Free Reckoning: A Fallen Siren Novel by S.J. Harper Page B

follow Zack inside, the heavy perfume of incensehitting us with the force of a blow. I actually see Zack’s nose twitch in protest.
    Mrs. Roberts is standing to the right of the door, Mr. Roberts beside her. They are both tall, thin, solemn faced. Mrs. Roberts’ light brown hair is pulled straight back into a classic French twist. She’s dressed in a modest, navy blue A-line skirt that’s topped with a matching sweater set. Against the dark backdrop a small gold cross shines on a delicate chain. It’s the only jewelry she’s wearing other than her wedding band. Low-heeled black leather pumps ensure that she’s no taller than her five-foot-sixish husband, who is dwarfed by Zack. Mr. Roberts’ hair is close-cropped, graying at the temples. He’s wearing khaki slacks that have been starched and pressed with precision, immaculate polo shirt, brown loafers. On the wall to his right is a large crucifix.
    Mr. Roberts leads us down the hall. “Abigail, get the agents coffee, will you?”
    Zack holds up a hand. “No. Thank you. Please don’t go to the trouble. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
    Mrs. Roberts extends her arm, motioning us to go first. Despite the early hour, and the bright morning sun, the living room is dark when we enter. Drapes closed, shades drawn, lights out. My eyes focus on a framed portrait of Sylvia on a nearby table. A half dozen prayer candles surround it. One has gone out.
    Mr. Roberts nods toward it as he opens the curtains. “Abigail, will you relight that one, please?”
    While she busies herself pouring off the wax and trimming the wick, I notice two cushions on the floor. Twosets of rosary beads, one on the table, and the other on a nearby chair. On the wall above the miniature shrine, a print of the Sacred Heart of Jesus in a rather ornate frame looks down at us.
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “It looks as if we’ve interrupted your prayers.”
    Mr. Roberts takes a seat on the sofa. “We’ve been taking turns saying the Rosary.”
    Zack and I take our places on chairs beside each other.
    As soon as the candle is relit, Mrs. Roberts joins her husband on the couch. Their expressions are drawn, dark circles smudge their eyes. Where Mrs. Clemens was desperate and frazzled, plagued by the relentless need to do something, this couple is eerily quiet.
    Zack begins with words of concern for what the couple is going through and explains that we will likely be asking some of the very same questions the police asked earlier.
    Mr. Roberts bows his head in acknowledgment.
    I repeat the litany of questions we asked Julie’s parents and Hannah’s mother for the third time.
    Mr. Roberts takes the lead, answering by rote, mostly in monosyllables.
    Did Sylvia know Julie or Rain? No.
    Did she know Hannah? Yes.
    How did she know Hannah? Cheerleading.
    Was she having trouble in school? No.
    Was she having trouble at home? No.
    Did she have a boyfriend? No.
    When did they last see Sylvia? The morning shedisappeared. She left on foot like she does every Saturday morning to attend catechism. She never returned.
    Mrs. Roberts sits still and quiet, her face betraying nothing as she listens to her husband.
    That changes, however, when we bring up the subject of the checking account.
    Like he did with Mrs. Clemons, Zack produces a spreadsheet of their daughter’s account and places it on the table in front of them.
    “What is this?” Mr. Roberts asks, taking a pair of readers from his shirt pocket.
    “It’s a copy of the bank activity for an account in your daughter’s name.”
    “Not possible.” Mr. Roberts’ reply is automatic, even as his eyes continue to scan the sheet. He reaches the account balance and blinks up at us. “Twenty-two hundred dollars?”
    Mrs. Roberts’ shoulders jump. “How much?”
    Zack turns the sheet so she can see it, too. “The deposits started in mid-June.”
    Mr. Roberts shakes his head emphatically. “That just can’t be.”
    “She might have earned