orange trash vest.
CHAPTER TEN
S ATURDAY AFTERNOON, FROM two to five, Rose Lymond found herself at the police department, assigned to CJ Pierson. She knew from two days of transport van gossip that nobody got rehabilitated on a weekend. Saturday and Sunday were your own, in which presumably you tried to consolidate your gains, thinking about your crimes, planning to omit future ones. On Monday, you arrived in good spirits for more rehabilitation, eager to improve.
Her parents and the police must have decided on a Saturday schedule for Rose. If only Rose were as tall and strong as Megan Moran. Then she could look down on people. CJ Pierson could not be so relentlessly in charge if Rose were taller. Chrissie, at five ten, truly mourned her lack of height, and for the first time, Rose understood.
“Hello, Rose,” he said cheerfully.
She decided to be cheerful right back. It was a weapon she had not yet used. “Hello, Detective Pierson,” she said brightly. “What fun. Look at all the stray papers on your desk. I hope I get to file. Don’t worry if I throw a lot out. I’ve developed a trash habit.” This sort of flippant banter was so unlike Rose that it undid her instead of him; she felt her chin tremble and her eyes water.
“You know, Rose, you’re growing on me,” he said. “The problem I see, though, is what’s gonna be growing on your grave if you don’t talk.”
Rose pulled herself together. “A person’s community service time is not the time in which a person should be interrogated by a law officer. A person being rehabilitated should work diligently and not be distracted. Concentration—”
“Yeah, have a seat, Rose. I’m looking through some old newspapers. I thought you might want to browse with me.”
Rose sat before she saw the dates of the newspapers. She was very sorry she had sat down. She picked out a spot on the window to stare at. The windows were filthy and there were a multitude of spots to stare at, some of them alive and moving. Perhaps she would assign herself Windex and paper towels.
“Friday through Wednesday,” said CJ Pierson. “Of a famous weekend. Come on, Rose. Rehabilitate yourself. Read every word and tell me what you think.”
His shirt was white, with heavy starch. The collar was very crisp above his fine tie, a silky horsetail gray flecked with tiny dark red diamonds. Rose distracted herself by listing the people she felt like strangling with that tie.
CJ Pierson spread a four-year-old Friday paper on his desk and began tapping headlines and advertisements, announcements and fillers. His pencil eraser made a soft, friendly little thud on the newsprint.
Rose had never glanced at the newspapers back then. She had been twelve, after all. How many twelve-year-olds curled up with a newspaper? She didn’t know what was in the papers. But since the news of Frannie Bailey’s murder had not been available to television until Monday, it wouldn’t have been in the newspaper, either.
“So here’s my current guess,” said CJ Pierson, smiling at her. He had a nice smile. It reminded her of Grandfather’s, whose portraits were everywhere in Nannie’s house and with whom Nannie was convinced she would live again after death. Grandfather had not been a talker, like Nannie and Dad and Tabor. He had been an audience.
They all want to be my audience, she thought. They all want to sit quietly while I entertain them with my story.
“See, what I’ve been thinking is,” said the detective, “suppose we’re heading in the wrong direction when we question you about Frannie Bailey. Suppose the real story is here in these newspapers.”
Another sick headache began with a faint pounding like a train in the distance, and the absolute knowledge that the train would arrive and explode inside her head. How awful to go through this routinely, like Chrissie’s mother.
“There was a hit-and-run the same night Milton.
Lofft was driving you to the lake estate,” said CJ
CHAPTER TEN
S ATURDAY AFTERNOON, FROM two to five, Rose Lymond found herself at the police department, assigned to CJ Pierson. She knew from two days of transport van gossip that nobody got rehabilitated on a weekend. Saturday and Sunday were your own, in which presumably you tried to consolidate your gains, thinking about your crimes, planning to omit future ones. On Monday, you arrived in good spirits for more rehabilitation, eager to improve.
Her parents and the police must have decided on a Saturday schedule for Rose. If only Rose were as tall and strong as Megan Moran. Then she could look down on people. CJ Pierson could not be so relentlessly in charge if Rose were taller. Chrissie, at five ten, truly mourned her lack of height, and for the first time, Rose understood.
“Hello, Rose,” he said cheerfully.
She decided to be cheerful right back. It was a weapon she had not yet used. “Hello, Detective Pierson,” she said brightly. “What fun. Look at all the stray papers on your desk. I hope I get to file. Don’t worry if I throw a lot out. I’ve developed a trash habit.” This sort of flippant banter was so unlike Rose that it undid her instead of him; she felt her chin tremble and her eyes water.
“You know, Rose, you’re growing on me,” he said. “The problem I see, though, is what’s gonna be growing on your grave if you don’t talk.”
Rose pulled herself together. “A person’s community service time is not the time in which a person should be interrogated by a law officer. A person being rehabilitated should work diligently and not be distracted. Concentration—”
“Yeah, have a seat, Rose. I’m looking through some old newspapers. I thought you might want to browse with me.”
Rose sat before she saw the dates of the newspapers. She was very sorry she had sat down. She picked out a spot on the window to stare at. The windows were filthy and there were a multitude of spots to stare at, some of them alive and moving. Perhaps she would assign herself Windex and paper towels.
“Friday through Wednesday,” said CJ Pierson. “Of a famous weekend. Come on, Rose. Rehabilitate yourself. Read every word and tell me what you think.”
His shirt was white, with heavy starch. The collar was very crisp above his fine tie, a silky horsetail gray flecked with tiny dark red diamonds. Rose distracted herself by listing the people she felt like strangling with that tie.
CJ Pierson spread a four-year-old Friday paper on his desk and began tapping headlines and advertisements, announcements and fillers. His pencil eraser made a soft, friendly little thud on the newsprint.
Rose had never glanced at the newspapers back then. She had been twelve, after all. How many twelve-year-olds curled up with a newspaper? She didn’t know what was in the papers. But since the news of Frannie Bailey’s murder had not been available to television until Monday, it wouldn’t have been in the newspaper, either.
“So here’s my current guess,” said CJ Pierson, smiling at her. He had a nice smile. It reminded her of Grandfather’s, whose portraits were everywhere in Nannie’s house and with whom Nannie was convinced she would live again after death. Grandfather had not been a talker, like Nannie and Dad and Tabor. He had been an audience.
They all want to be my audience, she thought. They all want to sit quietly while I entertain them with my story.
“See, what I’ve been thinking is,” said the detective, “suppose we’re heading in the wrong direction when we question you about Frannie Bailey. Suppose the real story is here in these newspapers.”
Another sick headache began with a faint pounding like a train in the distance, and the absolute knowledge that the train would arrive and explode inside her head. How awful to go through this routinely, like Chrissie’s mother.
“There was a hit-and-run the same night Milton.
Lofft was driving you to the lake estate,” said CJ
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