Daniel is dead.
Killed in a fire.
I try to keep my thoughts here, in this room, because I can’t think about what’s happening back at the brownstone. The guys must be at a total loss. Killian would have been present for this, but since he’s the closest next of kin who could stomach the idea of it, he’s identifying what’s left of the body.
“I understand this is hard to think about,” the detective says, adopting a low, sonorous tone that he probably thinks is comforting. “But sometimes the people closest to the victim hold the key. It’s well known that Mr. Payne had his share of enemies. Is there anyone in particular you think we should look at?”
My mother sniffs and looks over at Martin, who’s been standing nearby, silent and still for the last hour. His back is straight, and from the pained, anxious expression on his face, this isn’t his usual flavor of lawyering. The firm sent him over to oversee the questioning, but I’m guessing this is the first non-frat job he’s been given, because he’s been as stiff and bland as cardboard since he followed me through the door. He nods at my mother, giving approval for the question.
I watch her visibly gather herself, adjusting her shoulders into an elegant line. “Daniel had a difficult job. People didn’t want to see progress in South Side. They prefer to keep things as they are: run-down and derelict. They resented him for his compassion toward the downtrodden.” She finally takes the tissue from my hand, dabbing beneath her nose. “Drug addicts, sex workers, migrants. The sort of people South Side exploits. He believed everyone was part of the community—no matter your circumstances.”
It’s a physical struggle not to roll my eyes at the makeshift eulogy.
Since she’s rambling and not answering the detective’s question, I carefully prod her. “Mom, did Daniel piss anyone off in particular lately? Anyone noteworthy?”
Besides me, that is.
Daniel must have more enemies. He must. Otherwise, all four of us are screwed, because I’m not sure how to handle this. Do I misdirect the detective? If so, then how?
She pauses, her red eyes shifting to Martin, and then to the detective. “There is one person he kept getting into very…hostile disagreements with.”
“Who is that?” The detective gently asks.
She dabs her nose with the tissue, giving Martin a long look. His expression back is stony, but she answers anyway. “His son, Killian.”
I jolt back. “You think Killian killed his father?”
She sighs and crushes the tissue in her palm, shooting me a pointed look. “Don’t pretend you haven’t seen the tension between the two of them. Their relationship has always been difficult, but lately, things have escalated. Ever since you returned.”
“It’s not Killian.” I insist, looking to Martin for some backup.
He just offers me a puzzled shrug.
The detective takes out a small writing pad. “Why do you think it’s your stepson, Mrs. Payne?”
“Why?” She laughs a bit hysterically. “He shot him two months ago!”
I’m stunned speechless for the second time today, not realizing she knew. What was it she’d told me at Thanksgiving?
“Shot protecting one of his girls…”
The detective’s eyebrows wiggle at that revelation. But I’m not letting my mother drag Killian down. Not when she’s so far off base. Even if the body is Daniel’s—even if the fire we planned killed him—Killian had no part in it. It wasn’t his idea; it wasn’t his execution, and it wasn’t his intention.
“That was an accident,” I lie, giving the man a beseeching look. “They were civil after all that, ask around. And in any case, it doesn’t matter. I know it wasn’t Killian. We were at the Forsyth athletic banquet all night.”
The detective straightens. “Other people can corroborate this?”
I nod frantically. “Dozens, maybe even hundreds. There were photographers. We sat at the main table, Killian won an award, he made a speech…” I trail off, thinking about the scene in the coat room. It’s a part of the alibi, but not one that’ll shed Killian in the best light. “I’m sure plenty of people can confirm we were there until after eleven.”
“What?” she says, swinging her head to stare at me. “You both said he wasn’t attending that banquet.” I’m not sure what her accusing tone is meant for; our not inviting her, or her being skeptical that we really went.