Page 10 of The House Beyond the Dunes

I accept the card, barely glancing at the plain black lettering.DETECTIVEDONALDS.BECKER.The paper quality isn’t the best. I shift my stance and almost don’t wince. “Don’t hitch any hopes to me. I really don’t know anything about these women.”

“You’re in pain,” he says. “Exhausted and traumatized. Give it time. There might be answers swirling in your subconscious. I hear the subconscious mind makes up ninety-two percent of our brain.”

“It’s where we store emotions. Unfortunately, it requires the remaining eight percent to translate the images and feelings.”

He looks impressed. “Putting that degree to work.”

“The fall messed up my hip, not my brain, or so says Dr.Jackson.”

Detective Becker appears in no rush to wrap this meeting up. “EMTs tell me Kyle hit first. Broke his neck and smashed his skull. You landed on top of him. It’s a miracle the fall didn’t kill you, too.”

My mind replays thethwackof splintering bone against marble. “That’s what Dr.Jackson told me.”

“You said Kyle was giving you a tour of the upstairs.”

I rewind through the minutes of that last hour, but the tape keeps skipping over the fall. “That’s right. But I don’t remember.”

“Why is that?”

“I remember feeling tired. We’d had champagne and I’m not used to it. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I was counting the stairs as we climbed. Twenty-one total.”

Thinking about Kyle hurts. It takes effort to distance myself from the pain. I’m tempted to walk away from the door, climb into bed, and pull the covers over my head. If the detective wants to keep talking, he can follow. However, I don’t move.

“Dr.Jackson did tell me there were traces of a sedative in your system.”

“I don’t take drugs.”

“Except the sleepwalking pills.”

“I don’t take sedatives during the day.” I think back to this morning. Maybe I’d taken my pills late last night, and traces remained in my system.

“I’m sorry ... that you were hurt, Lane.”

The detective’s foot slides back, but I don’t slam the door. He jams his hands into the pockets of his black jacket. The fabric shifts as if he’s fingering more business cards, a receipt, or change. Faint traces of cigarettes drift toward me. Unlike Shelly’s heavy smoky scent, his remindsme of the occasional cigarette bummed from a pal. He wants to quit but can’t quite give it up.

“Are you doing PT?” Is he as interested as he sounds?

“No.”

“PT’s important. When I rehabbed my shoulder, I didn’t miss a session.” He rolls his, as if to prove it still works. Removing a packet of gum from that pocket, he offers me a piece. I decline. He carefully unfolds the silver wrapper as if he has something on his mind.

A fleeting smile crosses my lips. “My insurance works great as long as I don’t need it.”

“Tough break.” He scores the wrapper’s crease with his fingers.

“Life, right?”

“Kyle Iverson’s autopsy just concluded an hour ago.” He drops the statement like a grenade.

And it lands right at my feet, explodes, and rocks me back on my heels. “It was an accident. Why was an autopsy ordered so quickly?”

“Unless you’re very old and die in bed, the cops want to know the details. The exact cause of death is important. I’ve seen murders packaged and delivered like they were accidents.”

Murder. “The autopsy happened so fast?”

“I made a few calls.”

Kyle was vibrant and alive this morning, and now he’s cut up on a stainless-steel table. “It was an accident.”

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