I take a calming breath. “Of course. Just a moment.”
I return to my house and close the door behind me, leaving the detective on the front porch. I lean against the door, taking a moment to breathe in and out. Detective Willard has rattled me. When I look down at my hands, they’re trembling.
I finally pull myself together enough to enter the kitchen. Enzo is still sitting there, the cold pizza bagels in an untouched pile in front of him. He looks up at me when I enter the room.
“Well?” he says.
“The detective wants to talk to you,” I say.
Dread fills his handsome features. He’s looking at me like I told him he is being marched to a firing squad. But he gets out of his chair and walks to the front door to talk to the detective.
FORTY-FOUR
Enzo won’t say much to me after his discussion with the detective.
I don’t know what they talked about. I pressed my ear against the front door, attempting to listen, but our front door must be just as soundproof as that hidden room, because I could not hear one word. But on the plus side, the detective didn’t take my husband away in handcuffs.
After the detective left, I went upstairs to find the T-shirt with the blood stains on it. But I didn’t see it in the laundry hamper. I didn’t see it anywhere.
I wonder what Enzo did with it.
We have mostly sequestered the children in their rooms, so after they finish eating, we decide to bring them both down to the living room to talk about what happened. After all, it’s not like we can hide the fact that our next-door neighbor was murdered. They know something is going on.
The two of them sit down on the sofa. Ada looks up at me intently with her big dark eyes, and Nico squirms, trying to get comfortable. That kid never seems able to sit still. I also can’t help but notice he is avoiding eye contact.
I sit beside him on the sofa, and Enzo takes the armchair. I’m not sure which of us should initiate the conversation. But Enzo has this glazed look on his face, like he’s still reeling from whatever he spoke about with the detective, so I have a feeling it’s going to be me.
“We want to talk to you about what is going on next door,” I begin. “I assume you saw the police cars.”
Ada nods solemnly while Nico fidgets.
“I’m sorry to tell you,” I say, “that Mr. Lowell was… Somebody killed him.”
They don’t need to hear the details. They don’t need to know about how I found him in a pool of blood with his neck gaping open. This sanitized version is bad enough.
Predictably, Ada bursts into tears. Nico drops his eyes and doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t want you to be scared,” I say. “The person who did this to him… That person won’t want to hurt our family. It has nothing to do with us.”
Of course, we have no evidence of that. We have no idea who killed Jonathan Lowell. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with reassuring two children that their lives are not in danger.
“Are you okay?” I ask them gently.
Ada wipes her eyes. “Do they know who killed him?”
I can’t say the words in my head, which are, The police think it might be your father. I put my arm around her shoulders. “They will soon. Don’t worry.”
Nico is leaning back on the sofa, and there is an expression on his face I can’t quite read. I remember how flat he was when his beloved praying mantis bit the dust. It was… disturbing. But this is a different situation. This is a human being. Plus Nico spent some time over there doing his chores. He knew the Lowells. His brain must be a mess right now.
But the truth is he doesn’t look even the slightest bit upset.
We send the kids back up to their rooms. Ada extracts guarantees from both of us that we will come in to say good night, but Nico doesn’t say much at all.
I wait until I hear both of their bedroom doors closing before I turn to my husband. “Do you think they’re okay?”
He has barely said a word to me since the detective left. He still has that glassy look in his eyes.
“Enzo?” I say.
He rolls his head to look at me. “I did not kill him, Millie. You know that, yes?”
I am all the way at the other end of the sofa, and I could scoot down to be closer to the armchair, but I don’t do it. “I know.”
“I cut my hand,” he says. “It was bleeding.”
“Right. That’s what you said.”
“And,” he adds, “I was not cheating with Suzette.”
“Okay,” I say.
The police are already suspicious of him based on what Janice told them. They don’t even know the things I know. The blood on his hands. The way he snuck out the other night and returned smelling of Suzette’s perfume.
He has given me explanations for all those things, none of which I believe. I won’t repeat any of it to the police. But that doesn’t mean I can forget it happened.
“Please, Millie.” His voice breaks. “I need you to believe me. Is important. I did not do this.”
“Okay,” I say. “I believe you.”
