by Abbott, Jeff
I stumbled out into the cold.
We drove back toward Saint Petersburg. Danielle decided to be optimistic, chirpy. No doubt she would call the home, apologize for me. Surely they were used to dealing with parents who were stressed and emotional.
Sure they were, and they didn’t have to give them kids.
“Pavel and I have to go today to two other orphanages,” Danielle said. We were flying home the day after tomorrow. We’d given ourselves an extra day in case there was an issue seeing Sasha on our assigned day, so tomorrow would be spent sightseeing or shopping. I could buy supplies for the orphanage and take them back there for Galina. Get back some of the goodwill I squandered.
I didn’t see the SUV come up behind us; I was lost in my thoughts of being a screwup and wondering how I could fix this. Did the two hours I spent with Sasha prove to them my worthiness, despite my silliness with Galina?
I was sitting in the middle, next to Danielle, who was behind Feliks, and next to Kyle, who was behind Pavel, and I heard Feliks muttering, and his tone rose in alarm. And then Danielle turned and glanced out the window and said, “Hey…” and then the black SUV rammed into the side of our car. We were on a highway, at speed. Feliks hollered and fought for control. Pavel yelled in Russian. The force of the sideswipe launched me against Kyle.
The SUV—it had tinted windows—rammed us again. Feliks screamed and turned the steering wheel.
The SUV swooped in, forcing us off the road, onto the grass. We spun and started to slide down the embankment, down toward a rushing creek, its banks thick with snow. Kyle threw an arm across me to protect me. Feliks seized control on the muddy stretch of grass and wrenched the wheel, but the SUV rolled. Glass shattered and Danielle screamed and I felt the weight of Kyle’s arm across me. Then we were upright again and I felt, for the oddest moment, that I was a kid on a roller coaster. It lasted a microsecond as we toppled over, coming to rest on the roof.
Then an awful shocked silence.
“Get out,” I said to a dazed Kyle. “Get out. Get out.”
I had a horrifying picture in my mind of the SUV’s occupant walking toward us, guns in hand, led by the warning woman: I told you to go home.
We were all hanging upside down by our seat belts; the top of the car was crushed. Kyle swept the shattered glass still in the passenger-side window and eased out, then helped me. Pavel was cradling his arm, but he still helped Feliks, who was choking and coughing, his face bloodied from a cut caused by flying glass. Kyle eased me out onto the snowy grass and then leaned in and helped Danielle. She pulled herself free, shrugged off his hand, and staggered a few feet, then vomited into the snow.
“They drove us off the road!” I screamed.
“It was an accident,” Danielle said, glancing back at me. “He was weaving on the road before he reached us.” Then she was sick again. I heard police sirens. Pavel clutched his arm, and I realized it was broken.
Kyle and I leaned against each other. Someone just tried to kill us. Why was this happening?
30
Iris
The Winding Creek Neighbors House looks more like an extra-large home at the far edge of the park than a community center—inside there was a venue for parties, a library upstairs filled with leftovers and castoffs from the neighborhood’s shelves. There was a pool outside, with race lanes for the neighborhood swim team. Iris had been here for birthday parties, graduation events, even a wedding reception.
Danielle had been found dead on a bench on the opposite side of the park. People had to pass where she was found to get here tonight. Tonight was for the neighborhood to gather to discuss Danielle’s murder, to plan what they should do. Normally gatherings here are lively and fun, the crowd relaxed and mingling. Now it’s lots of crossed arms, furrowed brows, small groups whispering, and suspicious glances exchanged—she guesses there will be different agendas at play. When people want change in their neighborhood, chaos is an opportunity. Iris sits down in the front row of chairs, ignoring the coffee and cookies volunteers have placed on the back table. Refreshments are fine when the discussion is funding the pool repairs, but not for murder, she thinks.
Kyle’s not here. He’s stayed home. She told him it was a bad idea not to appear, and he told her he wasn’t up for the hysteria. She gets the feeling he doesn’t really want to be around people. Or answer questions about why his face is bruised and battered. Julia went out, too, probably to go be with Ned, who is not here. Neither is Peter. This isn’t a place for kids tonight, anyway. When she left the house, Grant was curled up on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
What has this death done to us? It was as though Danielle’s murder had affected each of them directly but differently. She feels, oddly, like she is living with strangers who wear the faces of her family.
She watches people watching her. Because, she thinks, her daughter found the body. People are curious. She doesn’t meet their gazes. She feels sick. She thinks about Danielle and what she could have done differently. She glances around the room, trying to read it. People are scared and they want something done. Their anxiety is not comforting.
She is surprised when it’s Mike who calls the meeting to order. The association president, a normally hearty, gregarious guy named Felipe, is sitting down and looking grim.
“I want to thank you all for being here tonight,” Mike says. “I know…I know Danielle had many friends in this neighborhood. Ned and Peter and I have felt your kindness and your love. I want to thank you all for what you have done for us.”
Mike’s voice shakes ever so slightly. Iris can see a glistening of tears in his eyes as he blinks. She glances over her shoulder. Ten rows of chairs behind her and everyone looks rapt. A couple of people are crying. Iris can feel tears at the back of her eyes, but they don’t seem to want to come forward.
“This has been, as you can imagine, a terrible shock for Ned. He is my priority right now; even though his father is here from London, Ned is like a second son to me.” Mike clears his throat. “I hope you will all keep him as a priority, too.”
The room is silent, until a woman in the back says, “Of course, Mike. We’ll all be here for Ned. And for you and Peter.” There is a hum of general assent.
“And please, remember the Pollitt family in your prayers,” Mike says. “It was a terrible shock for Julia when Ned and she found Danielle, and Kyle and Iris have been at my side every step of the way.”
Iris feels frozen to her chair, and she tries not to flinch when someone behind her—she doesn’t know who—gently pats her on the shoulder.
“There will be a memorial service later this week for Danielle. I’ve asked Iris to speak. I hope you will all be able to attend. Please tell your neighbors who are not here tonight.”
I can’t give her eulogy. I can’t, Iris thinks. Then she feels a surge of strength in her gut, born of desperation, and she decides she can. Only because she must.
“That is my first plea to you. My second plea is anyone who knows anything, who may have seen anything, to please come forward. Come to Detective Jamika Ponder of the Travis County Sheriff’s Office or Detective Carmen Ames of Lakehaven police, they’re here tonight to talk to us.” Iris notices the two detectives are sitting farther down the row. Ames looks like a schoolteacher at an assembly. Ponder is leaning forward, staring out at the audience. “Because of the complexity of this kind of homicide case, TCSO has the resources to be the lead agency on the investigation.”
There is silence.
“If you’re scared,” Mike says, surveying the crowd, “or if you don’t want to publicly accuse someone, then call the anonymous tip line the Lakehaven police have set up.” He clears his throat. “I’m also donating fifty thousand dollars for information leading to an arrest and conviction for Danielle’s killer.”
The silence is replaced by a low rumble. Iris glances around. Does someone here know something?
“Anything,” Mike continues. “Any information that lets us know why this happened.
Why Danielle died.”
Why. Why does why matter so much to some people? Why will change nothing. Iris closes her eyes and feels a dull thump of pain in her head, the start of a headache. She hates Mike for asking this question. Who is she becoming? It’s as if this murder has unmoored her, made her wonder about the person she is and the life she’s led. Just as she had started to believe it would all be fine.
“Iris?” she hears Mike ask. She realizes, with a sinking shock, that while lost in thought she’s put her hands over her face. She lowers her hands. It feels like the entire room is looking at her. “Did you have anything to add?” Mike says.
She should just shake her head no. Instead—what are you doing what are you doing what are you doing?—she stands. She turns and faces the crowd. Like she has done at all kinds of parent meetings over the years. She feels the weight of their gaze. She takes in their expressions: some are shocked, some mournful, some curious, some scared.
“Many of you know,” she says, “that Danielle changed lives for so many families in Lakehaven. Her work in foreign adoptions has helped many here. Including me and Kyle, when we got our son from Russia with Danielle’s help.” Shut up and sit down shut up and sit down. “She helped children from China, from Ghana, from Vietnam, and more all find their forever families here in Lakehaven. She was loved”—stop lying stop lying—“that’s why it’s just unfathomable to me that anyone who knew her could have hurt her.” She clears her throat. Don’t offer a theory shut up and sit down. “I know we’re all looking at each other, wondering how this could have happened in our quiet little neighborhood. I think someone came here and hurt Danielle.” She could not make her mouth form the word murder. “And so, like Mike, I beg you, if you know anything, if you saw anything, if you heard anything, to please come forward.” Her voice steadies, and she glances over at Mike. He nods in gratitude.
“Drugs,” she hears a voice say. She looks to her left, and there’s Matt Sifowicz, one of the two guys who were jogging past when Julia and Ned found Danielle. He stands up slowly. “I think this was theft for drug money. I think someone saw her alone in a park and attempted to rob her. Then they punched her in the throat and killed her.”
“Her purse was still in her home. A diamond ring was still on her finger. She’d gone up to the park, we don’t know why.” Now Detective Ponder has risen and stands next to Mike. “But of course we’re considering every possibility.”
“I saw something,” a woman who lives four houses down from the circle says. Iris has seen her on the street, walking down to the mailbox, but these are newish neighbors who have kept to themselves and Iris doesn’t know her name. “I was up late. I have insomnia. Shopping on an online auction site. My dog was awake and he barked like he does when someone goes past the house. I went to the window, because who’s up and walking at 4:00 a.m., and I saw a man. I think it was a man. Coat, and hat pulled down. He wasn’t walking a dog. And he didn’t have a flashlight.”
“Which way was he coming from?” Ponder asks.
“From the circle, heading toward the park.”
Iris feels the world around her freeze slightly. There are six houses on the circle, another six maybe between the circle and this woman’s home. Twelve husbands. One of them is hers.
“He could have walked in from the greenbelt,” Iris says. “Parked on the other side of it and walked into the neighborhood that way.” The moment she speaks she wonders if people will think she’s covering for Kyle.
“That’s true,” Mike agrees.
“Did you see anyone with him?” Ponder asks.
After a moment, the woman shakes her head.
Iris wonders: Why did Danielle die in the park? Why not at her own home? Why did she go to meet someone in the neighborhood park? Who did she go see?
And she thinks: She didn’t want Ned to see. She didn’t want Ned to know who it was.
“Thank you for coming forward. Will you give a statement after the meeting?”
“Yes.”
“And your name, ma’am?”
“Carrie Butler.”
Iris stares at her. Carrie and Steve Butler: the woman and her husband who had been denied an adoption and blamed Danielle. She notices now the woman’s sitting next to the brawny redhead who was jogging with Sifowicz when they heard the kids screaming and ran to their aid. The redhead takes her hand as she sits back down.
They moved into the neighborhood, Iris thinks. A few houses down from the woman they blamed for not getting them a child.
“I didn’t want to accuse anyone…” Carrie Butler says. “We’re new in the neighborhood and…” Carrie stops again. “I didn’t want to accuse anyone,” she repeats flatly.
“Coming forward with information is not an accusation. It’s just information. And that’s what we need,” Ponder says.
Iris wonders if the man was Kyle. Could he have followed Danielle to the park, killed her, and then come home and calmly slipped into bed next to Iris? The thought staggers her.
People are asking questions of Ponder. “Should we be locking our doors?” “What do you think happened?” “Was she raped?” (A man asks this as though asking what she was wearing.) “Do we have any sex offenders who have moved into the area recently?” “Have there been any similar deaths in Austin, you know, like it’s a serial killer?” “Do you need a list of all the repairmen and lawn services and contractors who have been in the neighborhood recently?” There was clearly a cadre of residents—mostly older people—who felt that Winding Creek was under some kind of siege and were too happy to point a finger at who they believed to be likely suspects.
When people show you who they are, Iris thinks, believe them.
Ponder and Ames handle it deftly, reassuring people that there is no reason to believe there is a continuing threat; no, there have not been similar murders in the area; yes, Lakehaven and the Travis County Sheriff’s Office deputies are patrolling the neighborhood.
Iris glances back again at Carrie Butler in time to see Steve Butler stand. “We appreciate the patrols, but they can’t have eyes on Winding Creek twenty-four-seven. We can. We are just an informal patrol of home owners. We’re keeping our eyes open, being visible as a deterrent in case this guy comes back…”
Boos suddenly arise from the crowd.
“We don’t need amateurs policing the neighborhood,” a woman yells at Steve Butler. “You’ll probably end up getting shot.”
“Most of us aren’t armed,” Steve said. “I have an open-carry permit and so does one other home owner here. Mostly what we’re armed with are our cell phones, to capture what happens.”
“We have professional police. We don’t need this,” the woman says.
“We don’t need our single moms murdered in the neighborhood either,” Steve Butler fires back. “You’ve got a teenage daughter, Belinda. Do you feel she’s safe here right now?”
Ponder is now saying that armed patrols are unnecessary; the situation is in hand. But scared people are scared people, and Iris thinks: What have you clowns got to be scared of? I know what fear is. You don’t even know the shape of it. You don’t know what it can take from you.
For a moment, in the hubbub, she thinks she feels the drift of snowflakes, windblown, against her face. The terror of her life being on the verge of ending. The way the fear tunneled into her bones, a living thing claiming her.
But it hadn’t. She’d beaten it.
The discussion has descended into chaos, Ponder and Mike both calling for order, Mike pleading with Steve Butler that no one else start patrolling and no one be armed so no one gets hurt. Butler shouts that they, as concerned neighbors, will still walk the streets and no one is going to stop them.
Iris just wants out. She wonders what Ponder and Ames will make of Carrie Butler’s statement.
People are starting to stand and leave because the meeting has fallen apart. Steve Butler’s face has turned purple with yelling, and she sees something twisted in his eyes. A man who does not
deal well with frustration.
Iris’s gaze shifts down and to his left and she sees Carrie Butler looking at her, staring at her. She knows. She knows and she’s not saying. And then Carrie Butler smiles at her, a smile that is cruel and calculating and cold. For a moment there is a naked hatred in that smile, and Iris gasps.
You hated Danielle. Why would you buy a house a few doors down from her?
Steve Butler’s yelling at an objector in the crowd that they don’t understand there is no way the unofficial watch could be a danger, that they’re not going to be firing guns willy-nilly into the darkness. Do they think he’s a total idiot? He’s ex-army. He knows what he’s doing. The families of Winding Creek have to be protected at all costs.
Mike is at the microphone, trying to restore order.
Carrie Butler continues to smile at Iris and turns away. She takes her husband’s arm, leading him away from those who are arguing with him. They start to work their way through the crowd.
Iris follows them.
31
Grant
Grant walks into the empty house; Mike is at the same neighborhood meeting that his mom is attending. There is food all over the kitchen table; people have brought pies, cookies, vegetable plates. He steals a cookie and eats it. Then he takes another cookie and goes upstairs to Peter’s room and knocks.
Peter looks exhausted, rubbing his eyes. He tries a smile at Grant when Grant hands him the cookie.
“Hey,” Grant says.
“Hey. You have an interesting problem.”
Grant’s heart sinks. “Is my laptop infected by this hacker?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
