the spring breeze. The thing was pastel and had an egg on it that was half lavender and half pink with a bright yel ow band around the middle.
Easter had come at the end of March this year. Right around the time the daughter had gone missing. No doubt the flag had been forgotten . . . or perhaps they were praying for a resurrection of their own. Either way, ruination had come to this house, even though it stil had fr wal s and a roof: This girl was dead. Veck knew it in his bones, even though he wasn’t one for prescient shit.
Doorbel .
Wait.
Wait.
He glanced back at Reil y. She seemed sad as she leaned back and scanned the windows on the second floor—and he wondered whether she was trying to imagine which one had been Cecilia Barten’s. Behind her, Heron was doing an excel ent impression of a statue: towering and unmoving, his eyes were focused on the front door as if he were seeing through it into the house.
Veck frowned. There was something off about the guy. Clearly not competence, however; the agent radiated a militaristic precision about everything from the way he flashed his creds to his walk to how his body settled at rest. Stil . . . what the fuck was it—
The door opened with a soft creak and the woman on the other side looked like she hadn’t slept or eaten wel in a long time.
“Good morning, ma’am, I’m Detective DelVecchio. This is Officer Reil y and Agent Heron.”
Everyone flashed their credentials.
“Please come in.” She stepped back and motioned with her arm. “May I get you anything?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. We appreciate your taking the time to speak with us.”
The house was beyond spotless and smel ed of Pine-Sol and Pledge. Which suggested Mrs. Barten cleaned when she was stressed.
“I thought maybe we could talk in the living room?” she said.
“Please.”
The room was done in keepsake and heirloom, with wal paper that had flowers on it, and two couches that did not. As Mrs. Barten sat in an armchair, and everybody else took a sofa cushion, Veck got a good look at the woman. She was in her late forties, with a lot of blond hair that was pul ed back and twisted around a scrunchie, and a long, thin body that had needed the weight she’d recently lost. No makeup, and she was stil pretty. Stare was empty, however.
Shit, where did he start.
“Mrs. Barten,” Reil y cut in, “can you tel us about your daughter. Things she liked to do or was good at. Memories?”
Glancing over at his new partner, he wanted to mouth a thank-you.
Especial y as some of the tension left the woman’s shoulders and the hint of a smile appeared. “Sissy was—is . . .” She col ected herself. “Please forgive me. This is hard.”
Reil y moved closer to the armchair. “Take your time. I know this is a lot to ask of you.”
“Actual y, it helps to talk about her. It takes me out of where we al are now.”
In a halting voice that gradual y gained momentum, stories started to rol out, painting a picture of a highly intel igent, slightly shy good girl who would never have walked into trouble if she’d seen it coming.
Yup, Cecilia Barten had most definitely been murdered, Veck thought to himself. This was not one of those drug-related runaways, or an abusive-boyfriend-gone-haywire nightmare. Stable family. Happy young woman. Bright future. Until destiny’s equivalent of a car crash had slammed into her life and wiped it out.
“Mind if I look at the pictures over there?” Veck said when thee was a pause in the narrative.
“Please.”
He stood up and went across to the built-in bookcases on either side of the bowed windows that faced the street. Two kids. The other was a younger sister. And there were shots from graduations and birthday parties and track meets and field hockey games . . . family reunions and weddings . . .
Christmases.
He was curiously in awe at the display. Man, this was the very best that “normal” had to offer, and for no particular reason, he thought of
Easter had come at the end of March this year. Right around the time the daughter had gone missing. No doubt the flag had been forgotten . . . or perhaps they were praying for a resurrection of their own. Either way, ruination had come to this house, even though it stil had fr wal s and a roof: This girl was dead. Veck knew it in his bones, even though he wasn’t one for prescient shit.
Doorbel .
Wait.
Wait.
He glanced back at Reil y. She seemed sad as she leaned back and scanned the windows on the second floor—and he wondered whether she was trying to imagine which one had been Cecilia Barten’s. Behind her, Heron was doing an excel ent impression of a statue: towering and unmoving, his eyes were focused on the front door as if he were seeing through it into the house.
Veck frowned. There was something off about the guy. Clearly not competence, however; the agent radiated a militaristic precision about everything from the way he flashed his creds to his walk to how his body settled at rest. Stil . . . what the fuck was it—
The door opened with a soft creak and the woman on the other side looked like she hadn’t slept or eaten wel in a long time.
“Good morning, ma’am, I’m Detective DelVecchio. This is Officer Reil y and Agent Heron.”
Everyone flashed their credentials.
“Please come in.” She stepped back and motioned with her arm. “May I get you anything?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. We appreciate your taking the time to speak with us.”
The house was beyond spotless and smel ed of Pine-Sol and Pledge. Which suggested Mrs. Barten cleaned when she was stressed.
“I thought maybe we could talk in the living room?” she said.
“Please.”
The room was done in keepsake and heirloom, with wal paper that had flowers on it, and two couches that did not. As Mrs. Barten sat in an armchair, and everybody else took a sofa cushion, Veck got a good look at the woman. She was in her late forties, with a lot of blond hair that was pul ed back and twisted around a scrunchie, and a long, thin body that had needed the weight she’d recently lost. No makeup, and she was stil pretty. Stare was empty, however.
Shit, where did he start.
“Mrs. Barten,” Reil y cut in, “can you tel us about your daughter. Things she liked to do or was good at. Memories?”
Glancing over at his new partner, he wanted to mouth a thank-you.
Especial y as some of the tension left the woman’s shoulders and the hint of a smile appeared. “Sissy was—is . . .” She col ected herself. “Please forgive me. This is hard.”
Reil y moved closer to the armchair. “Take your time. I know this is a lot to ask of you.”
“Actual y, it helps to talk about her. It takes me out of where we al are now.”
In a halting voice that gradual y gained momentum, stories started to rol out, painting a picture of a highly intel igent, slightly shy good girl who would never have walked into trouble if she’d seen it coming.
Yup, Cecilia Barten had most definitely been murdered, Veck thought to himself. This was not one of those drug-related runaways, or an abusive-boyfriend-gone-haywire nightmare. Stable family. Happy young woman. Bright future. Until destiny’s equivalent of a car crash had slammed into her life and wiped it out.
“Mind if I look at the pictures over there?” Veck said when thee was a pause in the narrative.
“Please.”
He stood up and went across to the built-in bookcases on either side of the bowed windows that faced the street. Two kids. The other was a younger sister. And there were shots from graduations and birthday parties and track meets and field hockey games . . . family reunions and weddings . . .
Christmases.
He was curiously in awe at the display. Man, this was the very best that “normal” had to offer, and for no particular reason, he thought of
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