Outside, she heard again the voices of her guests, rising slowly into mirth once more.
The party would go on without her.
Louise
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One
Louise feels ill.
“I don’t believe you,” she says, over and over.
“That’s up to you,” says the detective. Lowry. She has the feeling she has already said things to him that she shouldn’t have said. But if there’s one thing that sets her off, it’s being lied on. All her life, people have been telling lies about her. Today it’s happened twice already: first Annabel, now this. Her face is hot with fury, with the injustice of it all. She’s rankled. She can’t shut up.
“You’re lying,” she says, her heart racing.
“Nope,” says Lowry, with a sort of calm assurance that makes her want to reach across the table and—
“When did it start?” says Lowry.
“Fuck you,” says Louise.
“All right,” says Lowry. “You can sit a while longer. I got no other place to be.”
• • •
John Paul, said Lowry, has been found with a bag of Barbara’s clothing. Bloody, he added—holding Louise’s gaze as he said the word.
He had no idea what was in the bag, said the detective.
But he said Louise had asked him to get rid of it for her.
“You know what that reminds me of?” said the detective. “The other bag you asked someone to get rid of for you, earlier today.”
• • •
Now, Louise looks back at him steadily, her face flushed with anger. She tries and fails to keep her voice level.
“Listen to me,” she says. “I had nothing to do with either one of those bags. I knew about Annabel’s. But that was her stuff in it. Not mine.”
Lowry assesses her.
“I get it,” he says. “Barbara looked a lot older than thirteen.”
Louise’s stomach turns. She used to hear this sentiment expressed a lot: about herself.
“No she does not,” she says. Careful to use the present tense, to dodge what she assumes is the grammatical trap the detective has laid for her. “She looks like a thirteen-year-old who wears black eyeliner. She looks like a kid.”
Lowry nods. “I guess I could see that too,” he says. “That makes sense, actually.”
She doesn’t take the bait.
He tries again. “How long have you known Lee Towson?”
She’s silent. She pictures Lee in his apron, grinning at her from the commissary kitchen. Wonders where he is right now.
“It was his idea, right?” says Lowry. “He asked you to bring her to him?”
The absurdity of the accusation riles her, but she understands, in a new way, that Denny Hayes was correct when he told her to ask for a lawyer. That nothing she says now will serve her.
“What do you have me here for,” says Louise, finally. Her hunger has become nausea.
Lowry looks at her, surprised.
“You can’t keep me here, can you?” says Louise. “Can’t I leave?”
“Nope,” says Lowry, shaking his head. “Technically, you’re being charged with possession of a controlled substance,” he says.
“That’s a lie too,” says Louise.
“Well, we don’t know that yet. All we know is that’s the charge that’s been laid on you. So until bail is set for that charge and you pay it, you’re with us.”
“But that’s not really why you’re keeping me here,” says Louise. “You already told me that.”
Lowry smiles. “Did I?” he says.
Louise says nothing.
“Louise,” says Lowry. “If you’re done talking to us, that’s fine. That’s your right. But hear me out. I’m gonna tell you something that I think might help you.”
