Page 42 of All Good People Here

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TheHeadline with Sandy Wattersstudio in New York City was bigger in real life than it looked on TV. Whenever Krissy watched the show, Sandy and her guest always looked cozy, tucked into leather chairs, flowers on the coffee table between them. But as she, Billy, and Jace walked into the room where they would film the interview, Krissy could see that it wasn’t a room at all, but a set with three fake walls. Where the fourth would have been was a slew of enormous cameras on rolling stands, men in headsetsguiding them around. The place buzzed with energy and self-importance.

Their entrance was a whirlwind of introductions—to the producer, who gave them the rundown of what to expect; to the sound guy, who affixed little microphones to their collars; to the makeup woman, who patted their foreheads with a brush; and, finally, to Sandy Watters herself. Unlike her studio, Sandy looked smaller in person. Her iconic red hair was, as usual, hairsprayed into an immovable wisp around her head. Her skirt suit was baby blue, her earrings pearls. In her midforties, she was the perfect balance of down-to-earth enough to be relatable and professional enough to be taken seriously.

After they’d all shaken hands, the four of them were arranged on the furniture, Jace between Krissy and Billy on the couch, Sandy across from them in an armchair. Sandy gave her introduction to the camera, in which she recapped the brutal murder of January in neat bullet points, then announced her very special guests.

“Welcome, Jacobs family,” she said in her honey voice as she turned to them. “Thank you for being here with me tonight.”

Krissy nodded tightly. Before they started rolling, Sandy told them not to be nervous because they weren’t live, but Krissy didn’t think she’d ever been this nervous in her life. She had not wanted to do this with Jace, but Billy had argued that he would make them look like the wholesome family they were supposed to be. Krissy couldn’t insist without telling him the truth, so eventually, she’d given in, though only after telling Sandy’s team there were to be no questions targeted at Jace. The next thing she knew, she was booking the three of them flights to New York at the end of the week and a hotel by the airport, praying that a twenty-four-hour trip in the middle of a long investigation would inflict less damage than sticking around and doing nothing.

When their plane had begun its descent, Krissy had gazed through the little oval window, down at the city of possibility and light, aching with regret. For so long she’d dreamed of coming here, of escaping Wakarusa and her dead-end marriage, dreamed of a big, dazzling life. How different the circumstances of this trip were. How different her life had turned out, so far from how it was supposed to be.

“This story,” Sandy continued, leaning forward slightly, “January’s story—is such a tragedy. Every parent’s worst nightmare. But on top of that, it’s also a confounding one. From everything we’ve seen on the news up to this point, the investigation looks like a bit of a mess. So, tonight, I invite you to tell your version. To set the record straight.”

Sandy’s first few questions were, Krissy knew, intended to be softballs to get her and Billy talking:What was January like? What has the town’s reaction been? Can you walk through that awful morning when you discovered she was gone?That last one Krissy had answered so many times for the police she could probably recite the words in her sleep.

“Now,” Sandy said after they finished. “I think most of America, myself included, is interested in January’s dancing.” Krissy felt Billy shift beside her. “By now we’ve all seen the photos. And those costumes seem so…grown-up.”

Krissy’s cheeks burned, but she’d been expecting this and she’d rehearsed her answer. “The pictures in the media are of the most extreme costumes she ever wore. Most of them were just your run-of-the-mill children’s costumes—bumblebees, ladybugs, that sort of thing.”

“And one of them was of a sexy sailor.”

Krissy blinked. “January loved to dance. And she took it very seriously. The costumes were a part of that world.”

Sandy shifted her narrowed gaze to Billy then back again. “Butare the two of you at all concerned that your daughter’s dancing and those costumes are a part of the reason she’s now dead? That it attracted the attention of some sort of predator?”

Krissy bit the inside of her cheek and heard Billy swallow beside her. She knew they shouldn’t have come on this fucking show. No matter how many times she’d rehearsed answers in front of their bathroom mirror, she couldn’t have prepared for this. No matter what they said, they were admitting guilt. They’d either dressed their daughter up as a human lure or they didn’t believe it was a stranger who’d killed her, which would direct the attention of Sandy—and the rest of the country—onto them.

“Looking back,” Krissy began after the silence had grown unbearable, “I wish we’d chosen different costumes.”

Sandy sat, seemingly content to let that linger in the air for a long moment before continuing. “Speaking of theories, let’s shift to the ongoing police investigation, in which you both have been questioned. I think most of America, myself included, don’t quite know what to think about you two.” Her sharp gaze flicked between Krissy and Billy. “On the one hand, you seem like regular, nice people. You own a farm, you’re a part of a close-knit community. You go to church every Sunday. On the other hand, the police have said you’re cooperatingto an extent,and both of your fingerprints are on the can of spray paint used to write those horrific words on your kitchen walls.”

There was a ringing silence as Krissy sat frozen in her seat. How had she known? Detective Townsend had sprung this on Krissy in an interview less than forty-eight hours ago, and she was just as shocked by it now as she had been then. HadTownsendleaked it to the show’s producer? Were the police trying to set them up? The thought sent a chill of fury up her spine.

Before she could say anything, though, Billy cleared his throat. “I bought the spray paint for a project I was doing on the farm. I was touching up the paint on the barn doors.”

“Hm.” Sandy shifted her narrowed gaze from his face to Krissy’s. “And what about you?”

“I went in the barn the other week,” she said, her voice feeble, “to look for some WD-40 for a noisy hinge. I was rummaging around and I moved it.” This wasn’t true, of course, but it was what she’d told Townsend when he’d asked.

“Hm,” Sandy said again, then turned to Jace.

Krissy’s heart stopped. She’d insisted Sandy not question him. That was the one condition she’d given.

“I’d like to hear from you, Jace,” Sandy said in a voice both kind and firm. “Can you tell us what happened that night from your point of view?”

Krissy swelled with fear, adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream so fast it hurt. She opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she do? Jace was shrinking into her body and she had the urge to jump away from him. A sudden movement caught her attention from the corner of her eye and she glanced over to see the producer who’d briefed them earlier miming to the guy behind one of the rolling cameras. By the hand gesture she was making, it looked as though she wanted the cameraman to zoom in on Krissy and Jace.Fuck.Krissy hadn’t been thinking. Far too late, she wrapped a stiff arm around her son.

It was then that Jace finally spoke up, his words coming out in a flat, solemn voice. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Why is that?” Sandy asked, all patience and understanding.

“I just don’t.”

“I understand that this is probably scary and it’s sad to talk about your sister when she’s gone, but sometimes talking about it can help.”

Jace hesitated. Krissy wanted to scratch Sandy across the face. The sound of her own heartbeat hammered in her ears.

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