D.D. opened up a plastic container that seemed to contain large plastic envelopes. She had Roxy take a seat at the table.
“When was the last time you washed your hands?” she asked the girl.
“I don’t know. This morning.”
“Shower? Plenty of soap and water?”
Roxy glanced down at her dirty clothes and smudged skin self-consciously. “I haven’t had a chance for much of anything these past twenty-four hours.”
D.D. nodded her head. “Good. The key principle behind evidence collection,” she said, unwrapping the first plastic envelope, which I could now see contained some kind of cloth, “is transference. For example, fire a gun, transfer gunshot powder onto your skin.”
“Does it matter what kind of gun?” Roxy asked curiously.
“No. The test will detect traces of nitrites common in most GSRs.”
“But time should matter, right? Hector, he was shot yesterday afternoon.”
“You know when Hector was shot?” D.D. asked evenly. She slid her left hand into the plastic envelope. When she pulled it back out, her hand was encased in some kind of plain white mitt. A sterile mitt, I realized. That’s what the plastic was all about, to protect the cloth from cross contamination prior to use.
“I saw Hector get shot. I was across the street. I wanted to make sure he got the dogs, that Blaze and Rosie were okay.”
On the floor next to Sarah’s couch, both dogs glanced up at the sound of their names, thumped their tails.
“You didn’t use them for bait?”
“My dogs?” Roxy sounded genuinely horrified.
“Did you see who shot Hector?” D.D. picked up the first of three spray bottles. She took two steps toward the kitchen sink, then, holding her gloved hand above the stainless steel, started to methodically spray down the cotton mitt with whatever substance was in the first spray bottle. She kept misting.
Roxy, Sarah, and I stared in rapt fascination.
“Hector?” D.D. prompted, saturating the glove.
“Umm . . . I didn’t see. Couldn’t see. From my window, I looked over and down at the coffee shop tables. I could see the dogs a little bit. Hector, as well. Then . . . I heard the gunshot. It startled me. I fell back from the window. By the time I regained my view, people were running and Hector was down on the ground. I didn’t know what to do. So I grabbed my pack and I ran, too.”
D.D. looked up from the sink. Her blue eyes were nearly crystalline. “Where?”
“Umm . . . I could hear sirens coming from my left. So I headed right, down the street. I found another café, ducked into the bathroom. I had a black sweatshirt in my pack. I put it on. Then I twisted my hair into a knot on the back of neck so it would look shorter, you know, from the front.”
“Good thinking,” D.D. said wryly. She glanced in my direction. “How very prepared of you.”
“I’d, um . . . I’d recently been doing some reading on the subject,” Roxy mumbled. Then, stiffening her spine: “I was still worried, though. So many police cars were pouring into the area, and of course, there was the Amber Alert, my picture flashing on every screen. So I bought a scarf from a vendor across the street. Big red flowers. The scarf reminded me of my mom. I thought she’d like it.”
Roxy’s voice caught. “Patterns distract. People see them, not you. So I, um, I wrapped the scarf around my neck. Then I started working my way toward the community theater. But it was slow going. So many cops. I kept having to duck into stores, that sort of thing. But once I made it to the theater, I collapsed. Holed up for the night.”
D.D. didn’t say anything. She returned to the table with her single mitted hand. She stared hard at Roxy, and belatedly, the girl lifted both her hands off the table.
“Ideally, this test should’ve been performed right after the alleged incident,” D.D. explained. “But nitrite residue is tougher to get off than most people think, especially under the fingernails. It’s also easy to smear onto other surfaces, such as your backpack, which you most likely grabbed right after the shooting but never thought to wash. Or other items of clothing.”
Roxy’s eyes widened. Clearly, she’d not thought to clean her backpack. She also glanced down self-consciously at her smudged shirt.
“We’re going to test your hands first.”
D.D. started with Roxy’s dominant hand. She methodically swiped the girl’s right hand with the saturated cotton mitt, first wiping the inside of Roxy’s palm, then around her thumb and along the top of her index finger before returning to the outside of the palm. The detective was basically wiping down any surface that would have come into contact with the firearm, I realized. Finally, D.D. doubled back, paying special attention to the area around Roxy’s fingernails, scraping under the tips.
She repeated the pattern on Roxy’s left hand. Then D.D. returned to the sink, holding out her gloved hand while she picked up the second spray bottle. None of us spoke.
She spritzed the cotton mitt. She didn’t say anything, but again, working methodically, covered the entire surface. I leaned forward, staring harder, waiting for something, anything to happen. At the table, Roxy was doing the same.
Nothing happened. The plain white mitt remained plain white.
D.D. caught us staring, smiled slightly. “This is the magic moment,” she said, and picked up the third spray bottle.
More misting. The entire glove. Sarah moved off the sofa into the tiny kitchen area, where she could stare directly over D.D.’s shoulder.
D.D. held up the mitt for dramatic effect. Ten seconds. Twenty, thirty . . .
“Nothing’s happened,” Roxy said from the table. “Those sprays, they’re some kind of reagent, right? Which should react with the nitrite residues, if any are present. No change in color means no reaction, no nitrites. No GSR.”
D.D. glanced at the girl. “We’d heard you were a star student. You are correct. Any nitrite residue should be turning hot pink by now. It’s not a subtle color. Even a trace of hot pink would warrant further testing. But in this case . . .” She held up the plain white mitt.
“You’re not quite out of the woods yet, however,” she said, and nodded her head toward the backpack.
This time, the process went much faster. She wiped the straps, the zipper, anything Roxy might have touched shortly after firing a weapon. Then, with her right hand, she gingerly removed all the contents from the backpack. The black sweatshirt, a ball cap, a battered blue folder, tons of wrappers from protein bars, some matches, bear spray, a penlight, unused shoelaces, duct tape, a half-consumed bottle of water. Not a bad bugout kit, particularly as I understood the reasoning behind the contents.
But no handgun in the pack. And no traces of GSR inside or out.
“This isn’t a slam dunk,” D.D. said at last, peeling off the second mitt and sealing it in its original plastic envelope. “For all I know, this simply proves you were wearing gloves at the time of the shootings—”
“No gloves this morning.” I spoke up. “I could see skin—pale hands gripping the pistol.”
D.D. slid me a glance. “As I mentioned, the test should’ve been administered immediately after the shooting—”
“But as you said, what are the odds of her having washed it all off? Even removed from beneath her nails, and from her backpack? And haven’t I read cases where traces of GSR were found on the suspect’s belongings weeks after the murder?”
D.D. skewered me with a second glance. “The complete absence of findings,” she provided dryly, “does work in Roxy’s favor. So much so that I don’t think I’ll drag her sorry ass down to headquarters and throw her in jail just yet. But, Roxy, I need you to talk to me. Your family is dead. You’ve been on the run for twenty-four hours. Who are you hiding from?”
“I don’t . . .” She glanced at Sarah and me as if looking for assistance. “I’m not sure.”
D.D. pulled out the other chair and took a seat across from Roxy. “So why’d you buy the gun?”
“What gun? I don’t have a gun. You just searched my entire pack.”
“Then you left it behind at the community theater. Stashed it in a cubbyhole. Maybe buried it in another flower bed, such as you did at your house.”
“I don’t—” Roxy paused. Closed her mouth. “Oh,” she said at last. “That gun.”
“Yes. That gun. The twenty-two I recovered in your backyard. Why’d you buy that gun?”
“It wasn’t mine. I don’t know much about guns. And talking to the group—they don’t recommend guns. Especially if you haven’t been properly trained or don’t have any experience.” She glanced at Sarah and me again. We were both sitting on the floor now, as there wasn’t enough room in the tiny parlor, but no way were we leaving Roxy alone with the detective. Sarah had Rosie snuggled up with her, while Blaze already had his head resting on my lap.
“Gee, how civic-minded of them,” D.D. drawled now. “And yet, in the backyard of your house, raised garden bed, we recovered a twenty-two.”
“Lola,” Roxy whispered. “I found the gun one morning under her mattress. We, um . . . we had a fight. I couldn’t believe she had a gun. I couldn’t believe she’d brought it into the house. Forget Mom—what if Manny had found it? What then?”
“Why did Lola have a gun?”
“She said she was supposed to have it. Las Niñas Diablas. She’d joined the gang. And members carried guns.”
“Las Niñas Diablas are known for their knife work,” I said from the floor.
Roxy smiled faintly. “I said that’s what Lola told me. I didn’t say I believed her.”
“Your thirteen-year-old sister acquired a twenty-two and brought it into the house? And you, what, buried it in the garden?”
“It was our compromise. She wouldn’t give it up. Swore she had to have it. I finally got her to agree to keep it out of the house.”
“Sounds to me like your sister was scared.” D.D.’s voice softened almost imperceptibly. “You scared, too, Roxy?”
Roxy nodded, and for just one moment, her shoulders trembled.
“My mom was so happy,” she whispered. “‘I met this great guy. He even has his own house. Three whole bedrooms.’ All we had to do was move back to Brighton. Lola and I . . . We didn’t have the heart to tell her. We’d made a promise, sworn never to talk of those days. How could we bring them up now?” She looked at D.D. “We should’ve talked. We should’ve told everything. But Mother Del’s was four years ago. We thought we were bigger, older, stronger. We honestly thought we could handle it this time.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Roberto. First day at high school, there he was. He actually walked right on by me, his arm around Anya’s shoulders. Then I saw the click. The moment of recognition. The two of them slowed, turned around. He stared at me. Then he smiled. Just like those days at Mother Del’s. That smile that isn’t really a smile. And I knew I was in trouble. I knew it. I just didn’t know how bad.”
“What happened at Mother Del’s?” D.D. asked.
Roxy ignored the question. “I found Mike Davis next. Once I saw Roberto and Anya, reaching out to Mike made the most sense. Of course he still lived at Mother Del’s. He didn’t have any parents left, no get-out-of-jail card for him, he liked to say. He was so skinny. I swear, he must’ve stopped eating the day I left. But we hugged and he bounced and . . . and . . . it seemed more manageable. The two of us had dealt with Roberto and Anya before. We could do this. And Lola wasn’t even in the high school. I told Mike we’d figure this out.
“But, of course, the whispers started. Then Lola came home three days in a row, her clothes torn, knuckles scraped. Kids were talking, she said. About her. About us. About what kind of girls we’d been while in foster care.
“I thought she might break again. Return to being a shadow of herself. But this time . . . she didn’t want to retreat. She was all about the fight. Our mom was called into the principal’s office week after week. New school, the principal assured her. Lola just needed time to settle in. I didn’t know about that. But it turned out, my little sister packs a mean punch. The more they pushed, the harder she retaliated, and within a matter of months, she’d made a reputation for herself. So much so, Las Niñas Diablas wanted her.
“I tried to talk her out of it. She saw the power. When she was with them, she felt special, she told me. Then she came home to me. She practically spat the word. The big sister who was always telling her what to do, treating her like a baby. I’d spent so much of my life trying to take care of her, when I guess, all along, I’d only made her feel weak.
“She wasn’t going back, she told me. She was never again going to be little Lola, rocking babies at Mother Del’s. She wanted to become a she-devil instead.”
Roxy smiled mirthlessly. “And then, of course, just to seal the deal: Roberto. And that damn photo.”
“It was a picture of you.” I spoke up softly from the floor.
Roxy didn’t say anything right away. “You want to know what happened at Mother Del’s? Everything you think. Every terrible story you’ve read about abused, neglected, assaulted kids. Roberto ran the show. And he was too big for any of us to fight with brute strength, so we did our best to incapacitate him with medications and sleep aids. But we couldn’t win all nights. Someone had to pay the price. Lola was only eight. It wouldn’t be her. I promised myself that.”
“He raped you,” D.D. said.
Roxy shrugged. “He had a way of putting it differently. A favor for a favor. As in, if I gave him what he wanted, he would leave my sister alone.”
“You can say the rest,” D.D. instructed gently. “It’s just us girls here, and we all know.”
Roxy looked up at the detective, tears in her eyes. “You do?”
“I’ve been doing this a long time, honey. Roberto isn’t the first one to use this trick.”
I knew what she meant. Beside me, Sarah was nodding. It was just us girls here, and we understood.
“He told Lola the same thing,” Roxy whispered thickly. “The nights he got her alone. Same deal. So she gave in thinking she was saving me, and I gave in to save her . . . And we were both damned, just like that.”
“You loved each other. You looked out for each other. That matters,” D.D. said. She patted Roxy’s hand. I’d never seen the softer side of the detective before. It was strangely unnerving. At that moment, I could see her in my survivors group, dispensing thoughtful advice. And we would all love her.
“Tell me about the photos, honey.”
“I guess I wasn’t surprised that he had some. Of course he’d try to blackmail us. But”—Roxy frowned—“the photos were a double-edged sword. If they really were of Lola and me . . . I was eleven, she was eight. They were child porn. Roberto would get in far more trouble for sharing them than we would. Like felony-level, spend-the-rest-of-his-life-in-jail kind of trouble. I tried to explain that to Lola. But she was too angry. She wouldn’t be weak. She wouldn’t let Roberto hurt her or me ever again. The next day, she joined Las Niñas.”
“What about the school,” D.D. pressed. “My understanding is that they learned of the shared image. What did they do?”
“The story is that the principal called Roberto into his office. Roberto handed over his phone. There weren’t any pictures on it. Principal had to let him go.”
“I heard that, too,” I volunteered from the floor. “From the guidance counselor, Ms. Lobdell Cass.”
“Just because the photos were no longer on Roberto’s phone,” Roxy said hotly, “didn’t mean he didn’t still have possession. He could’ve uploaded them to an external drive, or the cloud, or even a second burner phone.”
“Ms. Lobdell Cass wondered the same.”
D.D. returned her attention to Roxy. “The school
didn’t push?”
Roxy shrugged. “Roberto died. Then there was nothing to push against.”
“Do you believe he shot himself?” D.D. asked evenly.
“The police said he committed suicide.”
“You suspect your sister was involved in his death.” My turn again.
Roxy turned toward me. Frowned.
I repeated: “You suspected that your sister and her gang arranged for Roberto’s shooting.”
“She was never going to be the victim again,” Roxy said stiffly.
“Did she seem happier, more relaxed after that?” D.D. asked. “Did Roberto’s death solve her problems?”
Roxy blinked, seemed to consider the question. “No. I thought it would. Immediately after the news, maybe. But then, she grew subdued again. Nervous. She started pulling at her hair, picking at her scalp.”
“Las Niñas Diablas denied any involvement in Roberto’s suicide,” D.D. said.
“Sure. Like they’re really gonna tell the truth to any cop.”
“She didn’t ask the question,” I said. “I did.”
Roxy shook her head. “I don’t get it.”
“In hindsight, Roberto’s death feels too coincidental to be a suicide,” D.D. said slowly. “I’ve already left instructions to reopen the investigation. But for now, I’m willing to believe your sister and her friends weren’t involved either. Which leaves us with . . .”
Roxy appeared genuinely bewildered. “I don’t know. Roberto mostly hung out with Anya. And with Anya always starring in some production, school was just where they passed the time until rehearsals began at the community theater. Roberto worked as stage manager. At least, last I knew. I wrote . . .” She paused, caught herself. “Um, there was a school essay assignment.”
“The perfect family,” I murmured, stroking Blaze’s silky ears. “I heard about that.”
She didn’t look at me. “I already turned in the first two. Mrs. Chula, my teacher, she seemed to really like them. The writing. But she got worried about me. Wondered if maybe we should call in my mom, have a meeting. I’ve written more, a lot more actually, including a piece on the community theater. But I never turned them in. I’d already reached the assigned page count. I didn’t want to attract any more attention. And it occurred to me, if Lola found out what I’d written, she’d be upset. I’d broken our promise. I was writing about things we’d both agreed to leave forgotten.”