Chapter 49Vincent Falcone knelt on the floor beside the unmade twin bed. The bedroom walls were painted white. The lilac trim and accessories, like the bedspread and curtains, gave them room a child-like accent.
Falcone looked up at his partner. Relief filled him. He might be the parent out of the two of them, but he figured Richards would have a better touch dealing with an eleven and seven-year-old. These girls just lost both of their parents. From what he could tell they had witnessed the murders.
“This is my good friend, Farrah,” Falcone said. He used a calm, soothing tone of voice. He barely spoke above a whisper. The two sisters hugged each other. Neither could stop crying. The sobs had mostly subsided, but the tears flowed. The tears and the sniffling. The paramedics checked them
