Читать книгу Bury This - Andrea Portes - Страница 23

FOUR

Danek wasn’t about to let anyone leave without realizing he was the smartest kid in the room. The most talented. The one who was going places.

He hadn’t thought, driving up to this humble little home, classmates in tow, over the gravel and through the pines, that he would give a flying fuck what these old geezers thought.

Er, he meant, the parents of the victim. Lt. Colonel and Dorothy Krause. I mean, they were ancient. They would probably just blather on the whole time. They would probably smell like soup.

He was prepared. He had a notepad. Different pens. Black with felt tips, for writing faster. He would get what Lars, Brad, and, oh . . . even Katy . . . missed. He, alone, would figure it out. He, alone, would be the hero.

He was not prepared. When the door opened and he saw that face. Jesus. You would not have guessed that Dorothy Krause was in her seventies. I mean, he knew they had children earlier back then, but holy smokes. He thought . . . not thought exactly, maybe felt, when that door opened and that face appeared . . . he felt drawn to walk up the stairs behind her, into the study and stay there, in this house, this home, for the winter.

They were good people.

Yes, it’s a simple phrase. One he could hear himself saying in the documentary. He would pause, then, for effect.

Danek Mitchell, what a dreamer!

She had made tea and an assortment of cookies, which they first refused, then picked at, then devoured. Everything placed gracefully on a silver serving tray, a silver service, wasn’t that what it was called? You just didn’t see it anymore. Tea in a silver serving kettle, on a silver tray, with teacups, tiny dishes beneath, and precious little flowers, daintily flaunting their tricks. Sugar, milk, lemon, if you need it. They just didn’t do it like this anymore.

Dorothy Krause. Dotsy. With sable hair, ivory skin, that perfect, damned-near-perfect-placement face and those green, almost emerald eyes.

Simple really, there in a vanilla blouse, gray wool pants. Nothing showy. There were lace embellishments of some sort on the blouse, he couldn’t remember, something small and sweet. But her way, her soft, gentle, unassuming way. Her sheer grace. It was disconcerting. Had Beth Krause, yes, Beth Krause, the one they were here about, the one they were gonna win an award with, the one found crumpled by the side of the road, had Beth Krause inherited this grace? These willow eyes? This unassuming, intoxicating nature?

If so, you could see why she was dead.