What Remains of Me by Alison Gaylin

biggest—but he had never seen two people more devoted to each other. “ I’ve had only one great love, ” Mom used to say. “ And I wound up marrying him .”
    â€œI’m so sorry, Mom.”
    â€œYou poor boy,” she whispered.
    Shane pulled away. And only then did he notice Flora, the housekeeper. “There, there, Mary,” Flora said. “There, there . . .”
    â€œShane, there’s something you need to see,” said Bellamy. A woman stood next to her—stern faced, in office camouflage: gray pantsuit, beige shirt, graying hair pulled back in beige clips. Shane blinked at her. Is she what I need to see? “This is Detective Braddock,” Bellamy said.
    The woman corrected her. “Brad-dock,” she said, rhyming it with padlock.
    â€œUh, hello?”
    â€œCome into the den, please, Mr. Marshall.”
    Braddock turned, headed toward the den without waiting to see if he was following. Bellamy took the crook of Shane’s arm in both her hands, and led him.
    â€œWhat about Mom?”
    â€œShe’ll be fine out here with Flora,” Bellamy said. “Right, Mom?”
    They exchanged a look that Shane couldn’t begin to understand. “What’s going on?” he said. “What do I need to see? Is it the note?”
    Bellamy sighed heavily.
    â€œIs it Dad’s note?”
    â€œCome on, Shane,” she said, making him feel five again, pulling him along as he turned, taking one last, long look at his crumpled mother.
    â€œI’M GOING TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING,” BRADDOCK SAID, AFTER Shane and Bellamy had sat down on the couch. There was an open laptop on the coffee table. She typed in a few commands and an image appeared on the screen—a figure in a gray hoodie slipping out of a door, getting into a midsize, silver car, then driving into the darkness.
    She switched it off. The whole thing must have lasted at least five seconds.
    â€œWell?” Bellamy said.
    The detective shushed her. “Do you want to see it again?”
    â€œSee what?” Shane said.
    She clicked at the laptop, and again he watched the image—the person, tallish, moving fast, flinging open the car’s door, sliding in . . .
    â€œWhat does that look like to you, Mr. Marshall,” Braddock said.
    â€œUmmm . . . Someone driving?”
    Bellamy exhaled. “Jesus,” she whispered.
    Shane was starting to feel worried and adrift—the way he’d sometimes feel in dreams, when he was stuck in a play without knowing his lines, or at his old high school, taking a test in a language he’d never seen. “I . . . I don’t know what’s going on.”
    â€œWhat type of car does your wife drive, Mr. Marshall?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œWe have her owning a 2009 Toyota Camry, is that correct?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSilver?”
    â€œYeah. So . . .”
    â€œThat car in the video. Does it look at all like hers?”
    â€œI . . . I guess it kind of . . . Wait, what are you asking me here?”
    â€œDoes your wife own any hoodies, Mr. Marshall?”
    He stared at her. “Everybody owns hoodies.”
    â€œI should be more specific, sorry. Does she own any pale gray hoodies, similar to the one worn by the person in the video?”
    Shane swallowed hard. “What is this video?”
    Bellamy started to answer, but the detective put a hand up. “It’s footage from one of the security cameras at this house,” Braddock said. “Taken this morning at two A.M. —your father’s estimated time of death.”
    â€œOh,” he said.
    â€œAll other surveillance was shut down,” Braddock said. “The security guard had left for the night, so the cameras were most likely turned off either by your father, or by this visitor.”
    â€œOh . . .”
    â€œWould you like to take another look at the video? We can plug the laptop into the big screen. Show it