gossiping about Tom Cruise’s impending divorce and go to sleep before calling her grandfather.
“It’s two a.m., Amanda, you woke me up. Don’t you ever sleep, girl?”
“Sure, in class. You got any news for me?”
“I went and talked with Henrietta Post.” Her grandfather yawned.
“The neighbor who discovered the Constantes’ bodies?”
“That’s her.”
“So why didn’t you call?” his granddaughter chided him. “What were you waiting for?”
“I was waiting for sunup!”
“But it’s been weeks since the murders. You know this all happened back in November, right?”
“Yeah, Amanda, but I couldn’t make it out there any earlier. Don’t worry, the woman remembers everything. Got a shock that scared her half to death, but every last detail of what she saw that day is burned into her brain—the most terrifying day of her life, she told me.”
“So give me the lowdown, Kabel.”
“I can’t. It’s late, and your mom will be home any minute.”
“It’s Thursday—Mom’s with Keller.”
“But she doesn’t always spend the night with him. ’Sides, I need my sleep. I can send you the notes from my conversation with Henrietta Post and what I managed to wheedle out of your father.”
“You wrote it all down?”
“One of these days, I’m going to write a novel,” said her henchman. “I jot down anything that interests me, never know what might be useful to me in the future.”
“Write your memoirs,” suggested his granddaughter. “That’s what most old codgers do.”
“Nah—it would bomb, nothing worth writing about has ever happened to me. I’m the most pitifully boring widower in the world.”
“True. Anyway, send me those notes on the Constantes. G’night, Hench. You love me?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither.”
Minutes later, the details of Blake Jackson’s interview with the key witness to the Constantes murder were in Amanda’s in-box.
On the morning of November 11 at about ten fifteen, Henrietta Post, who lived on the same street as the Constantes, was out walking her dog when she noticed that the door to their place was wide open—something unusual in that neighborhood, where they’d had trouble with gangbangers and drug dealers. Henrietta rang the doorbell, intending to warn the Constantes, whom she knew well, and when no one answered she stepped inside, calling to see if anyone was home. She wandered through the living room, where the TV was blaring, through the dining room and the kitchen, then climbed the stairs—with some difficulty, given that she’s seventy-eight and suffers from palpitations. The resounding silence made her uneasy in a house usually so bustling with life; more than once she’d had to complain about the racket.
She found the children’s bedrooms empty and shuffled down the short passageway to the master bedroom, calling out to the Constantes with what little breath she had left. She knocked three times before opening the door and poking her head in. She says the bedroom was in semi-darkness, with the shutters closed and the curtains drawn, and that it was cold and stuffy in there, as though it hadn’t been aired in days. She took a couple steps into the room, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, then quickly retreated with a mumbled apology when she saw the outline of the couple lying in the bed.
She was about to creep out quietly, but instinct told her there was something strange about the stillness of the house, about the fact that the Constantes had not answered when she called and were sound asleep in the middle of a weekday morning. She crept back into the room, fumbling along the wall for the switch, and flicked on the light. Doris and Michael Constante were lying on their backs with the comforter pulled up to their necks, utterly rigid, their eyes wide open. Henrietta Post let out a strangled cry, felt a heavy jolt in her chest, and thought her heart was about to burst. She couldn’t bring herself to move until she heard
“It’s two a.m., Amanda, you woke me up. Don’t you ever sleep, girl?”
“Sure, in class. You got any news for me?”
“I went and talked with Henrietta Post.” Her grandfather yawned.
“The neighbor who discovered the Constantes’ bodies?”
“That’s her.”
“So why didn’t you call?” his granddaughter chided him. “What were you waiting for?”
“I was waiting for sunup!”
“But it’s been weeks since the murders. You know this all happened back in November, right?”
“Yeah, Amanda, but I couldn’t make it out there any earlier. Don’t worry, the woman remembers everything. Got a shock that scared her half to death, but every last detail of what she saw that day is burned into her brain—the most terrifying day of her life, she told me.”
“So give me the lowdown, Kabel.”
“I can’t. It’s late, and your mom will be home any minute.”
“It’s Thursday—Mom’s with Keller.”
“But she doesn’t always spend the night with him. ’Sides, I need my sleep. I can send you the notes from my conversation with Henrietta Post and what I managed to wheedle out of your father.”
“You wrote it all down?”
“One of these days, I’m going to write a novel,” said her henchman. “I jot down anything that interests me, never know what might be useful to me in the future.”
“Write your memoirs,” suggested his granddaughter. “That’s what most old codgers do.”
“Nah—it would bomb, nothing worth writing about has ever happened to me. I’m the most pitifully boring widower in the world.”
“True. Anyway, send me those notes on the Constantes. G’night, Hench. You love me?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither.”
Minutes later, the details of Blake Jackson’s interview with the key witness to the Constantes murder were in Amanda’s in-box.
On the morning of November 11 at about ten fifteen, Henrietta Post, who lived on the same street as the Constantes, was out walking her dog when she noticed that the door to their place was wide open—something unusual in that neighborhood, where they’d had trouble with gangbangers and drug dealers. Henrietta rang the doorbell, intending to warn the Constantes, whom she knew well, and when no one answered she stepped inside, calling to see if anyone was home. She wandered through the living room, where the TV was blaring, through the dining room and the kitchen, then climbed the stairs—with some difficulty, given that she’s seventy-eight and suffers from palpitations. The resounding silence made her uneasy in a house usually so bustling with life; more than once she’d had to complain about the racket.
She found the children’s bedrooms empty and shuffled down the short passageway to the master bedroom, calling out to the Constantes with what little breath she had left. She knocked three times before opening the door and poking her head in. She says the bedroom was in semi-darkness, with the shutters closed and the curtains drawn, and that it was cold and stuffy in there, as though it hadn’t been aired in days. She took a couple steps into the room, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, then quickly retreated with a mumbled apology when she saw the outline of the couple lying in the bed.
She was about to creep out quietly, but instinct told her there was something strange about the stillness of the house, about the fact that the Constantes had not answered when she called and were sound asleep in the middle of a weekday morning. She crept back into the room, fumbling along the wall for the switch, and flicked on the light. Doris and Michael Constante were lying on their backs with the comforter pulled up to their necks, utterly rigid, their eyes wide open. Henrietta Post let out a strangled cry, felt a heavy jolt in her chest, and thought her heart was about to burst. She couldn’t bring herself to move until she heard
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