My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 11

11

WHEN I OPENED THE DOOR, Sam slapped a search warrant into my hand and walked in without invitation. As a photographer followed, a knot tightened in my gut. There are times when you draw the line and dare someone to cross it, and times when you open wide and take the drill. This was a root canal without Novocain. Staten went immediately to dusting the den for fingerprints. Lizard Lips headed for the kitchen and the photographer stuck out his hand to shake.

"I've always wanted to meet you, Mr. Baimbridge. Danny Butler." He carried a fairly inexpensive digital camera with a Metz strobe. I forced the warrant into the pocket with the panties and shook his hand. "I really hope to have my own studio some day," he said, "and do the kind of work you do."

"Don't wait too long to get started," I said, my voice flat. "Dreams have a way of slipping away."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that." He looked uncomfortable as if waiting for my permission to start. I closed the door and left him standing there. He raised his camera to his eye, aimed it at something in the room, focused, and fired. The drilling began.

I couldn't stand around and watch while they picked through my life. I had nothing to hide. It just looked so insignificant in their hands. Like the piece of driftwood on the mantle over the fireplace that I'd picked up on the beach the one time Jewell and I made love. To them, it was just a stick. I rinsed a glass and poured a drink with the intention of stepping out on the deck.

"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to," Jones said sitting at the counter.

"Good. My attorney told me not to," I said replacing the cap on the bottle. "I don't know anything else anyway." I pulled the warrant out of my back pocket and flung it on the counter. As I did, the panties fell to the floor. I lifted my glass and turned.

"You dropped your handkerchief," Sam noted flipping through his notepad.

Looking down, I saw the panties lying on the floor. With heat flushing my face, I scooped them up and stuffed them back in my pocket. "Thanks."

"Could I see the shoes you were wearing Sunday night?" he asked nonchalantly.

"I...don't have them, Sam."

His eyes raised, then he set his elbows on the counter. "You don't have them?"

"I didn't have them on when I awoke out there on the deck."

"You think they're still at Ashleigh's?"

"I guess."

"You guess wrong. What did they look like?"

"Maybe they're outside. I haven't actually looked."

"What did they look like?"

"Brown leather Bass loafers with a tassel on top."

"Like the one's you're wearing?"

"Yes, only darker."

He made a note in his pad, opened the back door, flipped on the outside lights, and walked out. I followed with the scotch in hand. The night air was cold and damp. He produced a flashlight and began searching under the deck. I gazed out at the lake and wondered if this once tranquil backdrop had been changed forever. The police tape and the colored flags would soon be gone, but would I ever feel peace here again?

I moved to a wooden chair, sat, and sipped the whiskey. A strobe flashed inside my house. I laid my head back and closed my eyes. How could those panties have gotten under that cushion? As Sam moved about under the bushes, I replayed Ashleigh's route through my house from the kitchen to the love seat, to the window, and back to the love seat. She never went near the couch.