“We didn’t,” he said.
“We didn’t know,” the mother agreed, “until you called.”
“You didn’t check on the kids when you returned from the slopes last night?”
“They’re light sleepers,” the mother said. “We didn’t want to wake them.”
Nicole let her doubt show through her unwavering stare. The mother’s lips trembled. Dr. Esparza patted her hand and remained firm. He made no move to further support their claim and held Nicole’s gaze with his own.
Cold or confident? she wondered.
“The receptionist says Beatrice hasn’t been around since about four yesterday.”
“She’s wrong,” the doctor insisted. “I told her that.”
“Did your daughter leave the resort willingly, Dr. Esparza?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Esparza said. “She took her purse.”
“And her coat?” Nicole asked. “Is Beatrice’s coat missing?”
The woman pushed to her feet. Her hands, no longer pinned between her knees, fluttered in the air in front of her. “The closet,” she said, and moved toward a door near the front of the suite. “She was a responsible girl, you know? An A-plus girl, honor roll and track. My daughter loved to run. She was like wind. Fast. This was her first year on the cross-country team, and she has many ribbons. That’s good for her first year, yes?” She opened the closet door. Nicole was standing behind her now and peered over the mother’s shoulder. Three thick parkas hung from the pole: black, cobalt blue, red with a fur-lined hood. “No,” Mrs. Esparza said. “It’s gone.”
She turned to Nicole, her eyes wet and pleading. “Her coat is gone.”
“What color is it?”
“Purple. Her favorite color. Her gloves and scarf too. Everything purple. The school color, you know?”
Beatrice had been wearing a purple cashmere sweater, Nicole remembered. And purple knee-high socks.
Nicole looked at Joaquin. “Did you and Beatrice attend the same school?”
“No.”
“Beatrice attended private school,” the father said.
“Joaquin did too,” Mrs. Esparza offered. “But—”
“It was not a good fit,” Dr. Esparza finished.
Nicole ignored the parents in favor of Joaquin and his angst, which promised a better chance at truth.
“Public school?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily? Or were you asked to leave?”
“Why does this matter?” Dr. Esparza cut in.
“Joaquin?” Nicole pressed.
“I was kicked out.” For a moment he looked apologetic as he glanced at his parents. “It wasn’t their fault.”
“Why?”
Dr. Esparza stepped forward, blocking Nicole’s view of his slouching son. “My son is not in question here.”
“Everyone is in question,” Nicole corrected him. “Your daughter is dead, sir, and we have a lot of questions about that. You should too.” She stepped closer. “In fact, it’s a little concerning that you don’t.”
She stepped around the doctor and caught Joaquin’s gaze. “Why?” she asked again.
“It wasn’t one thing,” he began.
“It never is,” she agreed.
“My father’s right. Private school wasn’t a good fit for me. Most of the kids there are—”
He stumbled for the right words, so Nicole began a list of adjectives for him, “White, privileged—although this would describe you too—narrow-minded …”
“White,” Joaquin agreed. “And spoiled.”
“So this made you a loner?”
Joaquin nodded. “I stopped following their rules. Got in a few fights.”
“My son was caught with marijuana,” the mother revealed.
Joaquin shrugged. “I was experimenting.”
“Did Beatrice experiment too?”
But Joaquin was shaking his head. “Never. She was all about being healthy. Training. Winning. She’s been running a long time. If middle school had a track team, she would have been on it.”
“She’d have been their star,” Dr. Esparza said, but Nicole ignored him in pursuit of Joaquin.
“And she never tried marijuana or any other drugs?”
“I’m telling you, she was always blending up vegetable and fruit smoothies, preaching about runner’s high, and writing every little thing down in her diary.”
Nicole turned to the mother. “Beatrice kept a diary?”
“Yes. But it was only for sport. Not about her feelings but about how well she did each day.”
“I’d like to borrow it,” Nicole said.
The mother’s eyes flared, and she sought her husband.
“You want to know how fast she ran the mile?” he challenged. “Or how many days a week she did sprints?”
“I want to know everything there is to know about your daughter,” Nicole confirmed. “The better I know her, the easier it will be to find justice.”
“Justice?” His tone was full of doubt, shredded by grief.
“Yes.” Nicole felt her face stiffen. “I want to find the person who murdered your daughter, Dr. Esparza. Don’t you?”
He held her gaze, and soon his features began to relax. The corners of his eyes and mouth softened. He nodded. “We would like that too.”
He looked over her shoulder to Joaquin. “See if you can find it.”
Joaquin left his position at the door and walked through the living room to a cozy set of chairs and side tables. Nicole could see a stack of magazines and a guidebook. Joaquin disturbed the pile, surfacing with a slim volume, the leather cover cracked.
“It’s all numbers and notes,” he told her as he handed the journal to Nicole. “Notes about her performance,” he clarified. “Nothing personal.”
Nicole accepted the diary and thought about Joaquin’s words. Nothing personal … She doubted that.
She turned to leave, still thinking about them. Murder was always personal. The family was hiding something. It was the natural inclination of the human spirit. But in this case, there was more. She felt it in their hesitations, in the anger emanating from Joaquin; in the faltering strength of the mother and in the doctor’s resolve.
She felt footsteps following her and was soon stopped by the doctor’s words.
“Sheriff?” He waited for her to turn, until he had her full attention. “We do have questions. And heartache. And fear. We have emotions we are only beginning to get to know. We are devastated.”
The doctor’s voice was raspy, his words tumbled and slurred into one another. Loss sometimes took hold of a person slowly. It was an insistent, stubborn pressure. It throbbed in the temples, clipped the lungs, escaped in words meant to cut. Sometimes it was immediate. Nicole had had surviving family collapse at her feet. Most times people fell in between, surfacing long enough to gasp and breathe a word of denial. Nicole acknowledged the signs in all three Esparzas and nodded.
“You said murdered, but you didn’t say how,” the doctor began, then paused to clear emotion from his throat. “Sheriff?”