Page 17 of A Deeper Darkness
“She doesn’t hate you. She’s just afraid of what you might find.”
Chapter Nine
Georgetown
Maggie Lyons
Jennifer was just blowing out the candles on her cake when the doorbell rang.
Maggie Lyons waved her hands over the table to dissipate the smoke, kissed her daughter on the top of the head and said, “Hold on a minute, sweetie. I’ll cut it for you in a second. Let me just see who’s at the door.”
She tried to ignore the outpouring of cries followed by naughty laughter that emerged from the kitchen as she left, knowing full well the wolves had descended and there would be a mess when she returned. But that was fine. It was her baby’s birthday, and they were all a little hopped up on sugar and excitement. By the time she got back, the boys would be covered in icing. As would the table. And Jennifer.
The porch light was still on. She’d forgotten; she flipped the switch into the off position. Through the beveled glass of the front door, she could see two men in suits standing outside. One was about six foot, with brown hair cut close to his head. The other was shorter, squat, a bodybuilder. His arms stood out from his body almost at angles.
Cops.
What had that fool done now?
She pulled the door open, frowning. The taller of the two nodded at her.
“Ma’am? I’m Detective Darren Fletcher. This is Detective Lonnie Hart. We’re with Metro P.D. We need to ask you a few questions. Mind if we come in?”
She smiled in apology, slipped out the door and pulled it closed behind her. She knew what this was about. Her jerk of an ex-husband, who had turned from a fine, upstanding young lawyer into a degenerate alcoholic who liked to bust her around when he didn’t get his way. At least he was paying the child support again—though she knew his firm had garnisheed his future earnings to make that happen. They didn’t need the scandal, wanted her kept quiet and comfortable so she didn’t sue. Like she would—but that wasn’t the point.
“Can we do this out here? I don’t want the kids to hear.”
“Sure.” Fletcher studied his notebook. “You’re Margaret Lyons?”
“Yes, I am.” She heard the weariness in her voice. God, they had all fallen so far. “So what did Roy do now?”
Fletcher’s eyebrows creased, and the shorter man, Hart, chimed in. “Who’s Roy?”
Maggie leaned against the column. “My ex, of course. He’s a frequent flyer with you. Gets delinquent on his support payments. Likes to get into fights. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Oh,” Fletcher said. “This isn’t about him. At least, I don’t think so. It’s about the homicide across the street.”
“Thewhat?Someone was killed? Here? Who?”
She straightened up and looked past the two men, finally registering the multitude of police cars that were parked down the street. Man, she needed to get some more sleep. How did she miss this? And she was shocked the kids hadn’t noticed. Granted, they were all in the kitchen, which faced the garden, enticed with birthday cake, but one of the boys usually grabbed the paper for her in the morning. She glanced down. The paper was still on the porch. She felt a flash of anger.
God, Maggie, get it together. Someone’s dead and you’re worried about the kids’ chores.
The detective was talking again. She tuned back in.
“Yes, ma’am. Happened overnight, sometime between two and four. We’re just checking to see if you heard or saw anything strange last night.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who’s dead?”
Fletcher looked at Hart, who nodded imperceptibly.
“His name is Harold Croswell.”
Maggie felt the wind leave her body, an exhalation she hoped the detectives didn’t notice.
She shook her head. “I’m not familiar with him. Where did this happen? I mean, which house?”
Fletcher pointed over his shoulder to the Federal-style brick town house across the way.
