“Oh?” He gave himself a few seconds to mull over her words. “The police asked her friends, family, teachers, and the like if she had any enemies. They all—you included—denied it.”
“I know. Because she didn’t. Besides, if anyone had said otherwise, you would have remembered reading about it. Because you can’t let Danielle go, which means way too much to me to be able to explain.”
“That is … kind of you.” It was absurd, absurd, how much that comment warmed him. He had decided years ago that conforming and complimenting was not as valuable as gaining knowledge, and for the most part that still held true.
But. It was Ava.
Again: absurd. You’ve known her less than a week. But as his late sister had once explained, an absurdity didn’t mean it wasn’t actually happening. Just that it was difficult to believe.
Ava seemed content to let him think, or she was happy devouring the rest of the catfish basket. After another minute, he asked, “Why would you tell me this?”
“Huh?” The waitress had topped off her lemonade, and Ava paused midgulp. “You kidding?”
“Almost never.”
She stared back, perplexed. “Why wouldn’t I tell you? It wasn’t in your files because you only had my original statement. Ten years ago, I was as blindsided as anyone.”
“Were you?”
Her dark blond brows arched. “Yeah. Sorry, did I not make that clear? About the blindsiding? We were all shocked and horrified and I threw up a little at the crime scene. The techs were really nice about it.” Trying too hard. That’s what one of the techs said, unfortunately, while she was in earshot. Like the killer had watched too many cop shows. It was that thought—the possibility that Danielle was a prop in her own murder—as much as the smell of wet iron that brought her pizza back up. “So, yeah: blindsided.”
WRONG. Something about the word sketched from Danielle’s ashes, coupled with trying too hard, was stuck in her brain like a fish hook. It was wrong because someone tried too hard? Or someone tried too hard and it was … for a moment she felt like she was on the verge of putting it together.
Nope. Gone, like her knowledge of most of her passwords, because companies constantly made her change them.
“We recommend P3623ii6247DF29697mn17 for your new passcode.”
“See you in hell, Wells Fargo.”
“Do you know what I would like, Ava?”
She brought her brain back online to focus on the present. “I can honestly say I haven’t the vaguest clue,” she replied. “But I can’t wait to hear it.”
He smiled before he could stop himself. She was refreshing, no question. And she seemed genuinely interested in the things he said, even when they were gruesome things or blunt things. If she wasn’t a sociopathic murderer, he could be halfway in love with her by now, which was—he hated to overuse a word but this one was apt—absurd.
(“Yeah, but absurd doesn’t mean impossible, big bro.”)
He silently told the ghost of his sister to hush. “I would like to go to Danielle’s memorial tomorrow.”
“Oh. Yeah. Day two, I forgot.” She scrubbed her hands through her hair, then grimaced when she remembered she had greasy catfish fingers. “Well. Forgot on purpose. Going the first time was bad enough.”
“It’s unfortunate you have to go back to work. I had rather hoped we could get together. Ah. At the memorial. To attend the memorial,” he corrected himself, internally wincing.
“Well, it’s your lucky night, pal, because it turns out I’m here for a couple more days.”
“You are? But that’s excellent.”
She shrugged.
“Will you attend with me?”
“Sure, but why d’you want to go? Are you hoping to interview family members there? Because, not to tell you your job, doing that at a funeral is gonna piss people off. And there’s nothing worse than being thrown out of a funeral. I wish I didn’t know that from personal experience, by the way.”
He almost laughed. “Noted. But my intention is otherwise. Killers often attend their victim’s memorial. And if, in this case, the vandal isn’t the killer—”
“What, a run-of-the-mill vandal? Just passing by and figured he’d trash a funeral home?”
“—I would imagine he or she wouldn’t be able to stay away regardless. They’ll want visual confirmation that their actions upset the family. They’ll want to see how the cleanup went. They’ll be looking everywhere for something the crew missed.”
“Creepy and inconsiderate.”
“Indeed.”
“I mean, would they at least bring a side dish for the potluck after the service?”
This time he did laugh. “Who can know the depths of the funeral-crashing killer’s mind?”
“Depraved bastard,” she agreed.
“Regardless, it happens an astonishing amount of the time. It strikes me as unfathomably risky, which is why it’s part of their pathology. They need the adrenaline surge. They love looking at the chaos they wreaked and the family members they’ve devastated. They want to see the mess they made, and then they want to walk away without cleaning it up.”
“This goes back to your theory, doesn’t it? That Danielle’s killer was at her memorial. You think they’d come back a second time?” Ava looked visibly distressed at the thought, and he fought down the urge to comfort her. “Well, why not? I’m going back a second time, which in itself is unfathomable to me.”
“There’s a chance, which is another reason why I wished to attend. But I fear my attendance as a medical examiner would be viewed by the family as inappropriate, in particular since this is not my case and I was a teenager when she died.”
“I’ll get you in.” Ava tried a smile, but it looked wrong on her face. “You’ll be my plus one.”
He snorted.
“Right? Awful. All of it. But we could make something up. We don’t have to tell them who you are.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, we could lie,” she suggested. “You don’t have to be the ME. You could be … um … someone passing themselves off as my coworker?”
“I can’t.”
“Oh. It’s against your, uh, coroner’s oath? That’s okay,” she assured him. “I wouldn’t want you to do something against your—”
“No, I mean I cannot lie. I’m awful at it. Watch.” He looked her straight in the face and announced, “Your hair looks foolish and unattractive.”
Her hand rose instinctively to her curls. “Huh. Is it the catfish grease? Or the texture?”
“Neither. See? I was unable to pull that off. I like your hair.”
What are you DOING? Making a bigger idiot of myself than usual, he thought glumly.
“Okay, so you’re a bad liar, and on an unrelated note, I need a shampoo. But come with me tonight; one way or the other, I’ll get you in.”
Which sounded downright dire, depending on where you were on the “Is Ava the killer?” debate.
“It might work,” he said. “There weren’t many family members at the scene this morning. Only Mrs. Monahan and Dennis, I believe. If they even remember me—”