The next day I put on a sundress and made coffee. I thought I’d be more affected by the K, but I felt normal, like it had happened to somebody else. I liked being with Danielle’s friends. I could relax around them, like they’d been preapproved. My computer lay open, sleeping, and when I moved the mouse the screen brightened, still showing the porn site. What the hell, I thought, and played the video I’d seen before, of Danielle and Audrey together.
Audrey wore a simple shift that hung loosely, showing her body through the sheer fabric. Her slender back and bare feet and the way she moved, deliberately, with her eyes open wide, didn’t mesh with Danielle’s bratty cartoon appeal. The two women kissed, turning for the camera. Audrey sat on a bench and Danielle knelt over her, pushing her thigh between Audrey’s legs.
How could her death exist in the same world as this tacky video? It was impossible, nonsensical. I wept and kept watching. Audrey reached to touch Danielle’s face. They smiled at each other, genuine. I felt a vibration in my sinuses and deep in my joints, an inaudible singing, like missing every place I’d ever been—every room, every park, every street I’d driven down in my whole life. I longed for them all at once, astonished at the pain, the inability to access the past. Usually I never knew what to want. Now suddenly I wanted everything. The world rushed from me, like each moment of the wanting had already ended by the time I perceived it. I was helpless to make it stay.
A man entered the frame and the girls turned to him. He was one of the ones I met. Kenneth, maybe? I couldn’t remember his name. One of the other guys came in and I watched the rest absentmindedly, a series of acrobatic permutations among the four of them.
I thought of the photos of Danielle’s body. Someone had beaten her until she stopped moving, and kept hitting her until her head caved in. I pressed my hands to my face, felt the hardness of my own skull. I couldn’t fathom the passion, the energy it would take to break a person’s head. What had Danielle done to make someone that crazy? She and Brandon had fought, but I believed his story. I couldn’t see him following her to the motel. It really bothered me that Sally hadn’t told me about the land. Or about seeing Danielle. She could have mentioned it. There was no reason not to.
I decided to talk to Sally again. Something weird was going on and I had a bad feeling that I was in the middle of it. The day was hot and breezy. I took my bike out. I rode on the sidewalk, wound through patched parking lots and bayou trails and walled streets lined with maples, the tops of townhomes visible beyond them. In River Oaks the streets were shaded by live oaks whose branches formed a canopy above the road. The neighborhood felt a couple of degrees cooler than the rest of the city. How did they do that? Were they air-conditioning the outside?
I rounded the corner of Sally’s block and stopped in front of her house, watching the Mexican workers mowing the neighbor’s grass and carrying bags of mulch from their trucks. I walked my bike up Sally’s drive and through the gate, past the outdoor room where we’d sat the other night. The pool threw off shards of light. A few leaves floated near the tiled sides, and a leggy begonia in a pot drooped, touching the water. Red caladiums rustled under a drake elm, and large pots filled with bamboo lined the side of the yard. A couple of spindly lemon trees shed sparse leaves onto the mulch below. A voice startled me.
“Charlotte? Sweetheart. Come on in.”
Sally stood in the entrance to the screened patio. I’d meant to confront her about the land, find out about the fight they’d had, but she looked so grateful to see me I couldn’t say a word. I let her lead me inside, through the dining room’s French doors. The room I remembered had been a rich coffee color. She’d repainted the walls red. I liked it better before. The table shone with wax.
“I’ll fix us some iced tea,” Sally said from the kitchen. “It’s hot out there. Are you hungry? There’s leftovers from the caterer—artichokes, some grilled shrimp—I’ll make a plate. This shrimp is delish. Wait till you try it.”
I sat on a stool at the kitchen counter while Sally dished out food. She poured tea into tumblers and added lemon wedges. We carried our plates into the breakfast nook. It disoriented me to be at the table, sharing a meal with her. Like I was in high school again, and Danielle was pouting in the other room, and my mom was alive, at home. I took a bite of shrimp.
“This is good,” I said. I’d been forgetting to eat lately.
“I’m glad you dropped by.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was finding it hard to confront her.
“I miss her,” she said.
“Me, too,” I said.
“I mean, I’ve been missing her for years.”
I blinked, surprised. Sally had always pretended everything was fine, even when Danielle used to scream at her. She’d smile at me and say, “Oh, teenagers,” like I wasn’t one, and ask me about school.
Sally said, “The other day I didn’t tell you how much I appreciated you. If you hadn’t put us in touch, I wouldn’t have gotten to see her again.”
“It was nothing,” I said.
“I’m grateful for it,” she said. “I’m so thankful. If I had known it would be the last time . . . I don’t know.”
“What happened?” I said.
Maybe Sally was finally going to talk honestly to me. She stood and poured more tea, and when she turned around I saw her mask was back up.
“We had a great dinner—paella from that place out on Bellaire,” she said. “Have you tried it? It’s exactly like what I had in Spain. And they have that Serrano ham.”
“I meant how was Danielle?” I said.
“Oh, fine. She looked healthy, don’t you think? Not too skinny. We talked about Aunt Baby. I used to take Danielle out there for visits. Those two adored each other. They baked cookies together and invented these silly dances. It was the cutest.”
“I can’t imagine Danielle doing that stuff,” I said.
“Want to see some pictures? I had them out to show her. Let’s go in the den.”
We used to watch TV in the den. New couches of dark leather anchored the Persian rug. Sally adjusted the wooden shutters to let some light in.
“You’ve changed the room around,” I said.
“Oh, of course. I get tired of the same old stuff.”
She pulled a suede-covered photo album off the shelf and sat beside me. We opened it on our laps. Sure enough, there was little Danielle in a kitchen with an older woman. They both had chocolate cake batter around their mouths and the woman was grinning. Another picture showed Danielle in pigtails sitting astride a brown pony, clearly thrilled. We flipped the pages, studying each image of this lovely child in jeans and pink tees. It must have been before the thing happened with her uncle. I’d never seen Danielle smile like that.
“How old was she here?” I said.
“About nine. A couple years after this we stopped going out there. Baby had a stroke, and she couldn’t get around. We had to sell the animals. She said to me once, ‘It’s hell getting old.’ I didn’t think it was healthy for Danielle to be around that kind of attitude. Her life hadn’t really turned out how she wanted, and then when her health declined she was so bitter. And she couldn’t ride. Danielle would’ve gotten bored.”
The next page contained pictures of the land, farmhouse and fences.
“Hard to believe,” Sally said. “Now this is surrounded by development. Back then it was all horse pastures and cane fields.”
“Is this the land Baby left to her?” I said.
“Yes. Danielle’s parcel is adjacent to my six acres.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m putting together a mixed commercial-residential development—we’re ready to break ground as soon as it clears probate.”
“You’ve had this planned? What, have you been waiting around for your aunt to die?”
“Come on, sweetie. I took care of Baby. She was dying for years. It simply made sense.”
“That’s why you tried to buy Danielle’s share. You need it for your development.”
“Well, partly. But she had to sell. Think what Danielle would have done with four acres in the middle of Tomball. Can you see her maintaining it, getting it Bush Hogged, paying property taxes?”
“I guess not,” I said.
“Let me refill your tea,” Sally said.
“I don’t want any more,” I said. I wanted a real drink, but I wasn’t going to ask. “What happened when she told you she wanted to keep the land?”
“How do you know about all this, anyway? Did she talk to you about it?”
“Her friend told me,” I said. “I know she was upset.”
“She needed some time to think it over. She called me later. I had offered her three hundred for it and she countered with four, plus a two-point share in the profits.”
I wasn’t sure I believed her. Why would Danielle change her mind? It didn’t make sense, just to hold out for more money. Danielle never cared about money.
“A two-point share? How much would that be?” I said.
“Oh, two or three hundred more, depending on the market.”
With Danielle dead, that was over half a million dollars that Sally had saved. I stared at the photo album, unable to bring my eyes into focus. I felt hot in the air-conditioned room. My pulse beat in my temples.
Sally was still talking. “She stuck to her guns, she was a good negotiator. It made me proud of her. She could have been a fine businesswoman. I was going to help her invest the money, set it up in a trust.”
“A trust,” I echoed. Funny word. “Now what happens?”
“The land will be in probate a while, then it will revert to me.”
I nodded, tried to swallow.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said. “About the land, about your plans?”
“I don’t know,” Sally said. “I didn’t think it mattered. It wasn’t exactly your business.”
“Well, it mattered,” I said.
“Why, honey? What difference does it make?”
“Sally, you used me. If I had known—”
“Used you? Charlotte, I paid you. Besides, you just said it was nothing. A phone number.”
“Would you have even bothered getting in touch with her if you didn’t want the land for yourself?”
“Honey,” she said, “Don’t be like this. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Forget it,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Sally sighed. “I wish things hadn’t been so hard,” she said. “Danielle was such a sweet little girl. Around when she turned twelve or so . . . well, puberty is always difficult, those hormones. And I guess she blamed me for the divorce.”
“No, she didn’t,” I said. “I mean, maybe, but she got over that.”
“Of course you didn’t know her then.”
“Sally, stop pretending. It was because of your brother.”
“She talked to you about that?”
“Well, I was her friend.” The last word came out vicious. Sally didn’t seem to notice. She sat on the edge of the couch, twisting her sapphire ring with the other hand.
“She didn’t tell me until after he moved back to Denver,” she said.
“She told you and you still saw him, still let him in your house. Her house.”
“Charlotte, what was I supposed to do? He flew in from Colorado. I didn’t even know he was coming, he just showed up for dinner. Was I supposed to send him away at the door?”
“Yes,” I said. “That is exactly what you were supposed to do.”
“Gary and I had just split up,” she said. “I was trying to keep our lives normal, to have a regular Thanksgiving, with people around.”
“Fine, but not him,” I said.
“It would have caused a scene. We had—Jesus, I had colleagues here. Investors. I told him that weekend not to come back. Gary took off, left town with his bimbo, I had to make the money—”
“A scene,” I said, disgusted. “That’s what you cared about?”
“Look, my own brother . . . we grew up together. I knew him. I mean, it was hard to believe.”
“She didn’t make it up,” I said.
“I know that now. But back then, Charlotte, she hated me. She lied about everything. I wasn’t sure. There was so much else going on. Danielle would never let it go.”
“How could she? Nobody gets over something like that. Jesus. She was a little girl.”
“I know,” Sally said. “Of course you’re right. But what could I do? By the time I found out, it was already over.”
“Sally, she was completely alone. How can you not see that? You let him in your house, and she knew you didn’t care about her.”
“I did care. She’s my child. Of course I cared. You know I sent her to therapy as soon as she told me what happened. I found the best doctors. But she lied to them, too, she just made up nonsense, or sometimes she wouldn’t speak at all. We tried medication, antidepressants, but she refused to take them. She wouldn’t let me help. She was so difficult. She specifically tried to antagonize me.”
“Can you blame her?” I said.
“It’s funny,” Sally said. “I gave her everything I had, and she didn’t care. Look how wonderful you turned out. I should have sent her to live with your mom.”
I gaped at her, said nothing. It didn’t deserve a response.
“Charlotte, I’m sorry,” she said after a minute.
She rose and tried to hug me. I stood there, holding my breath, and as soon as she let go I ran out the door. I rode fast out of that neighborhood, trying to keep in a straight line. At home I locked my bike and started up the steps. By the time I got inside and changed out of my sweaty clothes I had decided to call Ash. He answered on the first ring.
“I need to talk to you,” I said. “It’s about Danielle’s murder. I think it’s important.”
“I can come by in an hour, will that work?”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be at home.”
I thought about what Sally had said. It was true Danielle went out of her way to piss off her mom. The drugs, the stripping, the temper tantrums. She knew exactly what would embarrass Sally, what would upset her, make her feel powerless, and that’s what she did. I understood why, but even so, I felt sorry for Sally. She tried to believe she did the best she could, automatically justifying each of her mistakes. She knew how to spend money on a problem, and if that didn’t work, she was lost.
And Danielle did not forgive. She was not someone you could fuck with. But that wasn’t right, though, not exactly—people did fuck with Danielle, people hurt her all her life. Her uncle. Sally. Even her dad just left and never stayed in touch, never supported her. And then she got killed. How could someone do that to Danielle, when she was so tough and smart?
While I waited for Ash I called Sally back. She answered right away.
“Charlotte, honey,” she said. “I’m so sorry—”
“I have a question,” I said, cutting her off. “Where is your brother now?”
“I’m not sure. He’s still in Denver, as far as I know. I haven’t spoken to him since that Thanksgiving.”
“Thanks,” I said, and hung up.
I sat on the stoop, thinking and chain-smoking. If Danielle’s two-point share of the development was three hundred thousand dollars, that meant the whole project was worth fifty times that amount. I did the calculation: fifteen million. It was crazy to think Danielle stood at the hinge of a deal that huge.
Finally Ash showed up.
“Hi,” I said.
He sat down on the step beside me. “Charlotte, what’s going on?”
“I saw Sally,” I said.
“Sally Reeves?”
“She did something. Maybe something bad.”
“Why do you think that?” Ash said.
“The land, because of the land.”
“In Tomball? The inheritance?”
“Danielle wouldn’t sell it, so now that she’s dead Sally gets the land and she’ll make a ton of money. She always hated Danielle. She pretended not to but she always did. Do you know how much money it is? Fifteen million dollars, and it all depended on her doing what Sally wanted. And Danielle wouldn’t.”
“Sally wasn’t there,” Ash said gently. “She was at home. We have phone records, alarm records, a browser history. She took calls, she couldn’t have left without resetting the alarm.”
“Maybe she got someone else to do it,” I said. “Paid someone.”
“We know about the land, about the development. We know all about it.”
“Then do something.”
“We’re checking it out. Her financial records, her recent contacts. We are investigating it very carefully.”
“Good,” I said. “There’s something else. Sally has a brother.”
I told Ash about the abuse, the Thanksgiving dinner, and the rift between Sally and Danielle. “Maybe he came back,” I said. “Maybe he hurt her. That’s a motive, right? If she threatened to go to the police or something.”
“Yeah,” Ash said. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. Neither one of them ever said it.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“He used to send Danielle birthday cards every year, in high school. That’s it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I never told anyone. It was her secret.”
“You have to be up front with me,” he said. “If you’re not honest, I won’t be able to find out who killed her. You have to tell me everything.”
I nodded, and without warning I began to sob. He sat next to me, his arm around my shoulders, waiting until I got my breath.
“What do you say we go inside?”
I stood and opened the door. My legs felt wobbly. Ash led me to the couch and brought me a glass of water.
“I need to ask you some more questions,” he said. “You okay with that?”
I nodded.
“You ever hear about a guy named Eddie?” he said.
“No, who’s that?” I said.
“Danielle didn’t talk about him?”
I shook my head.
Ash frowned. “The clerk at the motel knew her. She worked out of there as an escort.”
“She’d been to that place before?”
“A few times. She met at least one guy there. We have a description.” Ash flipped a few pages of his notepad. “Medium height, five foot ten, white guy, late forties, dark hair, athletic.”
“He was there that night?”
“No one saw him. He was there with Danielle two months ago. The guy who works there remembered them.”
“Everybody remembers Danielle,” I said.
“We have another statement that Danielle occasionally saw a john named Eddie. Might be this guy, might not.”
“Who told you that?”
“Friend of Danielle’s. Audrey Wright.”
Why hadn’t Audrey told me about that, I wondered. No one told me shit. Whatever happened, I was on the outside of it.
“Seems weird, though,” I said. “That she would go there.”
“Why?”
“That motel looked so crappy. I guess I thought she’d be more . . . expensive.”
“You never know what people are into,” he said. “Or where they go to hide.”
“I guess,” I said.
“So you didn’t know about Eddie. What about Brandon Young, Danielle’s boyfriend?”
“He wasn’t really her boyfriend,” I said.
“Okay, what was he?”
“A friend, you know, a good friend.”
“They were sleeping together.”
“Yeah. But it wasn’t serious. He was trying to look out for her.”
“Oh? How?”
“He gave her advice, but she didn’t listen to him. He said it was the only time they ever got in a fight.”
“When was this?”
Fuck, I thought. Ash didn’t know. Brandon hadn’t told him.
“Nothing, I mean, Danielle was really stubborn, it wasn’t—”
“Where are you getting this information?”
“Brandon told me,” I said. “Look, he’s a good guy—”
“Charlotte. Tell me about the fight.”
I started to cry again. This time Ash was impatient. He didn’t try to comfort me.
“He’s got a history of aggression,” Ash said. “He was sleeping with the victim. And he has no alibi. If you have information I need to know it.”
“It’s not him,” I said. “No way.”
“Why no way? Because you like him? How well do you know him?”
“I just met him, at the memorial service.”
“Charlotte, you need to be careful around these people. What if he did it? You want to protect a murderer?”
I thought about last night, the connection I’d felt with Brandon. Not the sex, but the way he talked to me . . . there was no way it could be him. I couldn’t believe it.
“He wouldn’t have hurt her,” I said.
“Charlotte, what if you’re wrong? Look, you don’t have a choice. Tell me about the fight.”
“This is not why I called you.”
“You called because you want to help. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, tell me what he told you. It’s not your job to protect him. All you have to do is tell me the truth. Tell me what you know. It’s simple.”
I was too confused and exhausted to resist anymore. I relayed the gist of my conversation with Brandon. I had to admit it looked bad for him. But I couldn’t believe Sally wasn’t involved in some way. If Danielle was that mad at Brandon for suggesting she sell the land, there was no way she would simply change her mind with Sally. I pointed this out and Ash nodded, taking notes.
“Please don’t tell Brandon I told you all this,” I said.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I won’t. You’re doing the right thing.”
“Whatever,” I muttered, feeling utterly miserable. I lit another cigarette and watched him drive away. My throat was sore from smoking.
I went inside and poured a glass of whiskey, angry at myself for calling Ash, for betraying Brandon. And Sally, too, for that matter. I was crying again. I poured more whiskey. I thought of what Brandon had said: “Since Danielle died, I can’t be sober.”
On the wall hung a paint-by-number of egrets on a lake. My mom had bought it at a thrift store when I was a kid. The boundary of each shape had the same wildly trembling line. I drank and stared at it until the wobbly edges took over. I was retreating to the place where everything gets quiet and still, and I didn’t have to think about Ash or Danielle or Sally or Brandon or my own fucking feelings. I practiced not breathing until I felt like nobody, like open space. I kept drinking, kept looking out the window. The sunset began in ugly pink streaks.