But she spotted a basket of neatly folded laundry on the floor by a chair. Perfect, she decided and, with the care of a woman handling a homemade boomer, laid the baby on top.
“Stay,” she whispered, awkwardly patting the dark, downy head.
And started to breathe again.
She tuned back into the room, saw the woman on the sofa gathered into herself, rocking, rocking, with her hands gripped in Clooney’s. She made no sound, and her tears fell like rain.
Eve stayed out of the way, watched Clooney work, watched the unity of support stand on either side of the widow. This, she thought, was family. For what it was worth. And in times like this, it was all there could be.
Grief settled into the room like fog. It would, she knew, be a long time before it burned away again.
“It’s my fault. It’s my fault.” They were the first words Patsy spoke since she’d sat on the sofa.
“No.” Clooney squeezed her hands until she lifted her head. They needed to look in your eyes, he knew. To believe you, to take comfort, they needed to see it all in your eyes. “Of course it’s not.”
“He’d never have been working there if not for me. I didn’t want to go back to work after Jilly was born. I wanted to stay home. The money, the professional mother’s salary was so much less than—”
“Patsy, Taj was happy you were content to stay home with the children. He was so proud of them and of you.”
“I can’t—Chad.” She pulled her hands free, pressed them to her face. “How can I tell him? How can we live without Taj? Where is he?” She dropped her hands, looked around blindly. “I have to go see him. Maybe there’s a mistake.”
It was, Eve knew, her time. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kohli, there’s no mistake. I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m in charge of the investigation.”
“You saw Taj.” Patsy got shakily to her feet.
“Yes. I’m sorry, very sorry for your loss. Can you talk to me, Mrs. Kohli? Help me find the person who did this?”
“Lieutenant Dallas,” Roth began, but Patsy shook her head.
“No, no. I want to talk. Taj would want me to. He’d want . . . Where’s Jilly? Where’s my baby?”
“I, ah . . .” Feeling sticky again, Eve gestured to the hamper.
“Oh.” Patsy wiped tears from her face, smiled. “She’s so good. Such a love. She hardly ever cries. I should put her in her crib.”
“I’ll do that for you, Patsy.” Clooney rose. “You talk to the lieutenant.” He gave Eve a quiet look, full of sorrow and understanding. “That’s what Taj would want. Do you want us to call someone for you? Your sister?”
“Yes.” Patsy drew in a breath. “Yes, please. If you’d call Carla for me.”
“Captain Roth will do that for you, won’t you, Captain? While I put the baby down.”
Roth struggled, set her teeth. It didn’t surprise Eve to see the annoyance. Clooney had essentially taken over, gently. And this wasn’t a woman who liked taking orders from her sergeant.
“Yes, of course.” With a final warning look at Eve, she walked into the next room.
“Are you with Taj’s squad?”
“No, I’m not.”
“No, no, of course.” Patsy rubbed her temple. “You’d be with Homicide.” She started to break, the sound coming through her lips like a whimper. And Eve watched with admiration as she toughened up. “What do you want to know?”
“Your husband didn’t come home this morning. You weren’t concerned?”
“No.” She reached back, braced a hand on the arm of the couch, and lowered herself down. “He’d told me he’d probably go into the station from the club. He sometimes did that. And he said he was meeting someone after closing.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t say, just that he had someone to see after closing.”