*
They still came, the girls. They were older now, grown into themselves. They were mothers, travelers, amateur bakers. Fans of trashy television, fans of the Mets, regional women’s pinball champions. They were avid hikers and Sunday brunchers, a trio of karaoke queens, ice cream lovers, morning masturbators, hosts of legendary Halloween parties.
The possibilities stalked and haunted—the infinite number of lives they had not lived. Often, Saffy pictured Lila, stroking her swollen belly, pregnant for the third time, praying for a girl. A girl would be more vulnerable and also more cavernous. Imagine, Lila seemed to say, from the depths of Saffy’s subconscious. There were so many things a girl could be.
*
When Hazel’s headlights disappeared from the window, Saffy put the chicken back in the fridge and poured herself a bowl of Frosted Flakes. The trinkets sat in their box, looming from the counter. She flipped open her laptop, a beacon in the blackening kitchen. There was a flight to Houston early in the morning—she booked it quickly, then dialed Detective Rollins.
Detective Andrea Rollins was one of twelve women who made up the informal group, formed after the magazine profile published. Women in Blue: The Female Rise in Law Enforcement. Saffy had been photographed alongside Rollins and the others in an embarrassingly glossy spread—in the months that followed the article, they began a sardonic email chain where they riffed and complained, bounced the theories no one else would hear. Andrea Rollins was a senior detective with Houston homicide.
“Captain Singh,” Rollins sighed into the receiver. “It’s not looking good.”
“Who found her?”
“A nosy neighbor, just a few hours postmortem. The condo’s front door was hanging open. Neighbor saw a white pickup truck lingering on the street, CCTV turned up the license plate. By the time we tracked Ansel Packer down, he’d wiped the car seats clean and driven halfway across the state.”
“You couldn’t hold him?”
“The murder weapon is long gone. He could have ditched it anywhere. We tried fingerprinting, but he wiped down the doorknobs, everything. We threatened him pretty good. I don’t think he’ll leave the state. We’ve got his motel room under constant surveillance just in case.”
“Rollins, I’m coming down tomorrow. Packer is a suspect in an old case of mine, and I just found new evidence.”
Rollins let out a long, whistling breath. “Let me talk to my commander. I’ll see what we can do.”
“Send me your file,” Saffy said. “I want a confession.”
*
Detective Rollins was waiting at baggage claim—an elegant woman with curly hair, no makeup, and a ripened fatigue lurking in the round of her shoulders. As they sped down the scorching Texas highway, sirens blaring, Rollins filled Saffy in. Ansel Packer wouldn’t talk; he’d shut down completely. Her commander was skeptical but desperate. Saffy could have an hour with him.
Saffy studied the plains as they flicked by, parched and withering. A memory had arrived that morning, a relief in its innocence: Miss Gemma’s house, those oatmeal raisin cookies. Saffy recalled that day with painful lucidity—how the sugar had crumbled, white and aging in Kristen’s palm. How Ansel had believed those cookies could somehow equalize him, make up for the harm he’d done. Saffy thought about the cookies as Rollins toured her through the Houston Police Department, as she shook the commander’s hand. She thought about those cookies as she promised, once more, that New York would not interfere with their investigation, that Texas could have him, that she only wanted a confession for the girls, and their families. She thought about those cookies as she stepped into the blank, gloomy room.
The cookies were proof, breathing in the void of Saffy’s memory: Ansel Packer was capable of feeling sorry. They were a testament to how the brain could skew itself. The many intricate ways that people could be wrong.
*
The interrogation room was gray and anonymous. Ansel sat at the table, his arms hanging limp. Saffy could smell his breath from the door, stagnant and sour—he’d been sitting in this room for over three hours, and the detectives had been carefully wearing him down. A cold metal chair, lopsided in the legs, plus a low buzzing sound, set to an irritating frequency. A series of endless and degrading questions. Good cop, then bad cop, then good cop again. According to Rollins, Ansel had only asked for water. He had used the bathroom once. He was not interested in talking. Saffy had expected Ansel to argue his own innocence, to rage at the unfairness; apparently, he’d done exactly this at first, insisting he did not need a lawyer. But he was tired now, bleary and spent. She had expected to feel hurt, or rage, or hate, upon seeing him. But there was only a lagging sort of pity.