Free Pretty Girls by Karin Slaughter

for anything. “Listen, I know how you feel about the police, but you need to cool it.”
    “Huckleberries,” Helen muttered, her word for incompetent policemen. “You know, it’s occurred to me that I’m just about the only person in our family who hasn’t gone to prison.”
    “Jail, Mother. Prison is for after you’re convicted.”
    “Thank God I didn’t use the wrong word with my book club.”
    “Mrs. Scott?” One of the trench-coated men walked over with his badge in his hand. He reeked of cigar smoke because it wasn’t enough of a cliché to wear a trench coat. “I’m Captain Mayhew, Dunwoody Police Department.”
    “Captain?” Claire asked. The man she’d talked to after Paul’s murder was only a detective. Was a burglary more important than a murder, or were murders so common in the city of Atlanta that they relegated them to detectives?
    “I’m real sorry for your loss.” Mayhew dropped the badge into his coat pocket. His mustache was bushy and untrimmed. Hairs climbed down from his nostrils. “The Congressman asked me to handle this personally.”
    Claire knew who the Congressman was. Johnny Jackson had been Paul’s benefactor almost from the start, awarding him government contracts that should’ve gone to more experienced architects. The man’s early investment had been rewarded over the years. Every time Quinn + Scott was given a new government job, Paul’s personal Amex bill was riddled with charges for chartered planes he never flew in and five-star hotels where he never stayed.
    She took a deep breath and asked, “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m feeling a bit discombobulated. Can you please start from the beginning and tell me what happened?”
    “Yeah, I can imagine with the funeral and all, this is the last thing you want to be dealing with right now. Like I said, my condolences.” Mayhew took his own deep breath, his far more raspy. “We’ve got a nutshell, but we’re still filling in some blanks. You’re not the first person in the county to have this kind of thing happen. We suspect it’s a gang of young males who read the obituaries, find out when the funerals are, then Google Earth the house and figure out whether it’s worth robbing.”
    “Good Lord,” Helen said, “that really is beyond the pale.”
    Mayhew seemed just as outraged. “We think the burglars only had a minute or so before the catering van pulled up. They saw the broken glass from the side door.” He pointed to the glass, which was still scattered on the bluestone steps. “The bartender went inside—probably not the best idea. He took a beating, but he managed to stop the gang from cleaning you out.”
    Claire looked up at the house again. Paul had been drawing variations of the plans since architectural school. The only thing that changed was the amount of money they could spend. Neither one of them had grown up rich. Claire’s father had been a college professor. Paul’s parents had owned a farm. He loved having money because it made him feel secure. Claire loved having it because once you paid for something, no one could ever take it away from you.
    Had she not paid enough for Paul? Had she not worked enough, loved enough, been enough? Is that why she had lost him?
    “Mrs. Scott?”
    “I’m sorry.” Claire didn’t know why she kept apologizing. Paul would’ve cared more about this. He would’ve been outraged by the violation. Their window broken! Burglars rifling their belongings! One of their employees attacked! Claire would’ve been right beside him, just as outraged, but without Paul, she could barely force herself to go through the motions.
    Helen asked, “Can you tell us if the bartender is okay? Tim, was it?”
    “Yeah, Tim.” Mayhew nodded and shrugged at the same time. “Most of the wounds are superficial. They took him to the hospital to stitch him up.”
    Claire felt some of the horror penetrate. Tim had been bartending for them for years. He had a son with autism and an