Page 21 of Collect the Pieces

Cold fear streaks downmy spine.

My heart thumps wildly.

Detectives have stopped by before. Wanting to observe a service or ask questions about a family member. We’ve certainly organized funerals for several members of law enforcement over the years.

This visit could be totally normal.

Or the end of my freedom.

An ominous cloud hovers over me. Like somehow my conversation with Jigsaw last night was overheard by the universe and it ratted me out to the sheriff.

Grabbing my professional composure by the throat, I force my lips into a gracious and welcoming smile. “How can I help you?”

“May we come in?” the short, older, pot-bellied man asks.

“Of course.” My voice settles into the soft, dulcet tone I use with clients, concealing the chaos gathering inside me.

I step back to allow them inside.

Detective Wood crosses the threshold first.

The older detective stops and hands me a business card embossed with the shiny red sheriff’s insignia and the man’s name across the top.Walt Wearmouth.Strange name.

Walt hesitates as he steps into the foyer. Maybe he’s arrived at an age where he fears the reaper.

To further unsettle him, I lead both detectives into the viewing room, instead of the cozier parlor across the hallway.

The younger detective tucks his hands in his pockets. “Do you know a Patrick Larsen?”

Holy shit.

“I knowofhim.” I clasp my hands in front of me and tilt my head, like I’m a good little citizen eager to help.

“He was found dead a few weeks ago.”

“Oh.” I refuse to say “that’s too bad,” or express any sort of sympathy for that monster. But I’ll happily play dumb.“Well, my father usually handles the logistics…I can call him?—”

“No, no. That’s not why we’re here.” The young cop gives the old one a sideways glance. “Do you know Laurel Larsen too?”

“Yes. Is she okay?”

“Howdo you know her?” Detective Wearmouth asks.

They should have this information somewhere, shouldn’t they? “We took care of her daughter’s cremation after Mr. Larsen beat her so badly their baby was stillborn.” I enunciate each word clearly, hoping they understand just how little of a fuck I give about Patrick Larsen’s death.

“Have you spoken to her since then?” Detective Wood asks.

“Not since the service.” I turn and peer into the hallway.Where’d Jigsaw go?“She sent me a thank-you card but I haven’t spoken to her.”

“Can we see the card?”

“Uh, yeah.” Where’d I put it? Dad’s office probably. I wouldn’t have taken it upstairs. I incline my head, indicating they can follow me.

No sign of Jigsaw in the hallway. I try to casually glance into the parlor but unless I stop and crane my neck around the corner, I can’t see much.

Inside my father’s office, I round the desk and walk straight to the wall where he often tacks up personal notes from family members. Laurel’s card is tucked into the corner with the envelope behind it.

It’s nothing fancy. A small, simple white card with a white rose on the front.

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