Page 34 of 2 Sisters Murder Investigations

We drove slowly toward the mass of people. Some of Troy’s neighbors were sitting on their porches or standing on their lawns in small groups. Some were arranging flowers and teddy bears and photographs of Daisy in a huge mound in the Hansens’ front yard. People turned to look at us, pointed, whispered. The wall of bodies shifted, blocking the road.

I pulled over as close as I could get to Troy’s house. We both got out. I couldn’t let him walk into that scene alone.

The crowd was so silent, I could hear the crickets chirping nearby. I had a strange instinct to take Troy’s hand or arm, but I didn’t want to appear to be either a girlfriend or someone leading him unwillingly. White lights — photo flashes, phone flashlights — sparked to life between the golden candle flames. Dozens of cameras and hundreds of eyes watched us unsuccessfully try to skirt the edges of the crowd on the way to the house. The crowd shifted and swelled around us. In their midst, I could hear the whispers.

“Murderous pig ... ”

“Dirtbag piece of shit ... ”

“Where is her body ... ”

A little girl watched anxiously as we walked by. She shrank away from me, moved close to a woman’s leg as Troy passed her. “Mommy, is that him?”

At the back of the crowd were Daisy Hansen’s parents, Mark and Summer Rayburn; I recognized them from their public appeal. Her mother, Summer, lean and bronzed and fine-featured, was kneeling by the flower pile reading a letter pinned to a teddy. Daisy’s father, Mark, broad-chested and silver-haired, watched Troy and me work our way to the house.

Suddenly a woman stepped into Troy’s path. She was small with frizzy hair and dark-rimmed glasses. She held out the candle clutched in her fist like it was a microphone.

“Hey, Troy!” she snarled. “This is for Daisy.” She jabbed the candle at him.

Troy stumbled back as the hot wax hit his face. “Oh, shit!” he cried. The crowd was immediately divided — half the people trying to maintain calm and dignity, the other half hurling abuse and flicking their candles at us. Hot wax scorched my arm, neck, and face. The crowd became black silhouettes in the near dark. I shoved Troy through the press of bodies and up the driveway to his home.

The shouts of the crowd had grown too loud for me to hear Troy’s parting words before he shut the door, but he’d looked tired and afraid. I went back down the driveway, thankful that only a handful of people were still spitting abuse at me. The rest of the crowd had turned inward, probably to dissect Troy’s appearance, his body language, the fact that he hadn’t addressed them.

As I reached my car, two figures emerged from the crowd: Mark and Summer Rayburn. Their approach zapped electric fear through the relief I’d felt when I gripped the door handle.

“You’re Rhonda Bird, right?”

I turned. Mark was blank-faced. Summer was clutching his arm like it was the only thing holding her up.

“That’s me,” I told the man, sounding less steady than I would have liked.

“We want to talk to you,” Mark said. “Hopefully you’ve got the decency to grant us five minutes.”

“I respectfully decline.” I put my hands up. “I’m sorry. I’m extremely tired. And I’m guessing you don’t want to sit me down and tell me all the reasons why you’re on Team Troy.”

Daisy’s parents looked at each other.

“You guessed wrong,” her father said.

CHAPTER37

WHEN ARTHUR OPENED THEdoor to Baby, he was wearing a chocolate-brown suit with a navy-blue tie, a huge Windsor knot riding below his Adam’s apple. It was clear to Baby that he’d lost a lot of weight since the last time he’d worn the suit; he looked like a shriveled tortoise in its shell. But his eyes held the kind of veiled vulnerability Baby had seen on Earl a hundred times, as he went out to meet a lady dressed in his ill-fitting best. So she told Arthur the same thing she’d always told her dad.

“You look like George Clooney.”

Arthur straightened slightly, popped his cuffs.

“Thanks, sugarplum,” he said. He sucked air down the sides of his dentures. “I feel like an idiot without a hat, though.”

“It’s eight o’clock at night.” Baby took his arm. “What do you need a hat for?”

They walked to the ancient station wagon he’d cajoled out of his garage that afternoon. Baby had left George and Troy and Rhonda and all that business behind, literally showering the day off, then putting her makeup on, trying to get into a whole other frame of mind. There was a man to protect here too and evildoers to stave off.

Arthur looked at her high heels and pencil skirt and whistled. “We’re gonna be the talk of the town.”

“You betcha.”

When they arrived at the restaurant, Baby wondered how long it had been since Arthur had gone out for dinner. He had a sparkly gaze, but the menu and ordering system had him flummoxed. He let her handle everything, just nodded along and pretended to understand as she explained to him what a QR code was. Within an hour, though, with two drinks under his belt, he was downing dumplings like an expert and doing George Clooney impressions.

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