by Chris Culver
Meyers stood, but Robbie didn’t move.
Olivia pressed a headshot of my niece under Robbie’s gaze. Rigor had contracted her face into a grimace, closing her eyes in a pained expression.
“I bet she was a pretty girl,” said Olivia. “At one time.”
“She is pretty,” said Robbie, a tear streaming down his cheek. “I loved her.”
“This interview is over,” said Meyers, his voice strained. “Get these cuffs off my client. Unless Robbie is under arrest, we’re leaving.”
Robbie still didn’t move. Meyers said the interview was over, but it wasn’t his call. If his client didn’t want to take advice, Olivia had little reason to stop.
“Look at her, Robbie,” said Olivia, tapping the picture she had slid toward Robbie. “If you don’t tell us what happened, we’re going to cut her open, we’re going to photograph her, and then we’re going to put her on display. Is that how you want to remember her?”
Robbie didn’t say anything, but another tear slid down his cheek.
Olivia continued. “We haven’t found the girl’s underwear, and I know you redressed her. If you don’t tell us what happened, this girl you supposedly loved will be forever known as the bimbo who died with her pants down in your bedroom. Is that what you want?”
I winced. I’m not a prude and I’m not naive. Rachel was seventeen and had apparently been dating the same boy for two years. Of course they were having sex. Rana wouldn’t see it like that, though. Hopefully we’d be able to keep that detail out of the papers.
“Don’t say anything, Robbie,” said Meyers. “Let me handle this.”
I thought Robbie would take his lawyer’s advice, but then his lips started moving. No sound came out for a few seconds.
“She wasn’t supposed to die,” he said. His voice was so quiet I almost didn’t hear it above the ambient room noise.
“No, I’m sure she wasn’t,” said Olivia, matching Robbie’s voice. Meyers rubbed his brow, his eyes closed. Olivia ignored him. “What happened? Did you have some kind of accident?”
Robbie closed his eyes, his lips moving before he spoke. “Rachel was a sanguinarian.”
“I’m sorry?” asked Olivia.
“She drank blood. She drank part of a vial of blood. That’s when she started puking. Then she died.”
Robbie didn’t say anything after that. I took a deep breath. As a detective, I’d been to more death scenes than I cared to remember, thirty-four of which had turned into criminal homicide investigations. Even with all that experience, this was my first vampire. I doubted Hallmark made cards to commemorate the occasion.
“Okay,” said Olivia. “Let’s start at the beginning and go from there.”
Want to keep reading? THE ABBEY is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.
