Page 41 of All Good People Here

“Oh, Krissy,” the Bird at the front said. Tracey Miller. “We’re just so sorry.” The last word got caught in Tracey’s throat.

Krissy felt something harden inside her—all these women, their daughters alive and well, come to get off on how benevolent and sad Krissy’s story made them feel. She would gladly murder any one of their daughters right now to have hers back for one more day.

“We just can’t believe it,” Tracey said. “We just—can’t. And my god, all thosecameras?” She shot a glance behind her at the swarm of media at the end of the drive. “Absolutely no respect for what you folks are going through.”

The Birds shook their heads with a collective clucking sound, and then the one beside Tracey, Sharon Meyer, spoke up. “We know nothing we can do can ease your pain, but we wanted to bring you guys some food. At least take that off your plate for a while.” She extended an orange Tupperware bowl with a mismatched red lid. On it, she’d taped a card printed with the image of a cross and an airborne dove. Cursive letters spelled out:Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Krissy envisioned herself smacking the Tupperware out ofSharon Meyer’s hands, imagined it landing with a thud on the front porch, burping out entrails of macaroni salad. “That’s very kind. Thank you.”

The Birds smiled, nodded, didn’t move. Krissy realized with a jolt that they were expecting to be let in. She opened the door wide. “I’ll show you to the kitchen.”

She felt like a reluctant tour guide with the line of Birds marching behind her, their heads swiveling toward Billy and the two detectives. Billy darted his eyes between the floor and the women uncomfortably. Lacks and Townsend watched it all, looking completely at ease.

The moment Krissy turned the corner into the kitchen, she stopped short. The detectives had assured her their house would be returned to normal, but it seemed the spray-painted words had been too much of a hassle. They’d been halfheartedly scrubbed at, so that her white walls were a gory pink. She could just barely make out the wordbitchabove the coffeemaker. She turned around to stop the women from seeing, but it was too late. They were staring, eyes round as silver dollars.

They censored themselves quickly, pressing their lips in pert little smiles, turning their gazes blank and friendly, but Krissy knew the damage had been done. If the town hadn’t already known of the spray-painted messages, they would soon—and that handful of words would set her and her family apart for the rest of their lives.

Tracey led the fridge-stocking initiative, which she turned into a full production, moving juice boxes and cartons of milk around with overblown authority, snapping at Peggy Shoemaker that they had to “put the big ones in first,” when Peggy tried to put her Frito pie in before Rachel Kauffman’s tuna casserole.

After what felt like a lifetime, Krissy ushered them back outside with a tight, plastered-on smile. As they filed out, each Birdgripped her hand in their own and promised to pray. When she finally shut the door behind them, she let out a breath, closed her eyes, and rested her head against the door.

When she opened her eyes again, she realized she was alone. The detectives and Billy had disappeared. From down the hall, she heard Billy’s voice, and he must’ve been talking on the phone because it was the only one she could hear. After a moment of muffled conversation, she heard a click as the receiver was put back in its cradle, then footsteps in the hall.

“Where did the detectives go?” Krissy asked when he appeared in the doorway.

“They left. For now, at least. Said they’d be in touch tomorrow.”

She sighed. It had been two days of grief and interrogation and it already seemed like it’d been a lifetime. She felt the exhaustion in her bones. “Who was on the phone?”

Billy cleared his throat. “A TV producer. FromHeadline with Sandy Watters.”

“Headline with Sandy Watters?” Along with20/20and60 Minutes,Headline with Sandy Watterswas one of the biggest investigative shows on TV.

He nodded. “They want us to do an interview.”

“Jesus…”

“I think we should do it.”

Krissy snapped her head up. “You—what? Are you insane?”

“That producer, she said our case is already getting twisted in the news. That they’re skewering us onLisa and Bob in the Morning.”

“Billy—”

“She said if worse comes to worst, if one of us is…arrested,she doesn’t think we could get a fair trial anywhere in the country right now. Because of, like…biases and stuff. Like, the jurywould’ve seen how we’re being represented and wouldn’t wanna be fair. She says we need to take control of the narrative—”

Krissy rolled her eyes. “Billy, of course she’s gonna say that. It’s her job.”

“No, Kris.” His voice was unusually firm. “Just listen. She said she bets there are a dozen news teams outside our house right now, which there are, and that the public is gonna expect us to saysomethingto one of them, to make some sort of statement. And she said Sandy would be the best person to help us shape what we actually want to say.”

Krissy, who’d been rubbing the bridge of her nose, dropped her hand. “This isn’t a good idea, Billy. We don’t know what the police are thinking right now and we don’t know what some TV host could ask—”

But Billy interrupted. “She said if we don’t do something, if we don’t make some sort of appearance, it’s gonna look like we have something to hide. And we can’t look like we have anything to hide right now.”

Krissy snapped her eyes to his. “Wedon’thave anything to hide.”

Billy held her gaze for a long moment and she could tell he didn’t believe her. “Exactly,” he said finally. “That’s exactly why we should go on this show.”

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