Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

“No, ma’am. Can we come inside?”

“I thought you’d come to tell us. I thought . . . Yes, come in.” She stepped back, glanced around her own living space as if she didn’t quite recognize it. “My husband, he’s asleep. Sedated. He can’t . . . They were so close, you see. Linnie, she’s Daddy’s girl.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, shook her head.

“Mrs. Dyson, why don’t we sit down?” Peabody took her by the arm, led her to a long sofa done in a striking, in-your-face red.

The room was bold, splashy colors, big shapes. A huge painting that looked to Eve to represent some sort of swollen sunset in shades of searing red and gold and vivid orange dominated the wall behind the sofa.

There was a wall screen and a mood screen, both turned off, tables in sheer and glossy white, and a tall triple window, with its red curtains tightly closed.

In the excited cheer of the room, Jenny Dyson seemed only more pale. More a faded outline of a woman than flesh and blood.

“I haven’t taken anything. The doctor said I could, probably should, but I haven’t.” Her fingers worked as she talked, linking together, pulling apart. “If I did, I wouldn’t feel, would

I? What I need to feel. We went to see her.”

“Yes, I know.” Eve sat across from her, in a chair of lively purple.

“The doctor said she wouldn’t have suffered.”

“No. I understand this is a very difficult time—”

“Do you have children?”

“No.”

“I don’t think you can understand, I really don’t.” There was a hint of anger in the tone—the how-dare-you-presume-to-understand. Then it fizzled into dull grief again. “She came from me, from us. And she was so beautiful. Sweet and funny. Happy. We raised such a happy child. But we failed. I failed, you see. I didn’t protect her. I didn’t keep her safe. I’m her mother, and I didn’t keep her safe.”

“Mrs. Dyson.” Sensing a meltdown, Eve spoke sharply. Jenny’s head snapped up. “You’re right, I can’t understand, not really, what you feel, what you’re going through, what you have to face. But I do know this. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t about what you did or didn’t do to protect Linnie. This isn’t your failure, not in any sense. This was beyond your control, beyond your husband’s, beyond anyone’s but the men who did this thing. They’re responsible, and no one else. And this I do understand, the way you can’t, at least not now. Linnie is ours now, too. We can’t protect her now, but we will serve her. We will stand for her. You have to do the same.”

“What can I do?” Her fingers kept moving. Together, apart. Together, apart.

“You were friends with the Swishers.”

“Yes. Good friends. Yes.”

“Did either of them say anything to you about being worried, even uneasy, as regarded their safety.”

“No. Well, sometimes Keelie and I talked about what a madhouse the city can be. All the precautions you have to take to live here. But there was nothing specific.”

“What about their marriage?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You were friends. Would she have told you if she had a relationship outside of the marriage, of if she suspected her husband did?”

“They—they loved each other. Keelie would never.” Jenny touched a hand to her face—temple, cheek, jaw—as if assuring herself she was still there. “No, Keelie wasn’t interested in anyone else, and she trusted Grant. They were very steady, family-oriented people. Like us. We were friends because we had a lot in common.”

“They both had clients. Any trouble there?”

“There were irritations, of course. Some difficulties. Some people would come to Keelie looking for miracles, or instant gratification. Or they’d sign up with her when they’d have been better off just going to a body sculptor, because they weren’t willing to alter their lifestyle. And Keelie’s philosophy was about health and lifestyle. Grant handled a number of custody cases that weren’t always pleasant.”

“Any threats?”

“No, nothing serious.” She stared beyond Eve to the red wall of curtains. “A client demanding their money back from Keelie, or filing suit because they didn’t get the results they wanted when they were stuffing their faces with soy chips. And Grant would get the sort of outrage or anger lawyers deal with because they’re lawyers. But for the most part, their clients were satisfied. Both of them built a solid base because of referrals and word of mouth. People liked them.”