Chapter Eight
Services will be heldWednesday afternoon...
Olivia read the sentence for the twentieth time in a row. Services. What an odd word for a time filled with such grief.
Should she go? It seemed like the right thing to do, but just the thought of stepping foot inside that funeral home sat like a rock in her gut. She hadn’t really even known her that well. They’d only met the one time.
“Why the frown, little one?”
At the sound of her daddy’s voice, she looked up and found him hovering over her, concern etched into his features. She handed him the tablet without saying anything, relieved when his expression shifted from concern to sympathetic understanding.
“I know this is hard for you. I’m sure it would mean a lot to her family if we went.”
“I thought you might say that,” she mumbled.
Before he could press, the jarring sound of the doorbell ringing echoed through the house. James handed her the tablet back and headed for the front door. “I’ll be right back and we can talk.”
She waited on the couch, straining to hear the voices in the front hall. When James returned a few minutes later, he wasn’t alone. A man and a woman trailed in behind him. The man wore sympathy like a mask. That was how it seemed to her, something fake he put on for the occasion. The woman’s face was flat—it was the only word that seemed to describe the utter lack of emotion in her expression.
But it was her husband’s expression that sent the chill racing up her spine. It was a kind of cold fury she’d never seen in him—and something she hoped to never see again.
“Liv, Detectives Michaelson and Rogers are here to ask you some questions.” That muscle in his jaw, the one that always let her know when he was trying to control his temper, jumped. “It’s about Angela.”
Her stomach tied itself into knots and she instinctively reached for him. “Angela? What about Angela?”
“We’re sorry to interrupt your Sunday, ma’am.” The male detective, Michaelson, spoke with the same fake sympathy in his voice he wore on his face. “May we sit?”
She looked to James, but he was already gesturing to the loveseat. The pair sat, their rigid postures making them look out of place in her warm, comfortable living room.
Michaelson spoke first once they’d settled on the couch. “How well did you know Ms. Winters?”
“Not well. What’s this about?” Olivia moved closer to her husband, seeking the security she always found in him. “James?”
“I’m right here. Just answer their questions, baby.”
Tightening her grip on his hand, she tried to draw strength from his touch. “I just met her once, when we were doing a photo shoot for a magazine article.”