Part 2
“No one leaves,” she said.
That request did not survive three minutes. A city council member’s aide explained that the council member had another obligation. A television producer claimed a medical emergency. Two donors disappeared through the coatroom and were photographed outside by reporters who had been waiting for the gala’s award announcements.
Torres directed Camille and Lila toward a small trustees’ salon behind the conservatory. Odette insisted on a separate room. Julian was told to remain available.
As Camille led Lila away, a man she had known for eleven years lifted his phone and began recording.
“Put that down,” Camille said.
He did, embarrassed, but not before the light from his screen reflected in Lila’s wet eyes.
The trustees’ salon contained a marble fireplace that had not been used in decades, a row of gilt chairs, and a table with three unopened bottles of mineral water. Lila sat with her knees together and the cracked locket cupped in her lap. Camille knelt before her again, forgetting the cream silk runner beneath her dress.
Torres sat opposite them. Her voice softened without becoming childish.
“Lila, I need to ask you some questions. Your mother can stay right here.”
Lila looked at Camille.
“You are not in trouble,” Camille said.
“Are you?”
Camille’s hand paused over the mark on Lila’s wrist.
“I may be.”
“Because you hit her?”
“Yes.”
Lila absorbed that. “But she hurt me first.”
“That does not make hitting right.”
Across the room, Torres glanced down at her notebook and gave them a few seconds.
Camille had spent years answering board members, ministers, critics, donors, and journalists without once wishing to disappear. Now she wanted the carpet to open beneath her. She had struck an elderly woman in front of two hundred people. Worse, she had done it in front of Lila.
Torres leaned forward. “Tell me why the locket has a red light.”
“It records,” Lila said.
“Did you turn it on?”
A small nod.
“Why?”
“Because Mrs. Vane told Mr. Cross to send everyone away.”
Camille’s fingers tightened around the edge of the chair.
Torres noticed. “Let her finish.”
Lila traced the damaged hinge with one thumb. “Mommy was talking to the lady from the museum. I went to find the bathroom, but the sign had an arrow and then there were two doors. I heard Mr. Cross say Daddy’s name.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Marc never approved the second transfer.’”
Camille stopped breathing for a moment.
Marc had been dead eighteen months.
Torres asked, “What happened then?”
“I went closer.”
“Did they see you?”
“No. Mrs. Vane said Mr. Cross had done what he was told. She said everybody had jobs because she fixed things. Mr. Cross said the date was wrong. Then Mrs. Vane said dead men didn’t argue about dates.”
The room had become so quiet that Camille could hear the mineral water inside one bottle move when Torres shifted her elbow.
Lila continued in a smaller voice. “I pressed the locket because Daddy said it was for keeping voices.”
Marc had called it the memory locket. He had bought it during his first round of chemotherapy after discovering that ordinary silver lockets could be fitted with miniature recorders. The device was not elegant. Its button was too small, the battery unreliable, and the red light bright enough to betray it in darkness. He had used it to leave Lila short messages when his voice began to weaken.
Camille had hated it at first. It made death seem scheduled.
After Marc died, Lila had listened to the messages under her blanket. Camille had eventually taught her how to make new recordings. She told herself it gave the child ownership over the object instead of allowing grief to own her.
Torres pointed to the broken edge. “How did it crack?”
Lila looked toward the closed door.
“I stepped out. Mrs. Vane saw the light. She said, ‘Give me that.’ I said no. She held my wrist and pulled it. It hit the table.”
“Did Mr. Cross see?”
“He came around the corner.”
“And then?”
“He said, ‘Odette, let her go.’”
Camille looked at Torres. “He told me he was nearby.”
“People often become more precise after they understand the question,” Torres said.
Lila rubbed her thumb across the bent lid.
“Mrs. Vane said Daddy stole money from children and Mommy paid it back because she knew. She said if I loved Mommy, I would give her the locket and forget. I tried to go away. She held tighter.”
“Did she threaten to hurt you?”
Lila shook her head. “She said people would laugh at Mommy.”
That landed harder than a threat of violence. Odette knew the particular fears of adults who lived in public. She had translated one into a child’s language.
Torres asked for the locket. Lila’s hands closed around it.
“No.”
“It’s important that we preserve the recording.”
“No.”
Camille moved beside her. “May I?”
Lila’s eyes filled again. “Daddy’s voice is in it.”
The detective’s expression changed slightly.
Camille understood. If the locket were damaged during examination, they might lose more than evidence.
“Can you copy the file without taking it away?” Camille asked.
“I’ll have to speak with our digital unit. For now, I need to document its condition and place it in an evidence bag.”
Lila pressed the locket against her chest.
Camille had promised Marc that she would not teach their daughter to confuse possessions with people. In the months after his death, she had failed repeatedly. She preserved his shoes, his handwriting on the kitchen calendar, a half-used bottle of cedar cologne. She had once stood in his closet at two in the morning holding a dry-cleaning receipt because it carried a date from when he was alive.
“Lila,” she said, “the messages have already been copied to my computer. Remember?”
“Not the new one.”
“No. Not the new one.”
“What if they lose him?”
“They will not lose him.”
May you like
“You don’t know.”
Camille almost said that she did. She stopped herself.
