Buddy had been alive when they’d left the Waleski house. The only reason Callie had called Harleigh to pick her up was because Buddy was acting strange. He’d told Harleigh some guy had threatened to kill him. He’d told Harleigh to get Callie the hell out of here. They had both gone home and then, obviously, the man who had threatened Buddy had murdered him.
Harleigh punched at the story, looking for weak points. Callie’s fingerprints and DNA were everywhere, but Callie was here more than Buddy. Trevor was dead asleep, so he wouldn’t know anything. Buddy’s blood was confined to the area around his leg, so there were no bloody fingerprints or footprints that could be traced back to Callie. Everything had an explanation. Maybe some of it was weak, but it was believable.
“Har?” Callie’s arms were still wrapped tight around her narrow waist. She was swaying back and forth.
Harleigh took her in. Black eyes. Strangled neck. Broken nose.
She told Callie, “Mom did this to you.”
Callie looked confused.
“If anyone asks, tell them you talked back and Mom gave you a beat-down. Okay?”
“I don’t—”
Harleigh held up her hand to stop Callie from talking. She needed to think it all through forward and back again. Buddy came home. He was scared. Someone had threatened his life. He hadn’t said who, just that the sisters should go. Harleigh drove Callie home. Buddy was fine when they left. Callie had gotten the shit beaten out of her the same as she had dozens of times before. Social services would be called again, but a couple of months in foster care beat the hell out of the rest of your life in prison.
Unless the police found the mini-cassette, because the cassette gave Callie a motive.
Harleigh asked, “Where would Buddy hide something small, something smaller than his hand?”
Callie shook her head. She didn’t know.
Harleigh let her gaze bounce around the kitchen, desperate to find the cassette. She opened cabinets and drawers, looked under pots and pans. Nothing seemed out of place, and Harleigh would know. Before Callie took over, she had practically lived at the Waleskis’ five nights a week over three long years. Studying on the couch, cooking Trevor’s meals in the kitchen, playing games with him at the table.
Buddy’s briefcase was on the table.
Locked.
Harleigh looked for a knife in the drawer. She jammed it under the clasp, ordering Callie, “Tell me what happened. Exactly. Don’t leave anything out.”
Callie shook her head again. “I don’t—I don’t remember.”
The lock popped open. Harleigh was only momentarily frozen by the sight of so much cash. The spell broke quickly. She unpacked the money, checked the liner, the inside pockets, the folders, asking Callie, “Where did the fight start? Where were you in the house?”
Callie’s lips moved without sound.
“Calliope.” Harleigh cringed at her mother’s tone coming out of her own mouth. “Tell me now, God dammit. Where did it start?”
“We …” Callie turned back toward the living room. “Behind the bar.”
“What happened?” Harleigh kept her voice hard. “Be exact. Don’t leave anything out.”
Callie’s voice was so weak that Harleigh had to strain to hear the details. She looked over her sister’s shoulder, playing out the movements as if the fight were unfolding in real time. Callie’s nose taking the pointy end of Buddy’s elbow behind the bar. The box of wine corks tumbling. The camera falling off the shelf. Callie being disoriented, lying flat on her back. Walking into the kitchen. Head under the faucet. Threatening Buddy that she was going to tell Linda. The attack. The phone cord being ripped from the wall. The strangling, the kicking and punching and then—the knife.
Harleigh looked up. She saw that Callie had put the receiver back on the hook. The list of emergency numbers was still taped to the wall beside the phone. The only clue that something bad had happened here was the broken cord. “Trevor ripped the cord.”
“What?” Callie said.
“Tell them Trevor ripped the phone cord. When he says he didn’t, everyone will think he’s lying so he doesn’t get into trouble.”
Harleigh didn’t wait for Callie to agree. She repacked Buddy’s briefcase and slammed the lid shut. She gave the kitchen another once-over, looking for somewhere Buddy could stash the cassette. Her eyes finally settled on his hulking body. He was still slouched to the side. The cut in his leg continued to sputter.
She felt her own blood stop cold.