by Britney King
Instead, what we have is a terrible situation. There are only two things missing, as far as I can tell: Our family photo that hung over the mantle, and the gun I purchased for protection.
I can’t bring myself to tell Greg. The rest of it is bad enough. I didn’t want to bring it up in front of the police, knowing that my husband would have been blindsided. I need him focused, not picking a fight. I can always report it missing later. That, and I was too distraught about what was left behind to think about what was missing. Under our Christmas tree, a single wrapped gift that neither Greg nor I were responsible for. Inside the wrapping paper? Rocky’s collar.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Greg avoids my gaze, which is how I know he is angry. I’m not offended. The feeling is mutual. Having to share a double bed with two children, while my husband stretches out in the other all alone, is not winning him any brownie points. Not only am I bitter, my nerves are raw. I haven’t slept well in weeks. I don’t feel safe in my own home, and I don’t feel safe in this hotel. I don’t feel safe anywhere. I’m steadily on the brink of losing my mind, and it wouldn’t take much to push me over the edge. Neither one of us knows where to go from here.
An impromptu staycation is not something we can afford right now, monetarily nor mentally.
The police obtained camera footage from two of our neighbors, which so far has turned up nothing. This means that Mooney had to have entered through the woods our house backs up to. To accomplish that, he would have had to scale the rock wall that lines our backyard and spans all of the backyards on our street. It seems like a feat, if all he wanted to do was to leave Rocky’s collar. It also means he would have had to have done the same when he took Rocky. Something that would have been difficult, if not impossible.
Fanning myself, it’s hot being sandwiched between two children, I realize I need to look at this differently. I need to come at it from another direction. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see that things don’t add up.
“Can you please turn on the air?” I hiss. It’s the third time I’ve asked. Greg swears the AC smells like cigarette smoke, even though the lobby attendant has assured him this is a non-smoking room. “Or crack a window?”
“Am I allowed to do that? Are you sure it won’t let the boogeymen in?”
“I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Fine.” He flings himself out of bed and flips on the air conditioner. “It’s forty degrees outside.”
“It feels like hell in here.” Smells like it, too. Greg was right. The AC is putting out a distinctively smoky smell. Unfortunately, I’m too prideful to admit it, so the musky aroma fills the room. When Naomi complains, I snap at her. Then I curl my body around hers, inhaling the scent of shampoo from her still wet hair. “I’m sorry, baby.” The soft haze of sleep overtaking her, she folds into me and pats the arm I have wrapped around her.
I think about what Alex had said about changing a situation, by buying time and shifting the balance of power.
I am learning this is easier said than done. For one, my focus is nearly nonexistent. All I can think about is Mooney rummaging around in our home. Imagining him touching my things, and my daughters’ things…it creeps me out. Not to mention the gun and what a mess it is going to be to have to explain. If Greg is angry now, just wait. He will say this is why he was vehemently against it in the first place, lest it ends up in the hands of a criminal.
Later, the room properly smells like a nightclub. When the girls are firmly asleep, I extract myself with such stealth and precision, it is like a bad comedy portraying a cat-and-mouse burglary. I climb into bed with Greg, who pretends to be asleep. I can tell by his breathing that he isn’t. So I lay there for a long while, waiting for him to speak to me, to pick a fight, to initiate sex, whatever. Anything but the silent treatment. Inevitably, when I hear the familiar pattern of inhalation and exhalation, I scooch out of bed, grab the key card and my laptop, and head to the hotel dining area.
The lights are off, but the coffee is on. I pour myself a cup and take a seat. A night attendant cleans the glass on the front windows. I find the screeching comforting.
Opening my computer, I search through the details I’ve dug up on the case, hoping that reminding myself of what Mooney did might bring some clarity about what he might do next.
I scan the court documents and then read each page thoroughly one by one, practically memorizing the words on the screen. By the second pass through, I am numb, and I realize that I am not going to find anything I don’t already know.
It is several days before I hear from Alex. Radio silence makes me nervous, not only because I need to sell him a house, but also because I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and my hair has started coming out in clumps in the shower.
We don’t stay at the Holiday Inn a second night. We get the window fixed and set an appointment to have a security system we can’t afford installed, and that is that.
Another week and the girls will be out for winter break. Greg suggests getting away. He thinks we should visit his parents. I think we should go somewhere less expected. When I told him this, he scrutinized me with a penetrating look. “And just where do you think we can afford to go? The Bahamas? Bermuda?”
I hadn’t had an answer. Of course I hadn’t. But it isn’t like Greg to speak to me with such vitriol. It underlines the toll this is taking on all of us. And it reminds me I need to speak to Alex. If he and Benny can arrange to have Jack Mooney handled while we are out of town, all the better. It seems smart to put some space between us and whatever Benny Dugan is going to set up.
At the exact moment I’m about to give up on Alex, he returns my call. “Sorry,” he croaks, punctuating the apology with a cough. “I picked up the flu, and I’m on a tough case. I’m in court all day, and by evening, I crash. That, and I’ve been waiting on Benny.”
I listen raptly, expecting him to say more, but he doesn’t. “And?”
“He had to go out of town.”
“What do you mean he had to go out of town?” Shaking my head, I tell myself to calm down and stop parroting everything he says.
“Yeah, I don’t know.” He sneezes into the receiver. Once, twice, three times. “That’s the way Benny works. You don’t ask too many questions. It’s better for everybody that way.”
“Not for me. Jack Mooney broke into my house.”
There’s more coughing followed by a long pause. “I see.”
“Why are you still working cases if you’re sick? It’s not like you need the money.” The words fly out before I can shut my mouth and trap them in.
“Easy now.”
“I’m sorry. I’m going out of my mind. I just really need this taken care of.”
All I hear on the other end of the line is the sound of a hacking cough. He sounds terrible, and it makes me feel worse for biting his head off. “I know.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“Nah.” I hear the smile in his voice. He likes that I am concerned. “And to answer your question, I’m working for the same reason your perp is doing what he does…it’s the thrill of the chase.”
“But what are you chasing exactly?”
“Justice.”
My brow knits together. “Justice for who?”
“You see, that’s the thing. Sometimes it doesn’t even matter.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, typing up a contract on a house while monitoring the girls, who are playing in the back yard. The large window that frames our dining area portrays a chilly afternoon. It’s overcast and windy, with a fine mist that appears every now and again.
The rain comes in waves. It’s been on and off for days, and we’re all experiencing a bit of cabin fever. With Christmas fast approaching, I’m busier than ever. The holidays are typically a slow time for real estate, but this year seems to be an anomaly, and one I’m thankful for.
Along with the rain comes ripples of good news. Greg’s busi
ness partner drummed up a small infusion of cash, and now they are in talks about what their next steps might be: whether he will buy Greg out, or whether they might try to make a go of things together. I’m in favor of the former, for obvious reasons. I’d like to have my husband back. This venture is taking its toll on him, which means it’s taking its toll on me. He has folded into himself, sinking to depths I sometimes feel I can’t reach. When times are turbulent, no one in a marriage comes out unscathed.
Nevertheless, I am aware Greg is hoping for the latter option. My husband is not a quitter, and he never walks away from equity.
A heavy breeze blows in, causing the stack of papers I have laid out on the table to fly in all directions. As I dash around the kitchen retrieving them, I come across the slip of paper I’d left for Greg. The reminder to call the exterminator, which he hasn’t done. Now we have a leak in the ceiling, and a bucket on the floor catching water, and I blame both him and the rodents. I set a reminder on my phone to call a roofer.
This morning Dana led our weekly training call. She says when everything looks like it’s going to shit, it’s important to focus on the why of things. Why you started. Why you love the thing you love. Why you keep at it. Surveying my kitchen, with its tile that needs replacing, and its walls that could use a fresh coat of paint, I ask myself this.
Earlier I uploaded photos of a listing that is going on the market soon. I recall how I’d stood in that kitchen snapping photos. Normally I contract with a photographer, but she’s busy with last-minute holiday photos, and I’m almost too broke to pay her anyhow.
I lay the stack of papers on the table, place my phone on top, and pull up the photos of that immaculate and newly remodeled kitchen. It’s a stark contrast to the one I’m standing in, and it makes me wonder what grounds us in the places we land. How can two families living just miles apart have such disparity? Was it the choices we make? How we get our start in life? Pure blind luck?
Once again, I survey the kitchen. Maybe we had bitten off more than we could chew when we invested in this house. Maybe we should have stayed in our tiny apartment and built up more savings. It’s possible the desirable neighborhood blinded us to the fact this house might be a money pit.
Neither of us wanted to leave the city, even if we knew it was time. Greg had a point with his objections, I realize. It is a little far out. I assured him the area, as small as it is, had everything we needed. I sell real estate, so I knew a good thing when I saw it. Sure, the house needed a little work. But the bones were good.
Eventually, the idea grew on my husband. After I submitted a lowball offer, which I never expected the seller to accept, Greg said the work involved would be part of the fun of it. I believe he called it an adventure. This place was something we could grow into. He hadn’t expected the approval on the offer either.
I couldn’t deny the serendipity. I’d found out about the house by accident through another agent before it hit the market. Homes in Sunset Canyon are hard to come by, and she’d called to gloat. She’d nabbed the listing right out from under my nose.
The girls were toddlers then, and I was green. I thought I’d show her. We didn’t need the house, which is probably how we ended up with it. Even though our apartment was tiny, we lived in the heart of downtown, and we were blissfully happy. Greg was close to his office, and there was always something fun to do, something within walking distance. It was a wonderful time, and obviously hindsight is twenty-twenty. It’s evident now where things started to go wrong. Hard as we’ve tried, we haven’t grown into this place. We’ve simply been treading water.
I peek my head out the door and yell at Blair to put her jacket back on. The temperature is dropping, and I ought to make them come in, but the small amount of quiet involved in having them just outside the door is more than I’m ready to give up. After checking the calendar to see what’s on the menu for dinner, I extract the ingredients from the pantry.
“It’s spaghetti night,” I call out, interrupting Blair’s shrill rendition of “Ring Around the Rosie.” I’m holding the jar of marinara, wresting with the lid, when I hear the blood-curdling scream. Next thing I know I am standing in the middle of pasta sauce and broken glass, shards ripping through my socks as I sprint toward my children.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Even though I push the thought away, I am positive she is dead. Underneath the swing set, wide-eyed and quiet, Naomi crouches over her sister’s twisted little body. She lies there motionless. It takes my mind a few seconds to put together what’s happened. “Go call 9-1-1,” I say to Naomi. My voice shakes, but there’s also an eerie calm, as though I’m outside of myself looking in. “My phone is on the table.”
Blair isn’t moving, but she is breathing.
Silently, I pray that she is going to be okay, and that Naomi remembers how to call for help. Instinct tells me to go and get the phone myself, that time is of the essence, but the mother in me will not allow me to leave my baby. It tells me to trust. Greg and I drilled it into the both of them, although you never know until you’re at the moment. I know my daughter. If she cannot figure it out, she will do one of two things. She will bring the phone to me or she will call Greg, possibly both.
Everything happens in slow motion. My mind empties like a fog rolling out. I hear Naomi speaking to someone on the phone. As she relays our address, I thank the heavens I’ve done at least one thing right as a parent. I lean over and stroke Blair’s matted hair. Tears stream down my face as I whisper her name and tell her everything is going to be okay. My feet have bled through my socks. Blood now stains the gravel, but I’m just glad it’s mine. Rain falls in fitful droplets, the gusting wind carrying them in wild vortices one moment and in diagonal sheets the next. It runs down my face in thin layers, soaking my clothes. It takes everything in me not to scoop my daughter up and carry her inside, where it’s dry and warm and safe. I know better than to move her. So I don’t. I just squeeze her hand, and as my body rocks back and forth, I pray the ambulance gets here soon.
When we arrive at the hospital, I watch helplessly as Blair is wheeled from the ambulance through the large double doors. They whisk her away, the gurney disappearing quickly down the hall. We stand there, Naomi and I huddled against the biting wind, before a paramedic returns with a nurse and ushers us to a tiny private room.
In the ambulance, Naomi explained to the paramedic how her sister had fallen, and with a little help from me, we were able to gauge about how high up she had been.
In the small room, Naomi takes a seat in one of four chairs. She pulls her knees up to her chest, but her eyes remain on the floor. Several times she opens her mouth to speak and then closes it.
“I’ve told you guys a thousand times not to be climbing,” I say as I pace from one wall to the other. Three steps one way, three steps back. “Why didn’t you call me? If you were going to be a tattle-tale, this would have been the time to do it.”
Tears spill down her face, falling in large droplets onto her favorite pink sweater. She hadn’t been wearing her jacket either. Guilt sweeps over me. This isn’t her fault. I have to be careful with my words. I shouldn’t have been so preoccupied. I should have paid more attention. Her eyes land on mine. “Is Blair going to die?”
I drop to my knees at her feet and take her hands in mine. “No, of course not,” I say. Although the truth is, I don’t know this for sure. She was unresponsive after the fall. She’d woken up whimpering on the way to the hospital, fluid coming from her nostrils and one ear. Worry was written on the paramedic’s face. This was not a good sign.
The door opens, causing my heart to lurch into my throat. It is horrific, waiting for news. It’s all I can do not to burst out of this room, to run down the halls, searching until I find my child. I need to know that she’s going to be okay, that someday all this will be just a story to tell.
Greg peeks his head around the door. My heart sinks. I’m glad he’s here, and also terrified it’s not the doctor, or anyone with ne
ws. His face is blank and as white as a ghost. “She was climbing,” I say. “And she lost her grip.”
His expression registers what I’m saying. I can see the wheels turning. He’s wondering where in the hell I was and how I could have let this happen. But he won’t say it. He doesn’t have to. “I was making dinner.”
“She didn’t slip,” Naomi says. “The screws were loose. I told her to be careful…we tried to tighten them.”
“Tighten them? With what?”
“A stick.”
Greg looks up from the floor, over at me, and then at our daughter. “Do you mean bolts, Naomi?”
She shrugs. Greg rattles off questions, one after another. Questions neither Naomi nor I can answer. Finally, I hold my hand up. “That’s enough. This isn’t the time or the place for interrogations.”
He starts for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To see what’s going on.”
“They said the doctor would come as soon as he could.”
He huffs. “Well, I’m not just going to sit here.”
“Greg—” I walk over and lean against the door. “Come on,” I whisper. I try to embrace him. He pulls away. “It’s okay. Calm down.”
But my husband doesn’t calm down. He does exactly what I’d been contemplating. He rushes into the hall and demands answers.
