Page 27 of Tempt Me

“A what?”

“Freedom of Information Act. But listen, I’m happy to send over my own files. Give me your email address and I’ll send it over today.”

“Thanks, Fred,” I say eagerly. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Your father was none too pleased with my results. But I told him—without DNA or fingerprints, or even a bullet, there’s just nothing to go on.”

“So I keep hearing,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Good luck,” Fred says. “And let me know if I can help in any way. Your mother’s case was a real heartbreaker. She seemed like a very good woman.”

My throat tightens. “She was.”

I decide to set up shop in a room we call the blue study.

It’s in a quiet corner on the western side of the house, and there should still be an old laptop in it I can use. Daisy used to keep her dollhouse in there, and Mom used the study to write correspondence, Christmas cards and thank you notes and stuff like that. I walk through the halls, past the library and the home movie theater, and to where it’s nestled by the portrait of my great-grandmother. I open the door and find a cheerful room much like I remember. The walls are painted blue, and there’s an ivory loveseat, wooden bookshelves, and a small desk with the laptop still on it. Some paintings from local artists adorn the walls and the windows look out onto Mom’s garden.

There’s a framed photograph on the desk—Mom and Dad on their wedding day, a posed picture surrounded by bridesmaids and groomsmen. My chest pinches as I pick it up. They got married at Everton. Mom said it was one of the happiest days of her life.

I wonder where Isla will get married. Probably some expensive hotel in the city. Or maybe she’s having a destination wedding—I picture her barefoot on the beach in a white dress, with Luke by her side. My chest constricts so sharply I grip the desk for support and squeeze my eyes shut. I try to banish the image from my mind but it’s imprinted like a sun flare on the back of my lids.

I sit down and force myself to focus. I press a button and wait as the laptop hums to life. I see Fred’s email, with a whole bunch of attachments. I skip the ones titled “Autopsy” and “Crime Scene Photos.” Fred left a note in the email that he only sent the most non-explicit photos but regardless, I’m not ready for that yet.

Instead, I open one called “911 Transcript.” I see Fred has writtentranscript of 911 call from R. Everton, 6:42 am, June 22ndat the top of the page.

Operator: 911, what’s your emergency?

RE: Oh my god…help me…something is wrong with my wife.

Operator: Okay, what’s wrong with her?

RE: I don’t know…she’s bleeding…Marion!

Operator: Sir, where are you calling from?

RE: This is Russell Everton, goddammit! I’m at Everton Estate, 935 Magnolia Way. Marion…

Operator: I’ve got police and an ambulance on the way. You say your wife is bleeding?

RE: (moaning) Marion…oh god…

Operator: Sir?

RE: Somebody shot her! Get your people down here now!

Operator: Is she breathing?

RE: I don’t…I don’t know.

Operator: Okay, do you know CPR?

RE: No…Marion!

Operator: Sir, I’m going to need you to check and see if she’s breathing. I want you to look at her chest. Is it moving?

(Long pause)

RE: No. No it’s not moving.

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