Page 21 of The Accidental Detectives

Bode went and sat near them, watching as they played. Owen Jr. noticed me first, his velvety brown eyes looking at me with suspicion. “Who are you?”

I grinned at him with playful eyes. “I’m Nina. Who are you?”

He got up from the carpeted floor, traipsing over to me, the belt of his checkered bathrobe trailing behind him. He stuck out his hand with a jab. “I’m Owen Jacob Barker Jr. and I’m eight years old.”

I took his hand and gave it a shake. “I’m Nina Blackman-Statleon, and I’m not eight years old. Good to meet ya.”

He looked up at me, his round eyes full of curiosity, freckles dancing across his nose. “Did I shake your hand right?”

I winked and nodded. “You did a fine job, Owen Jacob Barker Jr. Well done.”

Those big eyes went soft with sadness. “I learned how to do it from my dad. My dad died.”

If I could cry, I would. I hated that I couldn’t shed tears. It left for bottled-up emotions that were never allowed to fully process. I felt the sting of the onslaught of tears, I felt the tightening of my throat and the empty feeling in my belly, but no tears. No relief.

So I squatted on my haunches and looked Owen Jr. in the eye. “I’m sorry to hear that, Owen. You must be pretty dang sad, huh?” There was no need to give this revelation a silver fuckin’ lining. The kid’s dad was dead. That sucked ass. He deserved to let it hold space, to let his sorrow breathe.

He took a deep breath, his small chest lifting and falling. “I miss him. He used to make us banana pancakes on Saturdays. He was a good daddy.”

I’d caught Lacy’s attention now, too. She padded over to me, her light brown hair catching the weak December sunlight sifting through the blinds.

She held up her doll, her eyes dull and tired. “This is my Barbie. Her name is Ariel.”

“Like the Little Mermaid?” I asked, brushing her wispy hair from her face.

She gave me a shy glance, her thick lashes sweeping her cheek. “Uh-huh. Everybody likes Moana and Elsa, but my favorite is Ariel, and I don’t care that stupid Destiny Evans says she’s dumb. She’s still my favorite.” As if to reinforce that, she jutted out her bottom lip in “so there” fashion.

I gave her belly a light poke. “I like a girl who sticks to her guns. Good for you. I like Ariel, too.”

But Owen nudged her with a frown. “Don’t call people stupid, Lacy. It’s mean.” Then he looked to me as though he’d taken on the role of his sister’s keeper. “She’s only five. She doesn’t know any better.”

I tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a fine role model, Owen. Bet your dad would be proud.”

“My daddy’s in Heaven. Mommy says it beautiful and Daddy’s going to be so happy living there, but…I wish we could visit him sometimes,” Lacy said with a tiny shudder.

What the hell do you say to that? How do you makethatbetter? “I’m sorry, Lacy. But you know what, pretty lady? You can still talk to him. He might not answer, but you can always talk to him—I bet he listens, even if it stinks that he can’t answer.”

She nodded, wrinkling her nose, her hair bouncing along the fabric of her purple pajamas. “It is stinky. Like poo.”

This time, Owen agreed, his freckled face going cold. “It’s stinky like that lady where Daddy lived. She was stinky, too.”

So look. When I agreed to do this with Marty and Wanda, I didn’t think for a flippin’ second any kids would be involved. I know, I know, that sounds naïve, and I’m far from falling off a turnip truck. I mean, I’ve seen some shit, but kids were my soft spot.

I didn’t want to poke around inside their little heads and ask probing questions better left to therapists and the adults in their lives. I didn’t want to upset or trigger them, either.

But what if I didn’t ask, and Lacy and Owen Jr. never got justice for their father? Astrid was a trainwreck. She was so terrified she’d be blamed, she didn’t tell the cops Owen had an argument—aphysicalone—with his best friend, with witnesses and everything.

Maybe she was playing us with an act, but her kids had nothing to do with that.

So I asked in the gentlest way I know how. “A stinky lady, huh? That sounds mysterious, little dude. Who was she? Do you know her name?”

He shrugged his little shoulders and turned away. “I dunno. My dad said to mind my business and ignore her. But she smelled real bad. So bad, I had to cover my nose with my arm.”

At this point, Lacy tugged a piece of my hair. “You’re pretty. You look like Jasmine fromAladdin. Can I brush your hair?” She tugged at my hand, pulling me to a pink and purple vanity not unlike the one my kid has, where she could play dress-up and put on pretend makeup in front of a lighted mirror.

Grampa Arch had gotten it for her for Christmas last year—among the zillion other things my people showered her with, but it was one of her favorites, much to Marty and Wanda’s delight.

I smiled at her sweet face, following her to the tiny chair in front of the playset. I pointed to the hair clips. “You bet, but only if you promise to put some of those butterfly clips in my hair. The blue ones. I like those the best.”

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