“Let’s go in, then,” Laura said, with a sigh, opening the driver’s side door. Nate nodded, moving to get out of his own side. He couldn’t help his mind drifting back to the whole psychic thing.
It was so weird. It was like she’d come up with the most unbelievable explanation, and yet the one that fit all the facts the most neatly.
She did know things, he thought, watching the back of her head as she walked up the path in front of him, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side. She did seem to figure things out before other people could, to know what was going to happen and where the killers or victims in their cases would be. But that was…
Well, it was one thing to say that someone had expert knowledge. That they had a lot of experience in this kind of investigation combined with a natural talent allowing them to figure things out. Or even that they had people to talk to, shady underworld people who could give them tip-offs and inform on their colleagues in crime. Claiming that they were psychic was another thing altogether. It was ridiculous. Psychics, mediums, clairvoyants – they didn’t exist. It was all old wives’ tales and con artistry, wrapped together in a nice, neat package to take financial advantage of anyone who was grieving enough to believe them. He’d come across psychics before – most cops or law enforcement officers involved in big cases had. They’d come out of the woodwork when someone was missing or a body couldn’t be found, trying to claim that they knew where to find them.
Almost all the time, it was a load of bunk. Sometimes someone would make a lucky guess, and then on interrogation it would turn out they actually knew a lot more about the case than they’d let on. Cold reading and investigative journalism, combined with a healthy knowledge of your given city’s underworld, could bring you all kinds of hints.
But actual psychic powers? No. There was no way Nate believed in that. Just like he didn’t believe Laura now, and for all the same reasons.
Laura knocked on the front door of the property decisively, the kind of loud knock that couldn’t be ignored by the people inside. She seemed fine. She had seemed fine for the whole case so far, actually. If anything, she was in slightly better spirits – probably, he thought, because she had that visit with Lacey to look forward to. She was racing ahead every time they had to get somewhere, like she wanted this solved so she could get home. He didn’t blame her for that.
But if she really believed what she’d told him last night…
Of course, she’d said this morning that she was over it. That she’d come to her senses. But you would say that, wouldn’t you? If someone greeted you with skepticism and told you that you needed help? Especially if you were an FBI agent like Laura, who knew what could happen to people with mental health issues.
The kind of powers that could be brought to bear until they were healthy again.
If she was sectioned, she’d be taken away from her daughter.
It was an unsettling thought, and one that Nate was grateful not to have to consider any longer when the front door opened.
The person behind it was a balding man in perhaps his sixties, mostly gray-haired in what little remained and bulging a little at the wa
ist. He had a downcast, grim look to his face, like he was trying to come to grips with a terrible truth.
“Mr. Rowse?” Nate guessed. He had to be the father.
“Yes?” the man replied, his gaze sweeping across them expectantly. He didn’t seem terribly surprised to see a pair of strangers on his doorstep. After the first visit from the police early this morning, he was probably just waiting for more news to come.
“I’m Special Agent Laura Frost,” she said, holding up her badge. Nate followed her lead. “This is my partner, Special Agent Nathaniel Lavoie. We’d like to speak to you for a few moments, if we can. We’re investigating what happened to your daughter.”
“Her death,” Mr. Rowse said, a sadness spreading through the words that seemed to soak through him like water through a sponge. “You can say it.”
“Yes, sir,” Laura replied, softly.
“Come in, then,” he said, with a certain amount of resignation.
There was a living room inside the first door in the hall, though Nate could barely make out anything more than the fact that there were a couple of battered sofas and a television in one corner. The room was filled with far too many people, particularly after Mr. Rowse had walked in to join them. He sat down heavily on the one vacant spot.
Beside him was a similarly-aged woman who must have been Veronica’s mother – even in death, he could recall the shape of the lips and nose of the body and compare them exactly against this woman’s features. There were also two brothers, judging by the resemblance to their father, and a couple of women who might have been their wives. Two small children, too, who were playing on the floor, seemingly totally unaware of what was going on around them.
“Hello,” Nate said, which seemed to be about the most appropriate thing he could think of at that moment.
Everyone looked at him, and no one said a thing.
Laura cleared her throat awkwardly, which prompted Mr. Rowse to speak up on their behalf.
“These are the FBI agents they were sending,” he said, glumly.
His wife patted his hand, silently.
“That’s right,” Laura said, glancing sideways at Nate before seemingly taking charge of the situation. “We have a few questions to ask. It could be a little complicated if we have everyone chipping in – can we ask that just those who knew Veronica the best stay? We’ll need to ask about her day-to-day life, her background, and so on.”
There was some general shifting in the room. One of the brothers, the older one by the look of him, spoke up first. “I’ll take the kids to the backyard,” he said. “I haven’t been around much the last few years, anyway.”
“Right, same here. I’ll go with you, honey,” one of the women said – and after a few moments of awkward shuffling to let people out of the room, Laura and Nate were down to just the parents and one brother.