The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [72]
Emma’s eyes flicked over to Robby.
“Oh, this is my friend, Robby Hernandez.”
Robby bowed his head. “Glad to meet you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? Please, call me Emma. And come in out of the cold. I need to close the door, we’re letting the heat out.”
They walked through the barren entryway toward the living room. Emma turned on a couple of lamps and sat down stiffly on the edge of a plush gold chair. The house was half a century old and looked it: worn cocoa-rust carpet, tan walls, and threadbare furniture.
Vail sat on the sofa beside Robby. Her mother looked thin, the kind of unhealthy thin that accompanied a debilitating disease, like cancer. Her face had more wrinkles and the skin on her neck hung as if it had finally given up the decades-long fight against gravity’s pull.
“Do you work in my daughter’s office? The FBI? She works for the FBI, you know.”
Robby smiled. “I’m a detective, with the police department. I’m working with Karen on a case.”
“Well, I’ve got a case for you right here. A real who-done-it. Someone keeps stealing things from me. First it was a book I was reading, then it was my glasses. I have a good mind to call the police. Stupid neighborhood kids.”
Vail glanced around. Everything appeared to be in order, from what she could tell in the dim lighting. “Did you leave the door open? Do you think someone’s been in the house?”
“I hear noises,” Emma said, her hands fumbling in her lap, “but I’ve never seen anyone.”
Vail looked at Robby. “We’ll take a look around, make sure all the locks work, okay?”
“Well, enough about me. Tell me, how’s Deacon?”
Vail swallowed hard. “We’re getting divorced, Ma.”
“Divorced? What happened?”
Vail’s face was stone. The progression of her mother’s Alzheimer’s had been far more pronounced than she had thought. During their last couple conversations, Emma had been distant and harried. But clearly it was more serious.
“Ma,” Vail said, “we’ve talked about the divorce. Don’t you remember?”
Emma’s face flickered for a moment, then she turned to Robby. “Oh, I’ve been a terrible hostess. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Emma Vail.”
Robby forced a smile. “Robby Hernandez.”
“Are you a friend of Kari’s?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” She waved a hand. “Oh, please. Call me Emma.” She turned to Vail, whose eyes were tearing. “What’s wrong, Kari?”
“Nothing, Mom. Nothing.” She stood and took Robby’s hand. “I’m going to show Robby around, okay?”
“Whatever you’d like, dear,” Emma said.
Vail flipped on the large backyard spots and low-voltage path lights. “I knew this day was coming, I just hoped it’d be later rather than sooner. I figured she had a few years before it got this bad.” She took a deep breath of the pine-scented air, then swung her head around and looked inside to see her mother still sitting on the couch, just as they had left her. “I need to get her some help, or move her out. I don’t know what would be best.”
Robby took her hand and led her through the wooded yard. While the house was small—cozy, Emma had once called it—the land was not: two full acres of mature pines. They walked for a moment in silence.
“I remember the brown needles crunching under my sneakers when I was a teenager. I used to come back here to clear my mind. Sometimes I’d find a bed of needles and take a nap. If they weren’t so damp, I’d lie down right now and fall asleep. Dream of happier times.” She bent down and scooped up a handful. “My mom taught me to appreciate the beauty of nature. She once told me you never knew when life would deal you an unplanned twist of fate. Enjoy things while you can, she said, because you just never knew.” She sighed. “Little did I know she was talking about herself.”
Robby took a deep breath. “It’s beautiful here. A private forest.”
“When Jonathan turned eight, I brought him here to visit. He went shopping with grandma and I spent an entire day out here, whittling away with my knife, making a walking stick. It was as close to a perfect day