Somehow we got upstairs, and Lucinda and I brought Ethan into our bedroom, cuddling with him. The bedroom was dark except for ambient light from the window that faced the street. The curtains were open, and I could see the cedar shakes of the Brophys’ roof and the zigzag tree line of the Whitmans’ windscreen across the street. The blue Nittany Lions flag in front of the Corbuzes’， next door. All the markers of my life, still in place. Except everything had changed.
Lucinda’s tears subsided, her sobs finally ceasing. Ethan fell asleep in time. I closed my eyes to the rhythm of his respiration, one breath after the other, in and out of his lungs. I didn’t know what to do or what to think. I didn’t understand. It had all happened so fast. It was as if she slipped through my fingers. My hands were still sticky with her blood, dry now, flaking off. It itched. It seared.
I needed to reconfigure who I was. I was still her father, but she was gone. I had only one living child now, just a boy, my son.
I would always be Allison’s father, even without Allison. Lucinda whispered, “You awake?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know . . . our baby girl.”
I hugged her tighter, in the darkness.
“It’s . . . this is . . . unreal.”
“I feel the same way.”
“We’re here . . . without . . . her. She’s too . . . young . . . she has everything . . . her whole . . . life.” Lucinda began to cry again. “Why . . . why her . . . why? She was so . . . great . . . she was just a great kid . . . and now, now, that’s it? That’s her . . . life? Her whole . . . entire life?”
I closed my eyes.
“She wasn’t even sixteen . . . we were just talking about . . . what kind of . . . party . . .”
I swallowed hard. Allison’s birthday was January 18. It would have been her sweet sixteen. Most of her friends were already sixteen. She hated that. She was competitive.
“She doesn’t . . . get to graduate? Go to . . . college? Get married?”
I couldn’t even get that far.
“This happened . . . to her? This is what happens?”
I felt the same, that this was unfathomable.
“What will . . . we do? What? How?” Lucinda fell silent a moment, then whispered, “Do you know what’s . . . the worst?”
“Everything,” I whispered back, without thinking.
“Yes,” Lucinda said, after a minute. “She was . . . my best friend.”
“I’m so sorry, honey,” I said. It was true. Lucinda and Allison were best friends. Lucinda had other girlfriends, like Melissa. They were field hockey and lacrosse moms, walking buddies, yoga on Mondays and Thursdays. But none was as close as Allison.
“We were . . . two peas . . .”
She didn’t have to finish the sentence. I said it all the time. Mother and daughter were so much alike they were almost the same person. They looked alike, they even had the same walk, slightly duck-toed. They both talked too fast. They were both all over everything. Intense, strong.
“I loved her . . . I love her so . . . much . . . Ethan loved her . . . we loved her . . .”
“We always will.”
Lucinda cried harder. Tears filled my eyes, but I held them back. I was already feeling the weight of the awful tasks ahead. I would have to call the funeral home in the morning. Make an appointment to choose a casket. We would tell Allison’s friends, our friends. Troy, the new boyfriend. The coaches, the school. Lucinda would cancel the coveted day-of appointment for beachy waves. She would have to pick out Allison’s dress.
Not for homecoming.
Forever and ever.
* * *
—
I awoke to Moonie’s barking downstairs, then the doorbell ringing. I reached for my phone to check the time. Three-fifteen a.m. I had no idea who would be here at this hour, then realized it could be the detectives. Maybe they had caught the guy.
I jumped out of bed and flew from the room, still in my bloody undershirt. I hurried downstairs to find Moonie barking and jumping around the entrance hall, his nails clicking on the hardwood.
I looked through the window in the front door and saw two men in suits. The one in front was a trim, fit African-American about my age. He spotted me, then held up a bifold wallet that read FBI under a golden badge. Behind him stood a younger White man with short brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a blocky build, holding up his own FBI bifold ID.
I didn’t know what the FBI wanted, but I opened the door. “Hello—”
“Mr. Bennett, I’m Special Agent Dom Kingston of the FBI, out of Philly. This is my partner, Special Agent Michael Hallman. Our condolences on the loss of your daughter. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. May we come in?”
“Okay.” I stepped aside, and they entered to Moonie sniffing their shoes. “What’s the FBI’s involvement? I thought Chester County was handling this.”
“Not anymore.” Special Agent Kingston looked grave.
“Did you catch the guy?”
“No, not yet. May we speak with you and your wife?”
“It’s the middle of the night, and she finally got to sleep.”
“It’s important. Can you wake her?”
“Now?”
“Time is of the essence.”
Chapter Five
I was on the couch between my wife and son, and we sat opposite Special Agents Kingston and Hallman. Puffy-eyed and exhausted, Lucinda had changed into a chambray shirt and jeans before coming downstairs, taking off her blood-spattered clothes. Ethan still had on his Nike shirt and jeans. I would have let him sleep, but Moonie’s barking woke him.
We had exchanged introductions in the family room, where Special Agent Kingston seemed to take command merely by his presence, which was quietly authoritative. His face was a long rectangle, with a strong jawline and a small mouth. His hair was cut short, with a hairline beginning to recede. He was about my height, too, and muscular in a dark, well-cut suit. Special Agent Hallman ceded him the floor, with an impassive expression on his round face. Dimpled cheeks emphasized his youth.
Special Agent Kingston cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, and Ethan, let me begin by saying we’re very sorry about your loss.”
“Thank you,” I said for us all. Ethan glued his gaze to the FBI agents, and I realized he had never seen a real one before, though I had, back when I took a job for the government, working on depositions at Guantánamo Bay. All of the federal agents I met were just like these two, steady and professional in demeanor.
“As I said, we’re sorry to disturb, but time is of the essence. We have been in contact with the Chester County detectives and the officers at the scene.”
“Okay,” I said, not sure where he was going. “So why is the FBI involved?”
“I’ll come back to that in a moment. First, we have identified your daughter’s murderer as one John Milo.”
My jaw clenched. Now I knew the name of the man who had ended my daughter’s life. It felt surreal, hearing it in a family room filled with Allison. Her most recent school photo dominated the mantel; we had sprung for the eight-by-ten. The coffee table was cluttered with bottles of Holo Taco nail polish, tubes of watermelon ChapStick, a black ponytail elastic, and a tub of peppermint Mentos gum, which she loved so much we called her gum pig. Her Adidas slides and a pair of worn red Toms were piled by the entertainment center. My daughter surrounded us, but was absent. It was a family room without the family.