Page 33 of 4th Silence

Charlie picks up her phone and pokes the screen. No doubt checking the security app.

“It’s Alex.”

I check the clock on the credenza. Eight-ten. “He’s early.”

“Fine by me.” Charlie stands and heads to the door. “We can ask him about his father.”

Once Charlie is gone, I peer at Matt. “Should we erase the board? I can take a picture and redo it.”

For a few seconds, he simply stares at it in that distant way he does when contemplating a serious situation.

“No,” he says. “Let him see his name up there. Maybe it’ll rattle him.”

If this were an average family we were dealing with, I’d buy into this line of thinking.

The Hartmans?

They’re masters of self-promotion. And the spin. With all the research and press coverage I’ve seen, they close ranks and never—ever—admit fault.

Or apologize.

Somehow, I don’t believe Alex will be shaken by seeing his name, along with that of his immediate family, on a suspect list. He’s a prosecutor. That alone has taught him how to play a role. To craft a story with precision.

Couple that with the Hartman way, and Alex might be quite the puzzle.

Charlie appears in the doorway. She moves aside and waves Alex in.

He stands there, reminding me of a somewhat shorter version of JJ with his expensive suit.

Alex, however, has more of that highbrow haughtiness that comes from generational wealth, while JJ has more of an easy, confident charm.

“You remember Meg,” Charlie says. “And Matt.”

Hellos are exchanged along with the obligatory offerings of coffee or other beverage.

Alex refuses all, and Charlie points to the seat beside me, forcing him to walk around the table and come face to face with our murder board.

I make no effort to hide my curiosity as he pauses and takes it all in.

Then he turns, shoulders back, an expression of, well, nothing. Not a worry line. Not a crease. Just that Hartman mask.

Hartmans.

Absolute masters.

He walks to his seat and gestures to the board. “I see the gang is all there. You’re missing Eloise.”

I roll the name around, but my brain won’t latch on. “Eloise?”

“My youngest cousin. She died two years after Tiffany. Leukemia.”

Charlie jots the name on her notepad. “Thank you,” she says.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “the PD cleared her early on, so you may want to spend your time elsewhere.”

He may be trying to be helpful, but something about his tone slices against my already fried nerves. As if we’re not smart enough to figure it out on our own. As if we need him.

Which we don’t.