there were no two-way mirrors in the Freewell Police Department’s conference room, just a bank of windows looking out over the pleasantly landscaped lawn in front of the station house, and some photos scattered across the table … photos of David and Brianna that Meena presumed the Delmonicos had brought along with them.
They were recent studio portraits in which the baby was only a few months old. The attractive couple looked blissfully happy, beaming into the camera without a hair—or tooth—out of place.
David’s specialty was veneers. He’d always wanted to put some over Meena’s slightly crooked front teeth, but when he’d explained that to do so, he’d actually have to cut into her gums, she’d declined the offer.
“I’m still not sure,” Mrs. Delmonico was saying in a querulous voice, “why she had to bring so many lawyers along when all she said was that she just wanted to meet us here to—”
“We’re all just here to help, Mrs. Delmonico,” Abraham interrupted, in a soothing voice. “Ms. Harper, meet Detective Rogerson—” Abraham gestured to the tired-looking woman, who gave the impression of wishing she’d rather be anywhere but sitting with all of them. Meena didn’t blame her. “And of course you remember the Delmonicos.”
As David’s parents’ gazes landed on her, bruised and bewildered, Meena lost all ability to control her mouth. Her smile vanished, and she could only mutter, “Hello,” softly as she lowered herself onto the hard plastic chair Abraham offered her. She barely managed to keep herself from murmuring Sorry for your loss.
Because of course the Delmonicos didn’t yet know they’d had a loss … perhaps two.
And she certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell them.
“So, Ms. Harper,” the detective said in a businesslike tone. She flicked a glance at Alaric, who, rather than taking a seat at the conference table, perched himself on the windowsill, where he could best take in the view. He then whipped out his cell phone to check his text messages, appearing not in the least interested in the proceedings.
The detective looked away, then flipped open a notepad in front of her. “Mrs. Delmonico here says you might have some information about her son, who didn’t come home last night. What can you tell us about that?”
Meena glanced quickly at Abraham.
“Um,” she said. “I thought … on TV, they always interview the suspects in separate rooms.”
Detective Rogerson stared at her unsmilingly, her pen poised over her notepad. “This isn’t TV, and you aren’t suspected of anything, Ms. Harper, because at this time, no crime has been committed. Unless you’re the one who vandalized Mr. Delmonico’s car in the city last night.”
“Well, that is hardly likely,” Abraham said, “given my client’s small stature and the extreme strength it would have taken to do the sort of damage—”
Detective Rogerson shot Abraham a look. He smiled at her pleasantly.
“Well,” Meena said hastily, “that’s true. I had nothing to do with what happened to David’s car.”
Realizing she’d already made a strategic mistake, Meena was careful to look Detective Rogerson in the eye the whole time she was speaking so that she could not be accused of lying. She’d read this was one way the police could detect if you were telling the truth.
Then she explained how she and David had arranged to meet the night before so that she could give him the “belongings” of his that she’d found, and that afterward she had sat in David’s parked car for a few moments, just to “talk.” It was then, she said, that she’d noticed David was a little intoxicated. She’d felt it best that David not drive home, and he’d agreed.
Mrs. Delmonico inhaled sharply at this, even though Meena avoided mentioning the rest of it—what David had done to her in his car. No way was she bringing that up … not ever. Especially not in front of Mrs. Delmonico, who really was wearing her pearls, exactly the way Meena had pictured. She was twisting them so tightly as she listened to Meena that her fingertips had turned purple. Meena half expected the strand to break at any moment.
Then there was David’s dad, who looked close to tears, his nose redder with broken capillaries (from drinking, Meena suspected) than ever. The couple looked upset enough at her mentioning David’s drinking—even though she’d significantly downplayed it.
There was no way she was going to make things worse by saying he’d attacked her, too. They’d never have believed it, for one thing.
And for another, now that she was employed by the Palatine—a secret demon-hunting branch of the Vatican—she couldn’t. She was forbidden by her employers from ever admitting in front of civilians the existence of vampires.
So even if she’d wanted to, she could not say that David had not only been drunk, but had apparently been turned into a member of the undead, and that he had attacked her.
But of course she didn’t want to.
Because what Meena wanted, above all, was to keep from dragging Lucien into any of this. Not only was none of it his fault—it was her screwup, after all—but he’d risked his own neck by coming out of hiding after so many months just to rescue her from David, when he apparently—for reasons he would not reveal to her, but it seemed obvious enough—was not even well.
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