The Body Reader by Anne Frasier Page A

vintage shop. He modernized it.”
    “I think it’s better if I start fresh. New person, new clothes.”
    He wanted to say that starting over wasn’t always the answer, or starting over was hard, or starting over didn’t really fix anything, or starting over was just a delusion, but he kept his mouth shut.
    “You okay?” Jude asked.
    Reading him. The suicide stuff had thrown him, and it was obvious she could tell something was off. He didn’t know if he should lie when she’d know he was lying, or tell the truth—which was just too personal. And anyway, she’d find out about him soon enough.
    “I’m not okay,” he said, settling on the truth. “But I can’t discuss it.”
    What he didn’t say was that he couldn’t talk about it because of what she’d been through. He deserved none of her sympathy. None. He knew that, but damn.
    Now she was frowning, watching him, picking up on something in his face. “Did I say something? Do something?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “I’m sensing you’re holding back.”
    “Just because we’re partners doesn’t mean we have to share everything.” Harsh. As soon as the words were spoken, he regretted them.
    The victim was from the Tangletown area of Minneapolis. Upper-middle class, nice lawns, most of the houses Tudor-style or what Ellen had called witch houses. The brass frog knocker made a dull thud when it hit the burgundy door. Genevieve Masters, Delilah’s mother, answered. Her hair wasn’t the color of dandelions but had instead been lightened and expensively processed, her roots a darker blond.
    Uriah pulled out his badge and made introductions while Jude offered condolences. He was surprised by her genuine effort to reach out to the woman. And she didn’t stop there. “Mind if we come in?” Jude asked.
    They got a death stare until the request finally sank in and the woman took a step back, opening the door wider. “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Masters said. “Delilah committed suicide. Why would homicide detectives be here?”
    A young boy appeared from around the corner. “Aren’t we leaving?” he asked, skateboard under his arm, hair on the long side.
    “In a little bit, honey,” his mother said. “The police just want to talk to me.”
    “They already did.”
    “It’s okay. Go on outside. We’ll leave in a few minutes.”
    Once he was gone, she turned to them and said, “He’s not taking this very well. I thought going to a friend’s might be a good idea.” Her voice faded as she questioned her decision. “Get him out of the house.”
    “That’s okay,” Uriah said.
    The woman wandered to the couch and sat down. Uriah and Jude followed, taking a seat in the two overstuffed chairs. Between them was an oval table.
    Mrs. Masters seemed to pull up a memory of what a hostess should do and say. “Would you like something to drink?” When Jude and Uriah shook their heads, her shoulders sagged in relief.
    “First of all,” Jude said, “we’re terribly sorry for your loss.” She glanced at Uriah, and he gave her a slow blink. Better for her to break the news, and she’d done a good job so far. He had the feeling Mrs. Masters would be more receptive hearing it from a woman.
    “You asked why we’re here.” Jude leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes locked with the mother who’d just lost a child. “We have reason to believe your daughter’s death wasn’t suicide.”
    A sluggish move toward understanding as Genevieve Masters’s thoughts sifted through everything she’d dealt with in the past twenty-four hours and struggled to make sense of this new information. “I don’t understand. Yesterday I was told it was a suicide.”
    “We just came from the autopsy,” Jude said. “And preliminary evidence indicates she might not have died by her own hand.”
    The air left the room. Mrs. Masters clutched her throat and stared at Jude in horror.
    It was weird how suicide had most likely seemed unbearable just moments ago. Now the