Page 24 of Collect the Pieces

Fuck that dude. And fuck you too.

“Themanwas directly responsible for his daughter’s death.” Margot’s sharp tone pierces the otherwise somber atmosphere. “In a brutal, deliberate act. So no, we would not have opened our doors to him.”

“Of course,” the younger cop says, trying to sound reasonable.

“It was a small service. Very short. Only Laurel, her mother, and her sister attended,” Margot adds in a calmer tone. She’s playing this perfectly. No nervous giggle or guilty stammering. Just straightforward answers as if she has nothing to hide.

“You haven’t heard from Laurel since then?” the younger cop asks.

“No. But I wasn’t expecting to, either.” Margot pauses. As if it’s an afterthought, she asks, “Wait,howdid he die? You don’t seriously think Laurel had anything to do with it, do you?”

Good girl.They’ll think it’s odd if you don’t ask how he died.

“Unlikely,” the younger cop says. “Guy overdosed in a motel room.”

“Oh,” Margot says, in a voice devoid of emotion or further interest.

“You don’t seem surprised,” the older cop prompts.

“Laurel mentioned that he had a substance abuse problem,” Margot explains. “I’m a little ashamed to say this, but at the time, I thought she was just making an excuse for…what happened…for what he did to her.” She strikes just the right note between contrite and judgmental.

Damn, Margot’s a good liar. Scary good.

“No, it looks like she was telling you the truth about that,” younger cop agrees. “Well, if you hear from Laurel, please let us know. You have my card.”

“Will do,” Margot promises. “I’ll let my father know as well.”

“When will he be back?” the older man asks.

“In a few hours, but we’ll be busy with the service. I can have him call you tomorrow if you want?”

“Sure,” he answers, as if he doesn’t care one way or another.

They’re silent for a moment, then low murmurs and thuds over the carpeted hallway alert me that they’re on the move. I quietly track their movements, following the length of the parlor room as they head toward the front door. I stop before the parlor room’s open archway to stay out of their sight.

The front door releases a long, low squeak as it opens. Margot must be making it clear she’d like them to leave now.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Cedarwood,” the younger cop says, his voice coming from farther away now.

“Of course.”

I risk peering around the corner. The detectives are on the porch, angled toward the street. I catch a glimpse of Margot’s profile. Her arms crossed over her chest.

“That motorcycle out there belong to you?” one of them asks.

Well, fuck.Guess they took time looking around the house before they knocked on the door. I parked my bike in the same place I always do, tucked into a nook where it’s not quite visible from the street or back porch.

Damn, it’s killing me that I can’t see more of Margot’s face. I creep closer to the front door.

“Gosh no,” she says in a wide-eyed, scandalized tone. “I’ve never been on one.”

I’ve known this since the beginning, but a pang of regret still hits me.

“Nice woman like you shouldn’t be gettin’ mixed up with bikers,” walrus cop says in his gravelly huff.

Weird that’s their first assumption.

Without skipping a beat, Margot says, “We serve all of our clients equally.”

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