It wasn't standard procedure; but then, I reasoned, she wasn't a suspect, or even necessarily a witness. "Sure," I said, "just give me a second," and ran upstairs for the coffee. I'd forgotten to ask her how she took it, so I added a little milk and put two sachets of sugar in my pocket, in case.
"Here you go," I said to Rosalind, downstairs. "Shall we find somewhere in the garden?"
She took a sip of coffee and tried to hide a quick little moue of distaste. "I know, it's foul," I said.
"No, no, that's fine-it's just that…well, I don't take milk, usually, but-"
"Oops," I said. "Sorry about that. Want me to get you another one?"
"Oh, no! It's all right, Detective Ryan, honestly-I didn't really need coffee. You have this one. I don't want to put you to any trouble; it's wonderful of you to see me, you mustn't go out of your way…" She was talking too fast, too high and chatty, hands flying, and she held my eyes for too long without blinking, as if she had been hypnotized. She was badly nervous, and trying hard to cover up.
"It's no problem at all," I said gently. "I'll tell you what: let's find somewhere nice to sit, and then I'll get you another cup of coffee. It'll still be foul, but at least it'll be black. How does that sound?" Rosalind smiled up at me gratefully, and for a moment I had a startled sense that this small act of consideration had moved her almost to tears.
We found a bench in the gardens, in the sun; birds were twittering and rustling in the hedges, darting out to wrestle with discarded sandwich crusts. I left Rosalind there and went back up for the coffee. I took my time, to give her a chance to settle down, but when I got back she was still sitting on the edge of the bench, biting her lip and picking the petals off a daisy.
"Thank you," she said, taking the coffee and trying to smile. I sat down beside her. "Detective Ryan, have you…have you found out who killed my sister?"
"Not yet," I said. "But it's early days. I promise you, we're doing absolutely everything we can."
"I know you'll catch him, Detective Ryan. I knew the minute I saw you. I can tell an awful lot about people from first impressions-sometimes it actually scares me, how often I'm right-and I knew right away that you were the person we needed."
She was looking up at me with pure, unblemished faith in her eyes. I was flattered, of course I was, but at the same time, this level of trust made me very uncomfortable. She was so sure, and so desperately vulnerable; and, although you try not to think this way, I knew there was a chance this case would never be solved, and I knew exactly what that would do to her.
"I had a dream about you," Rosalind said, then glanced down, embarrassed. "The night after Katy's funeral. I hadn't slept more than an hour a night since she vanished, you know. I was-oh, I was frantic. But seeing you that day…it reminded me not to give up. That night I dreamed you knocked on our door and told me you'd caught the man who did this. You had him in the police car behind you, and you said he'd never hurt anyone again."
"Rosalind," I said. I couldn't take this. "We're doing our best, and we won't give up. But you have to prepare yourself for the possibility that it might take a very long time."
She shook her head. "You'll find him," she said simply.
I let it go. "You said there was something you wanted to ask me?"
"Yes." She took a deep breath. "What happened to my sister, Detective Ryan? Exactly?"
Her eyes were wide and intent, and I wasn't sure how to handle this: if I told her, would she break down, collapse, scream? The gardens were full of chattery office workers on their lunch break. "I should really let your parents tell you about it," I said.
"I'm eighteen, you know. You don't need their permission to talk to me."
"Still."
Rosalind bit her bottom lip. "I asked them. He…they…they told me to shut up."
Something zipped through me-anger, alarm bells, compassion, I'm not sure. "Rosalind," I said, very gently, "is everything all right at home?"
Her head flew up, mouth open in a little O. "Yes," she said, in a small, uncertain voice. "Of course."
"Are you sure?"
"You're very kind," she said shakily. "You're so good to me. It's…everything's fine."
"Would you be more comfortable talking to my partner?"
"No," she said sharply, with what sounded like disapproval in her voice. "I wanted to talk to you because…" She turned the cup in circles in her lap. "I felt like you cared, Detective Ryan. About Katy. Your partner didn't really seem to care, but you-you're different."
"Of course we both care," I said. I wanted to put a reassuring arm around her, or a hand on hers, or something, but I've never been good at that stuff.
"Oh, I know, I know. But your partner…" She gave me a self-deprecating little smile. "I guess I'm a bit scared of her. She's so aggressive."
