the end of the couch and sat beside Geneva. “Are you almost finished trying to paint a sick picture of my husband and sister in my daughter’s mind?”
“I wasn’t confused,” Geneva said. “They got along.”
The detective stood and gave her a penetrating stare. “Did you hear your father go out running the day your aunt died?”
“No.”
“Did you hear your aunt leave that morning?”
“No.”
“Did you ever think your aunt had romantic feelings toward your father?”
“That’s enough,” Hadley said. She stood and stepped in front of Geneva, banging her shin on the coffee table. She winced. “No more questions.”
“I’m sorry this is upsetting for you,” the detective said.
“She didn’t have romantic feelings for my dad!” Geneva felt her voice was as loud and angry sounding as her mother’s, but she didn’t care. This was disgusting, and she didn’t want to think about it.
Detective Taft moved toward the door. “Thank you both. I appreciate you answering my questions. If I have more—”
“There won’t be any more,” Hadley said.
“Thank you again.” The detective stepped into the hallway. His shoes thudded on the hardwood as he walked toward the front of the house. The lock turned with a loud click, and the door opened. Then it closed, and Geneva and her mother were surrounded by silence.
Her mother flopped down on the couch and leaned her head on Geneva’s shoulder.
Despite the comfort of her mother’s warmth, Geneva felt more alone than she had since the day Sara died. The detective’s questions made it sound like her aunt was a total stranger. When someone died, life was never the same, no matter how hard you tried to make it that way. She’d known that when Sara died, and it was the same now.
She would never laugh and talk with her aunt again. She wondered if she would ever be best friends with Becca the way she’d been with Sara. She closed her eyes and whispered silently in her mind, telling the tears to stay inside her head where no one would see them.