Flesh And Blood by Jonathan Kellerman

Her nose began to run, and I handed her a tissue.

“Her work,” said Milo.

“Modeling—she freelanced, saved up quite a bit of money. It allowed her to go back to school.”

“No time for boyfriends,” he said. “Not a single one.”

“No one that I ever met.” Her eyes shifted to the floor, and I knew she was holding back. Aware of Lauren’s real profession?

“Busy with her studies,” said Milo.”Yes. She loved her classes. Loved psychology, planned to go all the way—get a Ph.D.” To me: “You inspired her. She thought you were great.”

Milo said, “In addition to classes, did she do any psychological work?”

“You mean like volunteering? I don’t think so.”

“Volunteering, research.”

“No,” said Jane. “Nothing that she mentioned.”

“What about travel?”

“She took off from time to time. But only for a day or two. Not a week—that’s how I knew something was wrong. Andy—her roommate— knew it too. I could tell when I spoke to him. He was worried. He knew this was wrong.”

“Andy,” said Milo. “Lauren and he get along pretty well?”

“Famously, like two peas. He finally got Lauren to spruce that place up. He has a great eye—most of them do.”

“Them?”

“Gays. They’re clever that way. It was a smart arrangement. I told Lauren that. No hanky-panky, and he had a great eye for decorating.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She agreed.”

“So,” he said, “you’re not aware of any conflict between her and Andy?”

She stared at Milo. “Andy? You can’t be— No, no, ridiculous. He’d have no reason— He’s more of a girl than a boy. They were like two sorority sisters.”

“No reason for conflict because no sexual tension.”

She blanched. “Well, yes—aren’t so many things like this . . . physical—men hurting women because they’re . . . twisted?”

“You think this might’ve been a sexual crime?”

“Well, no,” she said. “I don’t think anything—what do I know? Was there— Did someone abuse her?”

“Nothing points that way, ma’am, but we’ll have to wait for the coroner.”

“The coroner.” Jane began crying again. I was ready with another tissue, and Milo wrote in his pad. I hadn’t seen him take it out.

“When Lauren went off for a few days, where’d she go, Mrs. Abbot?”

She looked up. “I don’t really know.” Another eye shift, and something new had come into her voice. Wariness. Milo had to have heard it, but he kept his eyes on the pad.

“So she never told you details, just that she was taking off,” he said.

“Lauren was twenty-five, Detective.” Long bout of crying. “Sorry. I was just thinking: She’ll never be twenty-six. . . . Lauren was a private person, Detective. I knew I had to respect that if I wanted to … keep getting along. We had … a history. Dr. Delaware can fill in the details. Lauren was a really rebellious teenager. Even as a small child, if I pushed, she’d pull. If I said black, she’d insist it was white. Then my ex walked out on us and we got poor overnight and Lauren didn’t want to know about that. She ran away when she was sixteen, never lived with me again. For years, I barely heard from her. I tried …” She looked at me for support.

I mustered a nod.

“We reconnected,” she went on. “All those years of barely hearing from her, and she wanted to reconnect. I was afraid if I bugged her, I’d lose her. So … I didn’t. And now . . . maybe if I’d …”

“No reason to blame yourself,” I said.

“No? Do you mean that, or is that something you just say to all the . . . whatever I am?”

Her head dropped into her hands. The nape of her neck was moist with sweat. I thought about the lunch that had sent Lauren home upset. Complaining Jane was trying to control her. At odds with Jane’s speech about restraint.

She sat up suddenly, flushed, cold-eyed. “What I’m trying to say is I was trying to get to know her again. To know my daughter. And I thought I was doing pretty good. And now … I should be able to tell you more but I can’t. ‘Cause I don’t know—it’s come to this and I don’t knowl”

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