“Cancer,” Aunt Julie pronounced with a sigh. “Got her quick. Wasn’t long in the hospital. Shock to us all.”
“Lot of cancer round these parts,” Uncle Mike added. “Cousin John, too.”
Zoe wasn’t sure she had ever met a cousin John. Perhaps Mike meant his own cousin. The information washed over her, one thing after another, so quick and close that it was difficult to filter out what was important and what was useless.
“And your Aunt Debbie got married again,” Aunt Julie said. “Y-e-e-e-p, you missed that one too.”
“That was a good wedding,” Uncle Mike noted.
Zoe felt a kind of rushing in her head, a sensation of everything coming over her at once. It was all too much. Being back here had been the first thing, but hearing that her mother had died, the judgment, the news she didn’t need or care about—it was too much. She had to get out.
“Of course it was a good wedding,” Aunt Julie tsked again. “You acting like we can’t put on a good wedding. Debbie knows what she’s about. Not going to let miss stuck-up city life here think we can’t do a good wedding out here in the country like anyone can.”
“I do not think that,” Zoe tried to say, hoping that somehow it would take the heat off her.
“Well, why didn’t you come to the wedding?” Uncle Mike asked. “If you ain’t too good for us, you would’ve been here.”
How to put it into words? The years of abuse, of psychological torture, of being made to feel like she was evil and sinful. The years it had taken, afterwards, to have any kind of belief in herself. The kind of damage that might have been done if she had ever come back, especially before she had met Dr. Applewhite, or before she had become an FBI agent, or before she had started working with Shelley.
In the end, she didn’t have an excuse, not one she was willing to say out loud. She couldn’t stay here anymore, with the faded and smoke-stained wallpaper closing in on her, with their judgmental eyes burning holes in her skin. The numbers were getting uncontrollable, and there was so much here to count: the clutter, the furniture crowded in, the faded and lumpy bodies of her relatives. She couldn’t think of what people normally said to exit these situations politely. She couldn’t remember the right words.
“Then Bob, remember, Janie’s boy,” Uncle Mike said, plowing right over her lack of a response. “You missed all that noise, too.”
“Oh, Mike, really,” Aunt Julie barked, shaking her head. “You’re gonna tell her about that one? She don’t need to know about no jailbreaking hotshot, making us sound like the scum of the earth over here. What about Janie’s girl—what’s her name…”
“Sandy,” Uncle Mike said.
“No, not Sandy—Sandra—she was a good girl. Got herself a good job over the state border now. Four kids too. Unlike some.”
Zoe got up with a rush, almost knocking over a stack of old magazines by the side of the chair. “I should go,” she said, barely even hearing her own words. From somewhere the bolt of inspiration had come to her. “It is late.”
“Just about as expected,” Uncle Mike said, smacking his lips together loudly. “Got something more important than us to deal with, I bet.”
Zoe hesitated in the hallway, looking back into the family room. Neither of them had shifted from their chairs to see her out. She felt like she might rage and yell at them, or break down in tears, or beg them to look at her, really look at her. Instead she lifted her chin, fingering the car keys in her pocket. “I have a serial killer to catch,” she said, shortly, and strode out of the house without listening for a response.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Shelley unlocked her motel door and paused before walking in, glancing through the gap in the curtains of the room next door: no Zoe. It had been partially expected. After all, Zoe had said she was going out somewhere and would be eating on her own, so she might well be out all night. There was no sense waiting up for her—though Shelley knew at least part of her would be finely tuned, listening, until she heard that door open and close through the wall.
She pushed her way into her room, and was just turning to close the door behind her when she recognized the rental car pulling up into the parking lot. She’d had to take a taxi to a local diner, and she had half a mind to tell Zoe off for taking the car without asking, although in her heart she knew she wasn’t really mad. Something was off with her partner, had been all day, and Shelley didn’t want to push her too hard.
She waited in her doorway, hesitating, then dropped her bag on the floor and joined Zoe as she went into her own room. Without asking, she followed her, putting down a small plastic bag on the desk.
“What is that?” Zoe asked, nodding her head toward the bag. Shelley noticed that her formality was back and held back a wince. Something had happened, and whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
“I got leftovers,” Shelley said. “I asked them to pack it up for me. Just in case you didn’t get a chance to eat anything.”
Zoe was busy, hanging up her jacket, unpacking things from her bag, setting the motel room key carefully at a precise angle on the dresser. “I am not hungry,” she said.
“Thank you for being so thoughtful, Shelley,” Shelley muttered under her breath. She shook her head; Zoe either hadn’t heard the comment or was pretending not to have. Sometimes, the similarities between being partnered with Zoe and looking after her four-year-old daughter were startling. Louder, she tried again. “You should at least eat something. So you can keep your strength up for the case, if nothing else.”
“Maybe.” Zoe refused to commit. She was hanging clothes up, neat suits and shirts that had been crumpled up in her overnight bag.
“Z…” Shelley sighed, knowing the best approach was head-on where Zoe was concerned. “What happened? Where did you go?”
“Nothing happened,” Zoe said, yanking one of her jackets straight on the hanger with a sharp movement. “I am tired. We should get some sleep.”
Shelley took a breath. Whatever it was, it was bad—she knew that much. It was written all over Zoe. And if it was bad enough that she didn’t want to talk about it, that usually meant it was something that absolutely needed talking about.
This called for the big guns. Shelley didn’t really like using her techniques on friends—there was something traitorous about it—but she needed to get to the bottom of this. If she didn’t, it might fester away, and Zoe had made such good progress over the past few months. She didn’t want her friend to throw all of that away.
The Reid technique was one of her favorites, and it applied here: it was clear that something was wrong. Getting it out of Zoe was the point, but there was no chance she would be able to deny it. Not convincingly. Shelley sat down at the chair by the room’s desk, swiveling it around to face Zoe, and began the first step: Tell the suspect you know they did it because of the evidence presented, and give them a chance to explain.
“Something happened tonight,” Shelley said. “I can tell by the way you are. I know something happened to you. Why don’t you tell me what’s got you so upset?”