SHERIFF VANDENBERG: I’m sorry, Patrick. To be the one to have to . . .
PATRICK BAEK: My little girl. [Crying]
[Studio]
JODI LEE: Did you ever watch the video of your father’s questioning?
MARLOW FIN: Yes. Most of it, anyway.
JODI LEE: When you watched it, did you find his demeanor normal?
MARLOW FIN: As normal as someone can be in that scenario, I suppose.
JODI LEE: What about your demeanor? There has been some speculation that your behavior during your questioning was strange.
MARLOW FIN: Well, it was an interrogation. Not a questioning. I sat through a far longer ordeal than my father did. And why does everyone keep saying that . . . strange? What does that mean, anyway?
JODI LEE: Experts in the legal community and law enforcement say you behaved oddly after you were brought in, even for someone who had been through trauma. Slightly erratic even when answering questions.
MARLOW FIN: I was in shock over Isla. I still am.
JODI LEE: What do you miss most about her?
MARLOW FIN: I miss being sisters with her. That’s what I miss.
JODI LEE: Do you believe you had a good relationship as sisters?
MARLOW FIN: Yes. I do. No relationship is ever perfect. But we had a really special bond.
JODI LEE: What about your other relationships?
MARLOW FIN: Such as?
JODI LEE: What was your relationship with Sawyer Ford?
CHAPTER 40
ISLA
2015
“Did you touch her?” I asked, my head down and my hands tucked under my legs.
“Isla.”
“Did you touch her?”
“Nothing happened.”
He tried to sit next to me on the bed, but his hands didn’t bring any warmth with them as they felt for my shoulders. I stood up and went to our bedroom window and leaned against the frame. It felt juvenile despite the circumstances.
I hated that he was even saying those words to me. Nothing happened. An answer that required a question insinuating something had.
Six hours. It had been six hours since the photos were released online. The story hit the waves of tweets and retweets just in time for the evening news cycle. Every outlet was reporting on the photos. I let myself watch them as they came, the headlines and fodder, talking heads giving opinions about people they had never met. I was a child peeking between her fingers, looking at something she shouldn’t be seeing.
My phone vibrated and glowed and I glanced to see her name, calling me again. I flipped it over on the windowsill.
“Please. Come talk to me,” Sawyer pleaded.
“I can’t. Not right now,” I answered shakily.
My hand felt the smooth, white wooden surface.
A month ago, we had sanded and painted all the frames on the second level of our house. It was our first house. Small but every bit of what we needed for us. It was our “for now house.” For now, until we needed a bigger place. For now, until we found our dream home. For now, until we decided to have a family . . . It was old and had an original kitchen sink from the 1930s, but Sawyer loved the old fixtures. The crystal doorknobs and crown moldings that were still in place from whatever family had first built it. He said he liked the idea of there being history, the feeling that others had lived there before us. I told him he was too hokey and then he laughed at me and drew me in.
“I love that it’s ours. That’s what I love the most,” he said, kissing the top of my head.
We repainted the upstairs room a clean eggshell and then tackled the frames. Our bedroom was bright and vibrant, the daylight dreamy. When we finished sanding for the day, he made us a clam pasta dish.
“Where did you learn to make this?”
“Didn’t I ever tell you I had a roommate out in California who was in culinary school?”
“Well, thank you, roommate!” I exclaimed, sucking in a salty and briny noodle.
The dishes were nearly empty, minus a few scattered shells, when he began to kiss my belly and nuzzle my breasts. I giggled, my hair sweaty and full of dust, and he sat me on his lap as we fucked slowly at first and then urgently. I breathed hard when we finished, and stayed on top of him, his head resting in the nape of my neck as I stroked his hair.
Afterward, he had sat in bed with his laptop. I felt myself drifting off, the sounds of the keyboard clacking away. I looked over and he closed his laptop suddenly.
