Читать книгу The Prized Girl - Amy K. Green - Страница 13

DETECTIVE COLSEN STOOD in my doorway two hours before I was ready to get up and start the day. He was already in a suit; I was in an oversized T-shirt and boxer shorts. He shoved a newspaper in my face and maneuvered past me and into my apartment uninvited.

It had been a long time since I held a newspaper and even longer since a man was in my apartment. I thought newspapers were a lost art, but there I was with my blurred-out middle fingers on the cover juxtaposed nicely with one of Jenny’s glamour shots. The subtle headline read, Jealous Sister Disrespects Dead Girl.

“You want to explain this?” he asked.

“Which part?” I threw the paper down on my makeshift coffee table that was technically a TV stand and flopped down on the couch.

“This is not the kind of attention we need right now.” He shook his head and helped himself to a seat next to me. It was too close for comfort, but my apartment didn’t have any other real seating.

“You can’t blame me for this. It should have said, Grieving Sister Hates Asshole Reporters.”

“They’re saying it because you skipped the funeral.”

“I made an appearance.”

“It rubbed people the wrong way. And now, the only time you visited your parents since the murder, you stayed for one hour, then reacted like this.” He pointed back to my cover photo.

“So what? I don’t like them. What do you want me to do?”

“Look, I know who did it. You know who did it. Everyone knows who did it, but the longer it takes us to find him, the more people get restless. They need to have something to talk about, to keep the story going, to point out other suspects.”

“So, now I’m a suspect?”

“No, no, you’re not a suspect. I’m just saying—”

“Why not? I could have done it. A lot of people could have done it. I think putting all your eggs in one basket is pretty shitty detective work.” I was only half awake and not in the mood to be scolded.

“Look, Virginia, I know you like the attention, but this is what I do, and when your antics interfere with me doing my job, we have a problem.”

“Attention” was such a weapon word, a grenade thrown out to get under my skin. I wanted to inform him I was perfectly capable of dying alone in a bunker, but regardless of my intentions, I was getting attention, and I didn’t like it either.

“What do you suggest?” I asked with as little sarcasm as I could manage.

“Just lie low. Look sad when you go outside. Visit your parents more. No bullshit.”

“OK,” I said and waited for him to leave. He didn’t budge.

“Do you have any coffee?” he asked, almost settling in.

The question caught me off guard and I think I made a stink face. I wasn’t sure what had just happened. The authority under which he arrived was blurring into something personal. I couldn’t ignore the invasive permission he granted himself because, what? I had smiled at him a few times? “I don’t have any coffee.”

“Oh, right, I’m sorry,” he said, standing. He seemed genuinely enlightened and subsequently embarrassed, and then I just felt bad. Maybe his intentions were not as seedy as I had been eager to assume.

“I think I have some tea?”

“Yeah?” he timidly confirmed the offer.

“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled.

The problem with a studio apartment is that it’s difficult to excuse yourself from a situation. In a regular apartment, getting the tea would have been a welcomed momentary escape into the kitchen. Instead, I stood and walked four feet to the kitchenette as he watched me the whole way.

I took a mug from next to the sink, filled it with tap water, and stuck it in the microwave.

“So, what do you do around here for fun?” he asked, raising his voice over the hum of the microwave.

I shrugged. “There is a bowling alley about twenty minutes away.”

“You like to bowl?”

“No. Did you mean me specifically? I thought you meant ‘you’ as in ‘you people.’”

“I mean you specifically.”

Anything I said he was going to turn into something we could do together. In a different world, maybe even just a different time, I suppose his interest could be welcomed.

“I don’t know. It’s hard to think about now, after Jenny.” I was going to hell for using Jenny’s death as a diversion, but it did the trick.

“I understand,” he said as the microwave went off.

I pulled open a drawer full of ketchup packets and plastic utensils and riffled around for a tea bag.

“Sorry, I can’t find any tea bags. I thought I had a few, but they aren’t in here.” I shut the drawer and looked at him, unsure of what to do next.

“It’s OK. Next time, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

He nodded and smiled without looking directly at me before excusing himself out the front door. Before it closed, I saw what I was too groggy to see when he first got there. The news vans were now parked on my street.

I would listen. I would lie low as instructed. I couldn’t afford to be part of the story. There was too much that I needed to stay hidden.