House Rules: A Novel Read online

  As soon as I hang up, I take my full mug of coffee and empty it in the sink; that’s how distracted I am. Jacob Hunt admitted to being at the house. He had a backpack full of Jess Ogilvy’s clothes. He was the last person known to see her alive.

  Jacob may have Asperger’s syndrome, but that doesn’t preclude his being a murderer.

  I think of Mark Maguire’s flat-out denials about hurting his girlfriend, his unscarred hands, his crying. Then I think of Jacob Hunt, who cleaned up Jess’s house when it looked like it had been vandalized. Had he left out the intrinsic detail that he was the one who’d wrecked it?

  On the one hand, I have a boyfriend who’s a jackass but who’s grief-stricken. I have his boot prints outside a cut screen.

  On the other hand, I have a kid who’s obsessed with crime scene analysis. A kid who doesn’t like Mark Maguire. A kid who’d know how to take a murder and make it look like Mark Maguire did it and then attempted to cover his tracks.

  I have a kid who’s been known to hang out at crime scenes in the past.

  I have a homicide, and I have a blanket that links Jacob Hunt to it.

  The division between an observer and a participant is nearly invisible; you can cross it before you even know you’ve stepped over the line.

  Emma

  On the way home from school, I am gripping the steering wheel so hard that my hands are shaking. I keep looking in the rearview mirror at Jacob. He looks like he did this morning—wearing a faded green T-shirt, his seat belt snugly fastened over his chest, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He is not stimming or withdrawn or exhibiting any of the other hallmarks of behavior that flag the fact something is upsetting him. Does that mean he didn’t have anything to do with Jess’s death? Or he did, and it simply doesn’t affect him the way it would affect someone else?

  Theo has been talking about math—a problem he did that no one else in the class understood. I am not absorbing a single word. “Jacob and I have to swing by the police station,” I say, training my voice to be as level as possible. “So Theo, I’m just going to drop you off at home first.”

  “What for?” Jacob asks. “Did he get back the results on the backpack?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Theo looks at me. “Mom? Is something going on?”

  For a moment I want to laugh: I have one child who cannot read me at all, and another who reads me too well. I don’t answer but pull up to our mailbox instead. “Theo, hop out and get the mail, and you can let yourself into the house. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I leave him standing in the middle of the road and drive off with Jacob.

  But instead of heading to the police station, I stop off at a strip mall and park. “Are we getting a snack?” Jacob asks. “Because I’m actually quite hungry.”

  “Maybe later.” I get out of the driver’s seat and sit beside him in the back of the car. “I have something to tell you. Some very bad news.”

  “Like when Grandpa died.”

  “Yes, a lot like that. You know how Jess has been gone for a while, so you couldn’t have your meeting on Sunday? The police found her body. She’s dead.” I watch him carefully as I speak, ready to mark a flicker of his eye or a twitch of his hand that I might read as a clue. But Jacob, completely impassive, just looks at the headrest in front of him.

  “Okay,” he says after a moment.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  Jacob nods. “Can we get a snack now?”

  I look at my son, and I see a monster. I’m just not sure if that’s his real face or if it’s a mask made of Asperger’s.

  Honestly, I’m not even sure it matters.

  By the time I reach the police station with Jacob, my nerves are strung as tight as the strings on a violin. I feel like a traitor, bringing my own son to Detective Matson, but is there an alternative? A girl is already dead. I couldn’t live with myself, with this secret, if I didn’t acknowledge Jacob’s involvement.

  Before I can even ask for him to be paged by dispatch, the detective walks into the station lobby. “Jacob,” he says, and then he turns to me. “Emma. Thanks for bringing him in.”

  I don’t have any words left to say. Instead, I look away.

  Just like Jacob.

  The detective puts a hand on my shoulder. “I know this isn’t easy … but you did the right thing.”

  “Then why doesn’t it feel that way?” I murmur.

  “Trust me,” Matson says, and because I want to—because I need someone else to take the wheel for just a moment while I struggle to breathe—I nod.

  He turns back to Jacob. “The reason I asked your mom to bring you here,” Matson says, “is because I want to talk to you. I could really use your help with some cases.”

  My jaw drops open. That is a blatant lie.

  Predictably, Jacob swells with pride. “I suppose I have time for that.”

  “That’s great,” Matson replies, “because we’re stumped. We’ve got some cold cases—and a few active ones—that have us scratching our heads. And after seeing you draw conclusions about the hypothermic guy, I know that you’re incredibly well-versed in forensic criminology.”

  “I try to keep up-to-date,” Jacob says. “I subscribe to three journals.”

  “Yeah? Impressive.” Matson opens up the door that leads into the bowels of the police station. “Why don’t we go somewhere a little more private?”

  Using his love of CSI to entrap Jacob into giving a statement about Jess’s death is like holding out a syringe of heroin to an addict. I am furious at Matson for being so underhanded; I am furious at myself for not realizing that he would have his priorities, just like I had mine.

  Flushed with anger, I start to follow them through the doorway but am stopped by the detective. “Actually, Emma,” he says, “you’ll have to wait here.”

  “I have to go with him. He won’t understand what you’re asking him.”

  “Legally, he’s an adult.” Matson smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “Really, Mom,” Jacob adds, his voice brimming with self-importance. “It’s fine.”

  The detective looks at me. “Are you his legal guardian?”

  “I’m his mother.”

  “That’s not the same thing,” Matson says. “I’m sorry.”

  For what? I wonder. For seducing Jacob into believing he’s on his side? Or for doing the same to me?

  “Then we’re leaving,” I insist.

  Matson nods. “Jacob, it’s your decision. Do you want to stay with me, or do you want to go home with your mom?”

  “Are you kidding?” Jacob beams. “I want to talk to you, one hundred percent.”

  Before the door closes behind them, I have already taken off at a dead run toward the parking lot.

  Rich

  All is fair in love, war, and interrogation. By that I mean that if I can convince a suspect I’m the second coming of his long-dead grandma and the only way to salvation is to confess to me, so be it. None of which accounts for the fact that I cannot get Emma Hunt’s face out of my mind, the minute she realized that I had betrayed her and was not going to allow her to sit in on my little chat with her son.

  I can’t bring Jacob into the interrogation room, because Mark Maguire is still there cooling his heels. I’ve left him with a sergeant who’s currently doing a six-month stint with me to figure out whether or not he wants to take the test to make detective. I can’t unarrest Mark until I know for sure I’ve got the right suspect in my sights.

  So instead, I lead Jacob to my office. It’s not much bigger than a closet, but it has boxes of case files all over the place and a few crime scene photos tacked up on the corkboard behind my head—all of which should get his adrenaline flowing. “You want a Coke or something?” I ask, motioning to the only other spare seat in the room.

  “I’m not thirsty,” Jacob says. “I wouldn’t mind something to eat, though.”

  I rummage through my desk drawers for emergency candy—if I’ve learned anythi