Brad Parks - The Girl Next Door

She turned to the side and covered a yawn with her non-door-holding hand. My iPhone bleeped its new mail ring tone at earsplitting volume-I had yet to fiddle with the settings to change it to vibrate-and my hand dove into my pocket to silence it. But it was too late. The noise seemed to wake up Anne just enough to want to be rid of me.

“Mr. Ross, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to come back another day. I’m just … I’m not up for this right now. And Jeanne is asleep. She needs her rest. Are you free next week? Maybe we could set up a time when we could all meet in my office.”

Yes, it was definitely time for Mr. Ross to get assertive.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I said. “My investigation into your sister’s death has … reached a critical point. Time is of the essence. You mentioned you had a document for me. Why don’t you just give it to me and I’ll be on my way.”

“I … I don’t have any copies.”

“I’ll run to a Staples and make you ten sets,” I countered.

“That’s not the point,” she said, running her hand through her hair in a gesture of frustration. “It’s complicated.”

I realized that Anne McCaffrey, who was all about staying in command of things, was trying to keep what little control she had over this situation. I also recognized a woman at the frayed end of her rope. And yet I felt I had no choice but to keep tugging on her.

“Ms. McCaffrey, with all due respect, a lot of situations get pretty complicated. I’ve been a newspaper reporter a long time. I’ve never met anyone whose life comes in a neat package with a bow on top. I don’t expect yours does, and I wouldn’t expect Nancy’s did, either. Why don’t you just show me what you have and we’ll sort it out together.”

“Well, I’m a lawyer,” she said, as if I didn’t already know. “So I don’t expect things to be neat, either. It’s … I don’t want this to be something that becomes…”

She exhaled forcefully and winced, covering her face with her hands.

“My mother is so devastated by this, and I … I just don’t need this to be … bigger than-”

“I’m afraid that may be unavoidable,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Ms. McCaffrey, I know this might not be what you want to hear,” I said, as evenly as I could. “But by the end of the day, it’s entirely possible two men will be arrested for conspiring to murder your sister.”

* * *

For a newspaper reporter, delivering bad news to people is part of the job, something you find yourself doing with enough frequency that you get accustomed to the range of reactions.

There are the deniers, the people who immediately insist what you’re telling them couldn’t possibly be true. There are the displacers, the people who channel that immediate rush of hurt and anger at you and hold you personally responsible for whatever you’re telling them. There are the crumblers, the people who collapse into something resembling a catatonic state, to the point where they become useless. There are the bawlers, the people who immediately start crying on you or anyone else who happens to be around.

Then there are the stoics, which is the group Anne McCaffrey fell into. She was a tough nut, and she had no plan on showing me whatever emotion, if any, she was experiencing. If I had to guess, I’d say it was resignation more than anything-like this was news she feared might be coming, and therefore had braced herself to receive.

But that was just a guess. Outwardly, all she did was run her hand through her hair again, then step aside from the doorway.

“You’d better come in,” she said wearily.

I followed her into a living room still cluttered with the detritus of Nancy’s funeral reception. Anne gazed at it like it was just one more thing in life that disappointed her. Then she looked my way, as if she was placing me in the same category, though she wouldn’t be able to clean me up as easily.

“Have a seat,” she said. Nancy’s living room had a couch against the far wall, flanked on either end by two sturdy armchairs, with a coffee table in the middle of the three pieces. I selected one of the armchairs.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

“It’s no trouble. I’m going to get a glass of water for myself.”

“I’m all right, thanks.”

Just then, Jeanne came into the living room. She was wearing her black funeral dress and had been inside long enough that her glasses were actually clear.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why didn’t you tell me he was here.”

“He just got here,” Anne said, trying not to sound defensive. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping. I was just resting,” she said, then turned to me. “Hello, Mr. Ross.”

“Hello,” I said. “And please call me Carter. I think we’re going to be getting to know each other a little bit.”

“What do you mean?” Jeanne asked.

Anne eyed her sister nervously and began trying to herd her toward the couch.

“Jeanne, why don’t you have a seat, honey?”

“Why don’t you stop telling me what to do?” she snapped.

Another sister spat was not what I needed at this (or any other) moment. So I interceded before this one got any momentum.

“Anne, on second thought, I’d really like that glass of water,” I said, and she rolled with it.

“Jeanne, would you like one?”

“No, thank you,” Jeanne said testily.

While Anne was in the kitchen, Jeanne took a seat on the couch-of her own volition, of course, not because her sister suggested it. Anne returned juggling three water glasses with a grace that would have made her waitress younger sister proud. She arrayed three coasters on the coffee table-Anne was a coaster-using kind of woman-placed the glasses on the coasters, then chose her spot on the opposite end of the couch from Jeanne.

“So, Carter,” Anne said in her most diplomatic tone, “can you please repeat to my sister what you just told me?”

I not only repeated, I elaborated, narrating for them the full rundown of what I knew, from the NLRB visiting Papadopolous to Mrs. Alfaro’s statement to the police. I tried to keep the level of detail high enough that I didn’t leave anything out, yet sparse enough that I didn’t bog down the story. Still, it took me about twenty minutes to finish it all.

When I was done, Jeanne actually looked pleased, like she had been vindicated and was waiting to whip the world’s biggest I Told You So on her older sister. Anne was still stoic.

“Gary Jackman,” she said, at last. “You said that’s one of the men’s names?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that answers that,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry, Carter,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ve told us a lot, but I … we haven’t told you everything. Or anything, really. There may be more to the story. Or it may be a different story entirely.”

“There was a lot my sister was keeping from me,” Jeanne interrupted. “They were things I would have told you when we met, but I didn’t know them myself at the time.”

“I felt it was privileged information,” Anne explained, and Jeanne steadied her head just long enough to glare at her sister. This had clearly been an argument from recent days, and I just hoped they weren’t going to rehash it in front of me.

“I called you when Anne finally started telling me,” Jeanne said, “but your phone was dead.”

“Yeah, I, uh, had to switch phones,” I said. I could tell them about my employment status later. “Anyway, what about this story is going to change?”

“I should probably just show you,” Anne said. “I’ll be right back.”