someday.”
“Did they ever arrive with any letters?”
“There were always letters. Threats. Little notes. Smiling pictures of others who died.”
“Other what? Abortionists?”
“Abortion
providers,
” she corrected him. “Don’t use that word.”
Huck took out his notebook and made some notes. “Did she keep any of the letters?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was the last time she got a package?”
“No idea,” said Megan. “I don’t live at home anymore.”
Huck made another note.
“I know this must be very hard for you,” he said, “but when was the last time you saw her?”
Megan felt something catch in her throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We can talk about this later.”
“No. It’s fine. The last time I saw her was Tuesday morning.”
“The day she was killed?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the clinic.”
“What were you doing there?”
Megan cleared her throat. “We had breakfast together.”
Huck nodded.
“But I didn’t stay long,” she added. “My mother had a busy day ahead of her. As if every day of hers wasn’t some kind of marathon.”
Huck, who’d been writing, glanced up then, and she immediately looked away. Even in the dim light of the police car she could see how blue his eyes were—blue as the lapis stone in the necklace Bill had given her one Christmas. She was going to mention it but quickly realized that commenting on the color of someone’s eyes was an inappropriate thing to say to a cop.
“Well, I should get back,” she told him. “No one knows I’m gone. My father will freak out.”
“Yes, he does seem the type,” Huck said, which jolted her a little; what did he base that observation on?
“But one more thing, if I may,” he said. “Can you think of anyone else who might have been upset with your mother? Even over something that had nothing to do with the abortion issue?”
Megan had to think. Mrs. Beekman next door didn’t like either of her parents because they let dandelions go to seed in their yard. Diana’s friend Libby was mad at her because Diana had been too busy while Libby was going through her divorce. Then there was that thing with Piper six, seven years ago. But Piper and Diana weren’t mad at each other anymore, and besides, Piper had come over that night. Why would she do that, if she’d killed Diana just a few hours before?
Megan didn’t think any of this was his business. She told him she would think about it.
“Here’s my card,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket. “In case anything comes up.”
Megan inspected the card. All it said was Huck Berlin, Detective.
“I have a friend named Suzannah Berlin,” she said. “Any relation?”
Huck shook his head.
“What’s your real name?”
Huck reached up to readjust his rearview mirror. “Just Huck,” he replied, which suggested to Megan that it was probably something dorky, if he didn’t want to tell her. Harvey, maybe.
She looked at the card again, then opened the door to get out of the car. “So are you like head cop on this case or something?”
“No,” said Huck. “That’s the head cop.” He pointed to a man in a heavy leather bomber jacket, who was holding a doughnut between his teeth while pouring himself a cup of coffee from the back of the van. Megan recognized him as the chief of police. Of course. Who else would be head cop on a case like this?
All the way back to the Goldfarbs’ house, Megan skidded and slipped on the black ice. By now it was seven o’clock. Soon the long day would be over. She would go back now, maybe even go on stage; she would make more small talk with whoever was lingering too long, and eat more junk, and then she would go upstairs to the Goldfarbs’ guest room and shut the door. She would get out of her clothes, put on a sleep shirt, and brush her teeth, because that’s what you do, even when your mother has died. Then she would take a Xanax and climb into bed under Sandy Goldfarb’s pillowy
“Did they ever arrive with any letters?”
“There were always letters. Threats. Little notes. Smiling pictures of others who died.”
“Other what? Abortionists?”
“Abortion
providers,
” she corrected him. “Don’t use that word.”
Huck took out his notebook and made some notes. “Did she keep any of the letters?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was the last time she got a package?”
“No idea,” said Megan. “I don’t live at home anymore.”
Huck made another note.
“I know this must be very hard for you,” he said, “but when was the last time you saw her?”
Megan felt something catch in her throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We can talk about this later.”
“No. It’s fine. The last time I saw her was Tuesday morning.”
“The day she was killed?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the clinic.”
“What were you doing there?”
Megan cleared her throat. “We had breakfast together.”
Huck nodded.
“But I didn’t stay long,” she added. “My mother had a busy day ahead of her. As if every day of hers wasn’t some kind of marathon.”
Huck, who’d been writing, glanced up then, and she immediately looked away. Even in the dim light of the police car she could see how blue his eyes were—blue as the lapis stone in the necklace Bill had given her one Christmas. She was going to mention it but quickly realized that commenting on the color of someone’s eyes was an inappropriate thing to say to a cop.
“Well, I should get back,” she told him. “No one knows I’m gone. My father will freak out.”
“Yes, he does seem the type,” Huck said, which jolted her a little; what did he base that observation on?
“But one more thing, if I may,” he said. “Can you think of anyone else who might have been upset with your mother? Even over something that had nothing to do with the abortion issue?”
Megan had to think. Mrs. Beekman next door didn’t like either of her parents because they let dandelions go to seed in their yard. Diana’s friend Libby was mad at her because Diana had been too busy while Libby was going through her divorce. Then there was that thing with Piper six, seven years ago. But Piper and Diana weren’t mad at each other anymore, and besides, Piper had come over that night. Why would she do that, if she’d killed Diana just a few hours before?
Megan didn’t think any of this was his business. She told him she would think about it.
“Here’s my card,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket. “In case anything comes up.”
Megan inspected the card. All it said was Huck Berlin, Detective.
“I have a friend named Suzannah Berlin,” she said. “Any relation?”
Huck shook his head.
“What’s your real name?”
Huck reached up to readjust his rearview mirror. “Just Huck,” he replied, which suggested to Megan that it was probably something dorky, if he didn’t want to tell her. Harvey, maybe.
She looked at the card again, then opened the door to get out of the car. “So are you like head cop on this case or something?”
“No,” said Huck. “That’s the head cop.” He pointed to a man in a heavy leather bomber jacket, who was holding a doughnut between his teeth while pouring himself a cup of coffee from the back of the van. Megan recognized him as the chief of police. Of course. Who else would be head cop on a case like this?
All the way back to the Goldfarbs’ house, Megan skidded and slipped on the black ice. By now it was seven o’clock. Soon the long day would be over. She would go back now, maybe even go on stage; she would make more small talk with whoever was lingering too long, and eat more junk, and then she would go upstairs to the Goldfarbs’ guest room and shut the door. She would get out of her clothes, put on a sleep shirt, and brush her teeth, because that’s what you do, even when your mother has died. Then she would take a Xanax and climb into bed under Sandy Goldfarb’s pillowy
Similar Books
