“I’m afraid it was all awfully polite.” In retrospect, maybe too polite. I probably should have pressed Price more about how the university handled student complaints, about sexual assaults especially. “And what do you mean, ‘impression’?”
“He found you ‘absolutely charming.’ Those were his exact words—who even talks like that? Anyway, I think he might have a crush on you.”
I felt a rush of juvenile delight. This was what happened when you spent months locked away from the world: you regressed. Briefly, I imagined a scene in which Justin and Thomas Price fought for my affections. I’d end up with Justin, of course. But that was hardly the point.
“Oh, please,” I said. “He was just being polite because I’m married to you.”
“A crush, I’m telling you.” Justin smiled, then took another huge swallow, finishing his drink. “If only we could get Thomas Price’s crush on you to somehow turn into the university president’s crush on me.”
“Thanks for the note, by the way,” I said, laying my face in the warm crook of his neck. “It really— I needed it.”
“I never should have stopped giving them to you.” His voice was serious. “Never.”
“Yeah, well, I think we both have plenty of things we wish we’d done differently.”
Justin set the empty glass on the counter, then put his hands on my face, running a thumb over my cheekbone. “I’m so glad you’re back, Molly Sanderson,” he said, smiling at me in that way of his that always made me feel like some miraculous, unearthed treasure. “Promise me I’ll never lose you again. No matter what.”
“I promise,” I said, staring straight back at him.
He was still worried about my ability to handle the story. But he was wrong. It would be good for me, even if I wasn’t sure how.
Justin leaned forward, sliding his fingers to the back of my neck and pulling me to him. He kissed me hard, the way he had before he was afraid I might shatter. And I let myself get lost in it, in a way I hadn’t for a long time. Suddenly, I needed us to disappear into each other. I needed everything else to fall away—the past, the future. All my mistakes and shortcomings. All the ways I had failed Justin and Ella and myself. The ways I had failed her, my baby who never was. I needed to know that we had done better than survive. I needed to believe that we were reborn.
Justin kicked the kitchen door closed as he peeled off my shirt and I tugged at his jacket. A second later, my pants were off and I was naked up against the kitchen counter, unbuttoning Justin’s pants as he slipped his fingers under the edge of my bra. I pressed my open mouth against his neck to keep my sounds from waking Ella. As Justin pushed inside of me, I watched us move together in the reflection of the kitchen window.
We lay on the floor afterward, Justin’s crumpled suit between us and the cold tile floor, giggling and panting, our bodies threaded together like our much younger selves. My head was resting on Justin’s damp, naked chest.
“Do you remember the first time you spent the night?” Justin asked, his voice vibrating against my ear.
“How could I forget?” I adjusted my cheek until I found a softer nook under his collarbone. “It’s not every day you get the pleasure of sleeping with your head jammed up against a refrigerator.”
“It was a small apartment, wasn’t it? I remember waking up in the middle of the night, and there you were, pulling on your clothes.”
“It was six a.m., not the middle of the night, and I wanted to slip out before you fed me any lines,” I said. “I liked you. I wanted to keep it that way.”
“But my irresistible charm convinced you to stay.”
“Pancakes early on Saturdays, that was supposedly your thing. Except you had no idea what was open at that hour.”
“Yes, and you pointed out that I’d been lying, while eating the delicious pancakes I did eventually find for us.”
“Did I?” I laughed. “I was a hard-ass. Leslie was right. I’m surprised you wanted to see me again.”
“Come on, Molly, you know I’ve always loved that you’re straight-shooting.”
“Lucky for you I’ve mellowed with age.”
“You’re going to make an amazing reporter, too, I have no doubt.” Justin took a deep breath, which rocked my head up and down. “Just not on this story, okay? I want you to ask Erik to reassign it, Molly. Do it for me.”
I lifted my head to look at him, but he was staring at the ceiling. It was such a bomb, I was assuming I must have misheard him. “What did you say?”
“I’m too worried about what this will—how much this is going to dredge up for you,” he said, meeting my eyes. “Things have been so good lately, Molly. I don’t want to lose what we have back.”
This was my fault. I never should have gotten so emotional at the Black Cat. I’d probably seemed like I was about to go right off a cliff again. I felt so much steadier now. The story was just that: a story. One that meant something to me, yes. But it wasn’t about me.
“I was caught off guard at first that it was a baby. It’s true,” I said. “But I’m okay now. The story actually feels like it will bring—”
“Closure,” he said, finishing my sentence. “Yeah, I know. That’s what you said before. And that’s exactly what’s worrying me.”
“That’s not what I said before.” I hadn’t, had I?
“No, you’re right,” he said, his eyes sad as he stared at me. “You said it was ‘connected’ to what happened to us.”
He was right, that I had said. All I could do was stare at him. I didn’t have any defense.
“We’ve gone over this all before, Molly—there’s never going to be closure. Not for what we lost. And you’re just going to have to learn to live with that. We both will. Give the story back to Richard, Molly. He’s the news reporter, not you.”
“I’m not giving the story to anyone, Justin,” I said, feeling an unexpected flash of anger. I didn’t care if Justin was well intentioned. What he was doing and the way he was doing it were wrong. He was my husband. I needed him to support me. “I have to do this. I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but if I can find out what happened to this baby, maybe I can make sense of . . .”
How had I started down that path again? I did sound delusional. Every road kept leading back to me and my baby. Justin let my unfinished sentence hang there, proof of his point.
“I understand you want to do this story, and I even understand why,” he said finally. “But what if you’re wrong about being okay? What if you’re not the best judge of how you’re feeling?”
“That’s insulting.” I jerked my shirt on, then pushed myself off the floor. “You’re talking about me like I’m—like I have some sort of permanent affliction. I was depressed, Justin. And for good reason, I might add. I’m not anymore. End of story.”
“I’m asking you not to do this one story, Molly,” Justin said, angry now, too, as he tugged on his own shirt. “Haven’t I earned the right to ask for that much?”
“Earned the right because you took care of me?” My chest felt raw as I moved away from the spot where we’d been lying. “Are you seriously going to use that as a bargaining chip? You think that’s fair?”
Justin pressed his lips together as he stood. “You know what’s really not fair, Molly?” His voice was calm and deliberate. He knew better than to forfeit his credibility by losing his patience. “You trying to turn my caring about you into me being an asshole.”
“Well, I’m sorry if our dead baby didn’t roll right off my back the way it did yours.” My voice was too shrill and too loud. But I wanted to hurt him. “That actually doesn’t make you a better person, you know. It just makes you lucky.”
Justin stared at the floor, frowning, shaking his head. “I’ll see you upstairs,” he said. He didn’t look at me again as he stepped toward the door. “But first I’ll put Ella to bed.”
After he was gone, I stood there alone in the kitchen in my T-shirt and underwear, furious and filled with regret. Wanting to apolo
gize and go after him and fight some more. I was saved from having to choose when my phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize. I hoped it wasn’t Deckler again.
“Hello?” I barked.
“This is Chief of Police Steve Carlson, Ms. Sanderson. Sorry to disturb you so late.”
“That’s okay.” I tried to soften my voice. “What is it?”
“You were at the hospital this afternoon?”
Ugh. I did not like where this was starting, much less where I knew it was headed. “Um, yeah, my friend’s cleaning woman was in a car accident. She wanted moral support.” Why had I said it that way? That made Stella sound involved. “Or company, that’s a better way of putting it. My friend can be a little dramatic, even in situations that don’t involve her.”
Oh, great. Dramatic? What was wrong with me? Just because it was true didn’t mean it was something I should be saying to the police. And not saying Stella’s name didn’t make it any better, no matter what I was trying to tell myself.
“What time did you leave the hospital?”
“Probably around one p.m.,” I said. “I went to the university for an interview.”
“Okay. Could you please call me if you hear from Stella?”
No, I will not. That was what I wanted to say. And why should I go around reporting on the whereabouts of a friend? But refusing seemed awfully confrontational under the circumstances.
“Sure,” I said hesitantly. “Can you tell me why?”
“Rose Gowan is gone,” Steve said. “And so, it seems, is your friend Stella.”
I dreamed of babies. Dead ones. One of them was mine. But I didn’t know which, in a roomful of little caskets. I startled awake, bolting upright in the darkness. I could see the outline of Justin, sleeping on his side next to me. I put a hand on him to check that he was breathing, then curled up tight behind him, pretending we hadn’t argued earlier. It seemed such a silly waste now. And with those kinds of dreams, it was hard to maintain that the story wasn’t having an effect on me.
When I awoke again, it was almost seven a.m., and Justin was already gone. He’d left a note: Conference at Columbia; back late. There was another one of his little notes, too. I felt a pang of guilt about our fight the night before.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers—That perches in the soul—Emily Dickinson
I rolled over and picked up my cell phone off my nightstand and sent Justin a text: I know you’re just trying to help. Sorry about last night. xo.
I didn’t expect him to answer, but he did. Right away. I’m sorry, too. And I do believe in you, Molly. More than you’ll ever know. xo.
I felt relieved as I headed downstairs. Glad that Justin and I were no longer technically in a fight. Glad also that there’d been no overnight text from Stella, angry that I’d talked to Steve. Ella had even slept later than usual, leaving me time for a quiet cup of coffee before we got swept into the morning routine.
But as soon as I stepped into the living room, I was unnerved by something out of place. There was a small cardboard file box sitting a few feet inside our front door. Some kind of gift from Justin? Except the closer I got, the more it seemed an odd box for a present. Also, Molly Sanderson was written in large black letters across the top, and it didn’t look like Justin’s handwriting.
I pulled my phone out of my sweatshirt pocket and sent Justin another text, hoping to catch him before he lost a signal when the train went into Penn Station. Is the box a peace offering?
What box?
Come on. The box by the front door?
I’m all 4 peace offerings. But I don’t know anything about a box.
I took the stairs two at a time. Someone had been in our house. Someone could still be in our house. Maybe Ella wasn’t asleep. Maybe something had been done to her. I threw open her bedroom door so hard that it banged against the wall.
Ella jerked up from a dead sleep. “Mommy!” she shouted, bursting into terrified tears.
But she was okay. She was fine. That was the most important thing. I sucked in a mouthful of air—okay, Ella was fine. Now I had to pull myself together and get the two of us out of the house, just in case whoever had been in the house was still there.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said, trying to stay calm as I pulled Ella out of bed and into my arms. I sounded out of breath. I probably looked scared to death, too. Luckily, Ella was still half asleep. “I thought we could go out for pancakes. You know, a special treat.”
“But I’m tired,” Ella whined, rubbing her eyes as she wrapped her legs around my waist. “I don’t want breakfast. I want to go back to sleep.”
“I know, Peanut, I know.” I rubbed her back as I headed down the steps.
I paused only long enough to grab my car keys and purse. Not long enough to notice it was pouring outside, much less to grab an umbrella. I rushed down the front walkway toward the car, with Ella in her Hello Kitty pajamas, trying to shield her from the deluge, relieved to see that I was at least in yoga pants and a sweatshirt and not naked.
Getting soaked, I buckled Ella into the car seat smoothly and slowly, smiling the whole time as though that might convince her she’d imagined all of our racing around. Once I’d climbed in the driver’s seat and locked the doors tight, I wiped the rain off my face, grinning at her in the rearview. But she just turned her sleepy, grumpy face to the side as I backed slowly out of the driveway. It wasn’t until I’d driven three streets away that it felt safe to pull over. I turned off the wipers, and the drumming rain quickly blurred out the windshield.
When I looked up at Ella in the rearview again, she was clutching her blanket and sucking her thumb, sound asleep.
“Steve Carlson,” he answered on the first ring. He sounded like I’d woken him. In bed with Barbara, surely. And yet it was so hard to picture.
“This is Molly Sanderson. I’m sorry to bother you so early,” I began. “But I—I had your number in my phone from last night. And I wasn’t sure who else to call. I think someone was in my house.”
“Are you inside your house now?” he asked, serious, official, cop-like.
My heart picked up speed again. I’d been so prepared to be dismissed out of hand. “No, I’m in my car a few blocks away with my daughter. Someone left a box in my living room while we were asleep. I’m sure I’m overreacting, but—”
“Stay where you are for now,” Steve said. “Give me your address and I’ll check it out.”
By the time Steve had called me to return home, it was barely misting.
He was leaning against an unmarked car—maybe just his car—when I arrived, looking much younger in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I parked behind him, quietly unbuckling my seat belt and leaving the car running as I got out, hoping Ella would stay asleep.
“Morning,” he said, nodding at me, then flicking his eyes disapprovingly in the direction of my humming car.
“I was hoping Ella would stay asleep in there,” I explained.
Steve nodded, but his brow stayed furrowed. “Well, there’s no one in your house.”
“That’s a relief,” I said. “I was home with Ella alone; my husband left early. And when I woke up, there was this strange box sitting inside our living room. I guess I kind of panicked.”
“Did your husband leave the door unlocked when he left?”
“Maybe,” I said. Because entering without breaking in wasn’t a big a deal? Except someone had still invited him- or herself into my home and left God knows what. A baby, my crazy brain jumped there. A dead baby in a box. I was lucky Justin couldn’t read my mind. “We lock the door at night. And when we go out. But when we’re home during the day . . .”
No one in the suburbs ever locks their door, I wanted to say. That’s the whole point of living here.
“In the future, I’d keep it locked, always. Ridgedale isn’t a big city, but reasonable precautions make sense anywhere.” He nodded toward my car. “I also wouldn’t leave a sleeping child unattended in a running car.”
&
nbsp; “Right, of course,” I said, fully mortified. “Did you, um, check what was inside the box?”
“Just enough to see that it’s some kind of papers.” He held up his hands. “Didn’t read what’s on them. Don’t want to be accused of interfering with the press. My guess is someone put them inside to keep them out of the rain.”
We didn’t have any overhang, and it had been pouring. The box would have gotten soaked. And so the person just went ahead and opened our door? Steve was presenting it like a normal thing to do. But it wasn’t normal. Not even in Ridgedale.
“What happens now?”
“That’s up to you. Happy to open an investigation. But you should know we’ll need to keep the box, mark it as evidence.”
“That hadn’t occurred to me.”
“That’s why I mention it. I’m not trying to discourage you from pursuing this. That’s entirely up to you. But this kind of thing happens. Years ago, during some mayoral campaign, somebody put a dead rat in Jim McManus’s mailbox—he was the Reader’s editor in chief at the time.” Steve shook his head. “Man, was his wife bent out of shape. Anyway, my guess is this has something to do with your articles. Isn’t that what you people want? A reaction?”
Steve was aggravated about something I’d written. That was obvious. “‘You people’?”
“Meaning your editors.” He rubbed his forehead. He still looked aggravated. But also like he didn’t want to be. “Nothing personal, but they must like that you’re willing to stir the pot. That’s all I meant. It must sell papers or get you clicks or whatever it is you all want these days.”
But my articles had been far from controversial.
“Is there something specific I’ve written that you’re taking issue with?”
“Just pointing out the facts. And the fact is, you’ve riled people up. This ‘find him, he’s out there, another Ridgedale murder’ nonsense. People are going crazy in the comments to your articles.”
I felt a queasy twist in my stomach. I didn’t even want to know those comments existed. Between that and the files and the pressure from Justin, I might beat a hasty retreat from journalism after all.
Where They Found Her: A Novel Page 14
