“You always lose your temper. It doesn’t help.”
He didn’t argue.
“Will they bring Tucker home?” Tying her apron around her waist, she crossed to the refrigerator. “I was going to bake a chicken for dinner. If I do two, there will be enough for all of us. We can sit down together when they get here.”
“I don’t want Tucker here, if they let him go.”
“What?” Emily turned to Roy. “He’s our son. Of course you want him here.”
“Not if it’s going to be the way it was when Miranda was murdered. Cops and reporters everywhere. Phone ringing all the goddamn time. I swear if Tucker gets pulled into this, if he knew this girl, too—” Roy pivoted on his metal foot, then pivoted back, locking Emily with his glare. “If that’s the case, you and your friend Joe won’t be able to pay his way out of this one, Em. None of us will. You do realize that?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She didn’t know how she managed to keep her voice level. Her heart was beating fast, so fast, she put her hand there.
Roy huffed his disdain and, leaving the kitchen, disappeared into his office, closing the door.
Emily followed him; she balanced her hand on the knob, and resting her forehead against the panel, she said, “I’m sorry, I was only trying to protect you.” But then, lifting her head, she thought how badly she had failed, that in truth, she hadn’t protected any one of them at all.
5
THE SHERIFF'S OFFICE and the county jail were housed in the courthouse, an imposing three-story, old colonial-style building on the Hardys Walk town square. Evan pulled into a space in the parking lot at the back, where parking was free. Out in front they’d have to feed a meter, and Lissa knew from previous experience there wasn’t any telling how long they’d be.
Inside, the duty officer, a heavyset guy, didn’t bother looking up when Lissa and Evan approached. He was engrossed in reading a magazine, or pretending to be, like maybe if he didn’t look up, they would go away. Lissa steadied her breath. “I’m looking for my brother,” she said. “Tucker Lebay?”
The officer took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes.
“We were told he was brought in here earlier this afternoon for questioning,” Evan said.
“Wait here.” The duty officer slid off the stool and headed for a door at the end of the counter.
Lissa turned to Evan, running her fingers around her ears. Her hands were shaking; she was shaking. Evan slipped his arm around her.
“I hate this,” she said.
“I know, babe. Me, too.”
“Daddy said not to bring Tucker home. What are we going to do? I can’t tell Tucker that.”
Before Evan could answer, the duty cop reappeared, resuming his post. “Sergeant Garza’ll be out in a sec. You can sit over there on the bench, if you want.”
Evan sat, but Lissa didn’t. She paced and watched the big white-faced wall clock, marking the tiny jerks of the minute hand as it hooked each second, and when the door at the end of the counter opened again, she flinched. Evan stood up and came to Lissa’s side as the woman approached them. She appeared to be Hispanic, dark-haired, slim, maybe thirty-five, dressed in a dark gray jacket and skirt, a pair of low-heeled black pumps. She looked businesslike, professional. Lissa couldn’t read her expression. She didn’t give it much thought other than to assume it was deliberate, that looking impassive was part of Garza’s uniform. It didn’t occur to her then there might be more to it.
The woman introduced herself. “I’m Detective Sergeant Cynthia Garza. Lincoln County Criminal Investigation Division. What can I do for you folks?”
“You’re questioning my brother about Jessica Sweet’s murder, is that right?”
“Yes, we—”
“Does he have a lawyer?”
“He hasn’t asked for one.”
“Well, I’m asking for one on his behalf.” Lissa spoke strongly, surprising herself. In hindsight, it would seem laughable, her idea that she could control any of what was happening.
“I think it’s a bit premature, but even if it weren’t, it’s actually his call,” Garza said.
“Are you arresting him?”
Evan moved more closely to Lissa’s side; she felt his warmth, his radiant calm. He said, “The family is understandably upset, so anything you can tell us—”
“Look, we’re just talking to him. It shouldn’t be too much longer,” Garza added, walking away.
“Wait!” Lissa trailed in Garza’s wake.
She didn’t respond, didn’t so much as glance back. She went through the door, and it snapped shut behind her.
Evan walked Lissa to the bench and sat her down. She put her face into her hands. She didn’t want to feel the panic that was trying to stand up in her stomach. “Tell me this isn’t happening,” she said. “It feels like déjà vu all over again.” Her voice broke.
Evan put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. He murmured things, nonsense mostly. She felt his breath stir the hair at her temple. It both comforted her and made her impatient when he said it would be okay. Twenty minutes passed and when the door opened in the wall behind the duty desk a second time, Lissa straightened.
Her eyes collided with Tucker’s; he lifted his chin, and his expression was at once chagrined and belligerent. But underneath, Lissa could see that Tucker was scared. Evan stood up and Lissa did, too, along with her panic. It made her feel light-headed and hot all at once. Her stomach rolled, and she put her hand there.
“Hey, guys,” Tucker said. “Can you dig this? That I’m back here again? It’s Sergeant Garza’s fault.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the detective. “She can’t get enough of me.”
“Tucker...” His name when Lissa said it was protest; it was despair. She glanced sidelong at the detective. Garza appeared unaffected, but who could say for sure?
“Don’t make any plans to leave the area, Mr. Lebay,” she said. “We might want to talk to you again.”
He raised his arm in acknowledgment. “Sure thing, sweetheart,” he said, but he was looking at Lissa and Evan. “Where were you, anyhow? You get that mess straightened out with Pederson? You guys know I’m sorry, right?” He shifted his feet, lifting the faded red Astros ball cap he wore, slapping it against his thigh, resettling it. “This?” He pronounced the word as if they had asked for an explanation. “It’s a bunch of shit. Big misunderstanding. Cindy here has got a bad case of the hots for me. She likes my company. Right, Cindy?” He turned to her and laughed, pushing the joke.
Lissa’s throat narrowed with the threat of tears, the heat of exasperation. Tucker did this when he was frightened; he made an ass of himself, but she could hardly explain that to the detective. She took Tucker’s arm. “Come on,” she said.
“Yeah, okay,” he answered. “I guess you better get me out of here before they change their minds and toss me in the slammer.” He laughed, but when he lifted his cap again, his hand was shaking.
Lissa led the way to the door, and Evan held it open, so it was her and Tucker going down the steps, shoulder to shoulder.
“When are you going to learn to mind your mouth, Tucker?” Lissa asked.
“It’s got nothing to do with my mouth, Liss.”
“Your shoes are untied.” She pointed this out as if it were important.
Tucker