“We’re almost there,” Blake announces, shaking me from my thoughts.
“Did Wendy give you any idea about the questions they’ll have?” I ask him.
“She didn’t have a chance to tell me much but said it was mostly what she expected—how well did she know Jillian, had she spoken to her that day, did she see anyone suspicious on the property. My guess is that it’ll be pretty much the same for all of us other than my father. None of us knew Jillian well besides him, so we have very little to contribute.”
Not long after, he makes a sharp right turn off the road and pulls up in front of a fairly large, nondescript brick building. In the utilitarian lobby, we see we’re the first of our party to arrive, and the officer at the desk tells Blake to take a seat on the bench, and then Bonnie and I are led away by a trooper into separate interview rooms. The one I’m in smells faintly of spray bleach cleanser, and there’s a long mirror on the far wall—two-way, I assume.
A duo of female detectives is waiting at the smudged metal table, both in dark, lightweight blazers, and though they don’t rise out of their seats, they introduce themselves politely—Detectives Russo and Callahan. Callahan’s the one who came into the house at one point and designated what groups we’d be in, but it’s Russo, the older of the two, who asks me to take a seat across from them and explains that our conversation will be taped.
In acting classes you’re taught that one of the best ways to project confidence is to claim territory, and I try to do that as soon as I sit, positioning both hands on the table a few inches from my body. Part of my nervousness is due simply from being inside an interview room at a police station, but it’s more than that, of course.
The salt-and-pepper-haired Detective Russo kicks things off, asking for basic details, like my name and relation to the family, then telling me to describe how I happened to come upon the crime scene today, while Callahan takes notes. Needless to say, I don’t mention that one reason I’d gone in search of Bonnie was to ask if she’d noticed any signs of someone drying poisonous leaves in the carriage house kitchen. Instead, I explain that I’d seen a coyote on the property the night before and had headed to the stream to warn her—also true, of course. Russo’s expression never changes, but Detective Callahan’s face contracts slightly, perhaps in skepticism, as if I’m trying to convince her of some mythical story, like those involving a winged horse or a she-wolf.
“Did you or the housekeeper touch the body—or go near it?” Russo asks. It’s clear she’s going to do most of the talking.
“I didn’t, and I assume Bonnie didn’t before I got there. It was hard for us to even look. And it was pretty clear it was too late to help her.”
“Did you see anyone else in the vicinity?”
“No, not a soul.”
“And this was at about what time?”
“Uh, I didn’t have my phone with me, so I can’t be precise. But probably about fifteen or twenty minutes before I called 911 back at the house.”
Russo makes a show out of opening a folder in front of her, then thumbs through a thin stack of papers, skimming the handwritten notes on one of the pages before finally returning her gaze to me.
“How well did you know Jillian Herrera?” She asks it easily enough, still polite.
“Not well. In the six years since I’ve been with my husband, I probably only met her six or seven times, usually at certain events the Keatons had at their apartment.”
“Did you see or speak to her today?”
“No, I never saw her,” I say. “I had no idea she was even on the property, and that’s why at first I didn’t realize it was her lying on the ground. Bonnie and I thought it was Hannah Kane who was dead. Nick’s . . . fiancée. Because of the dark hair.”
So much for my vow to myself to keep things simple. The two detectives exchange looks.
“When did you realize it wasn’t Ms. Kane?”
“When we reached the house and saw Hannah. She hadn’t been around earlier.”
“And the last time you did see or speak to Ms. Herrera? When was that?”
“Well, I saw her yesterday at the memorial service for my mother-in-law—on the lawn—but I barely had any contact with her. I did speak to her, though, on, uh, Monday. We discussed a few details related to the service, since Jillian was helping with the arrangements.”
“Did she share any concerns with you about her safety?”
The question catches me off guard. Do the police think someone was after Jillian, stalking her? No, that’s not it. What the question suggests is that if Jillian was killed by someone in the household, she might have felt nervous during the days beforehand, nervous enough to even hint at it.
“No—and she seemed perfectly fine to me. By the way, I need to point out something important. Before she died this weekend, my mother-in-law told me that local hunters had been trespassing on the property. There’s apparently a way to reach the woods the Keatons own—the ones near where Jillian was found—from an old logging road.”
Russo drums her fingers on the table briefly.
“Did your mother-in-law elaborate on that?” she asks. “Had she made any formal complaints?”
“I’m not sure if she did, but Bonnie is aware of it, too. I’m sure Ash—Mr. Keaton—would know of specific examples.”
“And you hadn’t noticed anyone on the property who shouldn’t be there?”
“No, but I haven’t strayed very far from the house this week.”
Russo taps her fingers again. Her cuticles are ragged, bitten or torn, but right now at least it seems nothing could faze her.
“Just a few more questions, Ms. Redding. How well did other family members seem to know Ms. Herrera?”
My pulse quickens. This is when I might have to skirt the truth. You’re in a play, I tell myself for the second time today. Own the room, stay in control.
“Probably not much better than I did—though Nick might have had more contact with her. Because he works with my father-in-law.”
“And how about your husband? Gabe, is it?”
Why is she asking about him specifically? Only because I’m married to him, I tell myself. It’s surely just a routine question.
“Yes, Gabe. Jillian started around the time we met, so he only knows her as well as I do. Though he may have bumped into her occasionally when he dropped by his dad’s office.”
What the hell would she make of the fact that he was talking to Jillian this morning—but doesn’t want to admit it? To my relief, Russo redirects the conversation.
“And just to clarify,” she says after a few beats, “what is the reason everyone is staying at the house this week?”
“It was supposed to be our annual summer get-together week. A vacation. Then my mother-in-law passed, so we’re all still here, but of course it’s not a holiday anymore.”
Russo’s perusing her notes again, and Callahan has stopped writing, her pen poised right above the page.
“That has to be tough at moments,” Callahan offers. “So many adults in one house.”
It’s the first time she’s opened her mouth other than to introduce herself, and though I’m pretty sure what she’s trying to get at, I refuse to bite.