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Operator: Okay, where are you in the house?
RE: Outside. In her pottery shed. I’m not…oh my god, is she dead? Marion! (sobbing)
Operator: Sir, I’m going to need you to step outside the shed, okay? Don’t touch anything. The police are on their way.
My heart is racing like I’ve run ten miles. Dad found her? I can’t imagine the horror of that moment. It’s shocking to see it written out so clinically in black and white. I close it and open the next file labeled “Summary.” It’s a single typed page.
Marion Everton, white female, age 55. Cause of death, GSW to the chest. Manner of death, homicide. No forensics found at crime scene. No fingerprints, DNA, no bullet, no casing. Revolver as MW?From size of wound, caliber likely .357, 9mm, or .38. Police theorize attempted burglary. No CCTV—cameras only face front and back doors. Family cleared—C. Everton not home but alibied. All other family members accounted for. No one seen entering or exiting the house between M. Everton exiting back door at 5:52 am and R. Everton exiting back door at 6:41 am. 911 call made 6:42 am. Victim pronounced dead at the scene.
I see another file labeled “Interviews with Family.”
The first interview is with Daisy.
FN: Thank you for talking to me. I know you’ve been through this with the police already, but your father wanted me to go over everything.
DE: I know.
FN: You don’t need to be nervous.
DE: I’m not.
FN: Can you tell me what you saw or heard that morning?
DE: I didn’t hear much of anything. It was really early in the morning—the party went until around two and I went to bed right after. My room is in the front of the house. I can’t hear what happens in the backyard.
FN: And how did you become aware that something had happened to your mother?
DE: I…woke up when my sister Von—Siobhan—came into my room. And then I heard sirens.
FN: What did Siobhan say to you?
DE: (sobs) That Mom had been shot. I didn’t understand her. She told me to get out of bed. That’s when all the police got to our house. The sheriff said we needed to wait outside.
I close the file. I know what happened next. I arrived shortly after, with Isla and Noah. I saw my siblings gathered in the driveway.
Then they took Mom’s body away.
This feels wrong. I don’t want to read interviews about my family’s experiences. I should talk to them each myself. Like I did with Finn. This feels too…intrusive. Voyeuristic.
A couple of hours later, I’ve gone through all of Fred’s files except the autopsy and the crime scene photos and I’m beginning to understand why everyone keeps warning me not to get my hopes up.
There’s nothing here. And lots of terminology I don’t understand. Mom’s death is feeling at once too real and present, and also too clinical and removed. It’s jarring. I’m going to have to talk to Noah about all this. I text him but he says he’s working the next few days and promises to meet up when he’s free.
I’m feeling itchy and confined and tired of looking at a screen. I decide to head into town. Maybe I can talk to some people who were at the party—since the whole town was invited. Even though the shooting was in the early morning, after the party had finished, maybe people saw something suspicious or heard something the night before. I don’t know. It seems like a better option than sitting in here looking at files I don’t understand.
And maybe you’ll see Isla,a voice in the back of my mind whispers.
I swat it away.
She’s getting married,I remind myself.
But still, my thoughts flit back to the way her tank top glowed over her smooth tanned skin, hugging her slender frame. I see her bottle-green eyes flashing as she demanded to know where I’d been, bringing the aching possibility that she’s thought about me all this time. The way I’ve thought about her.
I thought about her every damn day, in fact. Now that I’ve seen her, it’s become crystal clear how present she was in my mind, even if I was desperately trying to pretend she wasn’t. The box I kept her in was made of glass—she was contained but alwaysthere.
She’s engaged, I remind myself again. God, it hurts to even think the words. Shocking, like a punch to the gut.
I leave the study and head out the front door into the afternoon sunshine. There’s no sign of Alex or the town car. I wish I had my motorcycle. I saved up for a year to buy it. I took out a bunch of cash when I first landed in Argentina, then lived frugally for nearly a year, until I met Sebastian. It’s amazing how far money can be stretched when you don’t have many needs and don’t mind where you sleep. It was more important that my father couldn’t trace me than staying in five-star hotels.