parked outside.
Bloody hell, there’s already someone here.
The psychic paper should get her in, but would it convince a detective or patrolman not to ask her questions she couldn’t answer? Ree had taken only a couple of criminal justice classes, more to help with her writing than for real use. She could wait until the car left, but how long would that be?
Almost certainly longer than she could hold Sherlock in her head without getting an aneurysm.
Affecting her best official-person look, she walked up the steps to the front door. She knocked three times, holding the psychic paper in her hands and repeating in her head, I belong here. I belong here. I belong here.
A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair answered the door. He had bags beneath his eyes larger than what you’d expect to see in a Long Island housewife’s arms the Saturday before Christmas.
“Hello?” he asked.
Ree held up the paper and said, “Agent Reyes, FBI. Are you Victor Moorely?”
“Yes. May I help you?”
“I’m here to ask some questions for our profile on your daughter, Mr. Moorely.”
“Why is the FBI involved?”
And now the B.S. skills. Here goes nothing.
“The FBI is taking a direct interest in the national teen suicide rate, and we have task forces established across the country. May I come in?”
It sounded better than she’d expected.
“Please.” He stepped back and opened the door, ushering her inside.
The interior of the house was pleasantly decorated, but there was a pall of sadness and neglect. Moorely pulled out a chair for her from their dining table, and they both took a seat.
“First, I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said.
Moorely nodded, clearly trying to find a small smile to utter his thanks.
“Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”
He nodded again, though a twinge of pain hit his face as he realized what was coming. How many times had he already answered A Few Questions? Had the media been here? How many outlets? His story would be rehearsed by now, for better or worse—in Lie to Me, Timothy Roth had told her that rehearsing a story made it more rote, but there would still be indications of deceit, if she could pick them out. Maybe she should have watched Lie to Me to prepare instead of Sherlock.
“Mr. Moorely, how long had your daughter been seeing William Smith?”
“They had been going out for about four months—they met through a local stage company.”
“Angela was a singer, yes?”
Moorely smiled, then half-choked, half-sobbed. He took a breath and said, “Since before she could walk.”
“Can you tell me what you think happened last night?” Ree had to fight the urge to step back and watch herself in the role. It was an insane cocktail: empathy for the Moorelys, curiosity, fear, and the strange detachedness of the Sherlock Brain—not to mention the niggling claws of her own relationship anxieties trying to personalize everything.
“William came over at seven, and we had dinner—Angela, William, my wife, Alexandra, and I. At about eight, they went upstairs to talk. William left at nine, and at nine-fifteen, we heard sobbing from upstairs, so Alex went up to check on Angela.”
“Is your wife home now?” Ree asked.
He shook his head. “She’s in the middle of a case and couldn’t get any of the junior counsel to take over. She should be back by six.”
There went the afternoon. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll wait to speak with her as well. Sorry to have interrupted. What can you tell me about William?”
Victor Moorely sat back in the chair, a mix of anger and friendliness passing over his face. “He’s a good kid—he gets good grades, he’s funny. I was excited for Angela, thought maybe she’d been one of the lucky ones to meet a good guy so early. My wife and I didn’t meet until we were in our late twenties.”
Ree nodded. She’d need to talk to William as well . Sigh. This was going to become a full-time job, and all for what? The chance
Bloody hell, there’s already someone here.
The psychic paper should get her in, but would it convince a detective or patrolman not to ask her questions she couldn’t answer? Ree had taken only a couple of criminal justice classes, more to help with her writing than for real use. She could wait until the car left, but how long would that be?
Almost certainly longer than she could hold Sherlock in her head without getting an aneurysm.
Affecting her best official-person look, she walked up the steps to the front door. She knocked three times, holding the psychic paper in her hands and repeating in her head, I belong here. I belong here. I belong here.
A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair answered the door. He had bags beneath his eyes larger than what you’d expect to see in a Long Island housewife’s arms the Saturday before Christmas.
“Hello?” he asked.
Ree held up the paper and said, “Agent Reyes, FBI. Are you Victor Moorely?”
“Yes. May I help you?”
“I’m here to ask some questions for our profile on your daughter, Mr. Moorely.”
“Why is the FBI involved?”
And now the B.S. skills. Here goes nothing.
“The FBI is taking a direct interest in the national teen suicide rate, and we have task forces established across the country. May I come in?”
It sounded better than she’d expected.
“Please.” He stepped back and opened the door, ushering her inside.
The interior of the house was pleasantly decorated, but there was a pall of sadness and neglect. Moorely pulled out a chair for her from their dining table, and they both took a seat.
“First, I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said.
Moorely nodded, clearly trying to find a small smile to utter his thanks.
“Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”
He nodded again, though a twinge of pain hit his face as he realized what was coming. How many times had he already answered A Few Questions? Had the media been here? How many outlets? His story would be rehearsed by now, for better or worse—in Lie to Me, Timothy Roth had told her that rehearsing a story made it more rote, but there would still be indications of deceit, if she could pick them out. Maybe she should have watched Lie to Me to prepare instead of Sherlock.
“Mr. Moorely, how long had your daughter been seeing William Smith?”
“They had been going out for about four months—they met through a local stage company.”
“Angela was a singer, yes?”
Moorely smiled, then half-choked, half-sobbed. He took a breath and said, “Since before she could walk.”
“Can you tell me what you think happened last night?” Ree had to fight the urge to step back and watch herself in the role. It was an insane cocktail: empathy for the Moorelys, curiosity, fear, and the strange detachedness of the Sherlock Brain—not to mention the niggling claws of her own relationship anxieties trying to personalize everything.
“William came over at seven, and we had dinner—Angela, William, my wife, Alexandra, and I. At about eight, they went upstairs to talk. William left at nine, and at nine-fifteen, we heard sobbing from upstairs, so Alex went up to check on Angela.”
“Is your wife home now?” Ree asked.
He shook his head. “She’s in the middle of a case and couldn’t get any of the junior counsel to take over. She should be back by six.”
There went the afternoon. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll wait to speak with her as well. Sorry to have interrupted. What can you tell me about William?”
Victor Moorely sat back in the chair, a mix of anger and friendliness passing over his face. “He’s a good kid—he gets good grades, he’s funny. I was excited for Angela, thought maybe she’d been one of the lucky ones to meet a good guy so early. My wife and I didn’t meet until we were in our late twenties.”
Ree nodded. She’d need to talk to William as well . Sigh. This was going to become a full-time job, and all for what? The chance
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