Chương 8
Claire shifted in her seat.
I said nothing.
My mother’s voice became smaller.
“I failed Rose and Owen too.”
That hurt differently.
“Don’t do that.”
“I did.”
“No.”
“I defended him.”
“You didn’t kill them.”
“I defended the man who—”
“Stop.”
She did.
My throat tightened.
“You do not get to make yourself responsible for their deaths because you feel guilty about not believing me.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how to fix this.”
“You can’t.”
The words sounded cruel.
They were also true.
The front door opened.
Samantha entered without taking off her shoes.
That told me something before she spoke.
She usually noticed everything.
Mud.
Coasters.
Where to place a bag.
Now she walked straight into the kitchen with her phone in one hand.
“Miller wants to meet.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
Claire checked the clock.
“It’s almost seven.”
“He said as soon as possible.”
“Why?”
Samantha looked at me.
“They found another recording.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“What kind?”
“This one is from the day of the crash.”
My mother covered her mouth.
“Silas and Margot?”
“Yes.”
“Before or after?”
“After.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“After the crash?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“About forty minutes after.”
I could hear my own breathing.
Claire said, “How did Kayla get these?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“Then how are they on her flash drive?”
“Samantha.”
She looked back at me.
“What do they say?”
“Miller wants to play it for you himself.”
“No.”
“Evelyn.”
“If you know, tell me.”
She hesitated.
That was enough to make me stand.
“Tell me.”
“Margot is panicking.”
“About the twins?”
“Yes.”
“And Silas?”
Samantha’s silence answered first.
“What does he say?”
“He tells her to calm down.”
My hands curled.
“What else?”
“He says the wrong people were in the car.”
Claire whispered, “Oh my God.”
Samantha continued.
“He says they have to stay with the original story.”
“What original story?”
“He doesn’t specify in the part Miller quoted.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
I waited.
Samantha took a breath.
“He tells Margot that Kayla can be useful.”
The words did not make sense at first.
Then they did.
“How?”
“He says people already expect a nineteen-year-old driver to make mistakes.”
Claire stood so quickly her chair scraped backward.
“That son of a bitch.”
My mother began crying again.
I felt nothing.
Or rather, I felt so many things at once that they canceled each other out.
Rage.
Relief.
Nausea.
Vindication.
Shame.
Not one of them could take a full shape.
“Take me to Miller.”
Claire grabbed her keys.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
She stared at me.
“Absolutely not.”
“I need to do this without you.”
“Why?”
“Because you hate him too much.”
“So do you.”
“That’s why I can’t carry yours with mine.”
Her face changed.
For a second, I thought she would argue.
Then she nodded.
“Fine.”
My mother looked up.
“I can stay here with her.”
Claire gave her a look.
My mother almost smiled through her tears.
“Yes, I realize that may not be reassuring.”
Claire sat again.
Samantha collected her bag.
“I’ll drive.”
Outside, the air had turned colder.
My funeral shoes hurt.
I stopped beside Samantha’s car.
“Wait.”
She turned.
“I need different shoes.”
She did not ask why.
Inside, I went upstairs alone.
The twins’ bedroom doors faced each other across the hall.
Rose’s was open.
Owen’s was closed.
I stood between them.
I could not enter either room.
Not yet.
My bedroom was at the end of the hall.
Silas’s side of the closet was half empty.
He had taken enough clothes to the guesthouse to make his absence feel intentional, but not enough to look permanent.
I sat on the edge of the bed and removed my heels.
A tiny silver bead glittered beneath the dresser.
I picked it up.
One of Rose’s craft beads.
She left them everywhere.
In couch cushions.
In shoes.
Once in the butter dish.
I closed my fist around it.
Then I put on sneakers.
At the county administration building, Detective Miller met us in a conference room instead of the interview area.
There was no dramatic two-way mirror.
Just a rectangular table, six chairs, a coffee machine, and a dying plant in the corner.
Detective Ortiz was already there.
She stood when I entered.
“How are you holding up?”
I looked at her.
She nodded once.
“Bad question.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
“Thank you.”
That felt strange.
Miller pushed a folder toward me.
“We need to go carefully.”
“I don’t want carefully.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t.”
He sat.
“Some of this affects an active criminal investigation.”
“My children are dead because of the active criminal investigation.”
“No.”
His voice stayed calm.
“They’re dead because of what Silas and possibly Margot did.”
The distinction stopped me.
He pointed to the chair.
“Sit.”
I sat.
Samantha took the seat beside me.
Ortiz remained standing near the wall.
Miller opened the folder.
“We’ve confirmed the recordings are authentic files, meaning we have no immediate indication they were generated or materially altered.”
“Immediate.”
“We still need full forensic examination.”
“How were they recorded?”
“That’s one of the questions.”
“Who recorded them?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Then why trust them?”
“We don’t trust them.”
He leaned back.
“We test them.”
That sounded familiar.
It sounded like my old work.
No evidence loved you.
No evidence hated you.
Evidence simply survived examination or it did not.
Miller placed a small speaker on the table.
“We’re going to play one section.”
My chest tightened.
“Why only one?”
“Because some portions contain statements we don’t want influencing your recollection before we ask you questions.”
“I’m not a witness to their conversations.”
“You may be a witness to surrounding events.”
I hated that he was right.
“Play it.”
He pressed a button.
Static filled the room.
Then Margot’s voice.
Thin.
Fast.
Terrified.
“They’re dead, Silas.”
A pause.
“They’re both dead.”
Then my husband answered.
His voice was unmistakable.
May you like
“Keep your voice down.”
“How can you say that?”
