Page 103 of Jane Deyre
Going on eleven p.m., the sky is now dark. The great room is dimly lit. The whirling lights of police cars outside Thornhill filter through the drawn drapes, the red, white, and blue whorls dancing on the walls. Sirens are still blaring in the distance. Drinking a Coke from the can, the detective’s eagle eyes take in the room, lingering on the portrait of Edwina in her red gown above the fireplace.
“She was a beauty that one,” he says, his voice bearing a heavy New Jersey accent. “And she still is.”
He’s obviously seen her tonight. But right now, she and the other residents of Thornhill, minus Ward and Adele, are being sequestered in the library while Detective Billings and his partner conduct their interrogations. Thank goodness Adele is still sound asleep. Oblivious to the commotion. Oblivious to the crime.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” begins the detective, turning on the recorder.
My hand goes to my neck. Though it was only a surface wound, the paramedics covered it with a gauze dressing. They assured me it would likely not scar, but if it does, it’ll be the last scar I’ll ever receive from John Reed.
My neck stiff, I nod. “Yes. Had not Mr. Rochester shown up when he did, I think I would have been the one in a body bag.”
He quirks a smile. “The missus says timing is everything.”
I give a weak smile back, noticing the gold band on his ring finger. I wonder if he has kids.
“So, Miss Deyre, tell me in your own words what happened tonight. Take your time.”
He turns on a recording device that’s on the table, and I tell him about my surprise assault, not leaving out a detail. He lets me talk without interruption while his partner takes notes.
He nods. “Now, tell me about your relationship with John Reed.”
I take a sip of my tea and launch into my history with him. The years of verbal and physical abuse. The evil pranks. His attempt to sexually assault me on my last night in foster care. Of how I threw scorching hot tea at his face and fled. I end with my previous life-and-death encounter with him at my former residence. While the detective’s partner scribbles down notes, he tells me that my account corroborates Mr. Rochester’s. A tinge of relief. We’re on the same page.
I like Detective Billings. A lot. He’s warm and down-to-earth, and much smarter than he lets on. For sure, a deliberate interrogating tactic.
“So, Miss Deyre—”
“You can call me Jane,” I interrupt.
“Nice name. Same as my sister-in-law’s. Simple and strong.”
“Thanks,” I say humbly. He has a way of making me feel important. Not the insignificant plain Jane I still think I am.
“So, Jane, before tonight, did you have any idea John Reed was employed at Thornhill?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Any idea he may have been inside the guesthouse before tonight?”
Feeling more relaxed, I tell him about all the bone-chilling happenings since my arrival at Thornhill. The unexplained lights, the weird noises, the threatening notes, the eerie voice outside my door.
“Did you tell anyone else about these things?”
I hesitate before I answer. “Yes, Ms. Fairfax... about the noises.”
I note a subtle look of disdain on his face at the mention of her name.
“And...”
“I thought some of them were coming from the room next door. The locked one with theKEEP OUT.”
He turns to his partner. “Mancuso, make sure the CSI guys do a careful inspection of that room. Have it dusted for fingerprints. And take a photo of that sign.”
Stepping away, Mancuso radios someone with instructions I can overhear. Exactly what his boss has ordered. Putting away his device, he returns to his seat and arms himself again with his notepad and pen. And cracks his gum.
Billings eyes the plate of cookies on the coffee table. “Mind if I help myself? I haven’t eaten a thing since the missus made me dinner.”
“Go ahead,” I say as he reaches for one. He puts it to his mouth and takes a giant bite. Then another, finishing it. Crumbs fall onto a lapel of his worn, mustard-stained trench coat as he licks his lips.