CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

BECCA

I walk Ben Winsley to the door. After I open it, he hesitates, not stepping through.

“Thank you for talking to me,” he says.

From where I stand, I can see Tom, his cameraman, still in the van. “Thank you for respecting my privacy.”

“About that . . .” Ben says. “Is everything we talked about off the record?”

I hadn’t considered that; I’m not used to thinking in journalistic terms. I think through our conversation, not remembering everything we talked about. I was—am—too emotional to remember it all, let alone be on my toes about statements on and off the record.

“I don’t think so,” I say and hope I don’t regret it later.

“Thanks,” Ben says.

I’m not too worried; Ben Winsley isn’t known for tabloid or gotcha journalism. From what I’ve seen, he’s about as unbiased as a reporter can be, and while he’s a great storyteller, he sticks to the facts.

He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a business card—likely the only thing in the pocket, placed there for this very purpose. He holds it out, and I take it. “If you think of anything else or want to reach me, please do. Call, email, or text anytime. I’m most likely to respond to texts quickly. Text me your email address so I can send you the report.”

“Will do,” I say, and he steps onto the porch.

With a wave, I close the door behind him, then go to the kitchen, where I grab my phone from the table and enter Ben’s contact information. Aside from wanting a copy of the toxicology report, I don’t know why I’d reach out to him. I can probably get it elsewhere if I need to, for that matter. But if the last month and a half has taught me anything, it’s that there’s no predicting the future.

Dropping into a chair at the kitchen table, I pull up the camera to snap a picture of the business card in case I’ve entered something wrong on Ben’s contact page. My thumb taps the corner of the screen, bringing up my camera roll. I haven’t had much of a reason to take pictures lately. Before all of this, whenever I babysat Ivy, I sent cute pictures to Jenn. I find myself scrolling through my camera roll. Most of the pictures are of Ivy and the twins.

I don’t have to scroll far to find one of Jenn. I find three pictures taken on the same day, two with Jenn in them. The first is of Ivy, bundled up in her coat and hat, sitting in her stroller. She was facing backward, which meant Jenn and I could talk to her, pull faces, and make her laugh. That’s exactly what Jenn’s doing in the second picture: making a face at Ivy, who is giggling with pure joy. I took the picture from the side so it shows both of them.

The last picture is a selfie of me and Jenn. Neither of us is showered or wearing makeup. We’re making the classic teenager duck lips and sultry eyes to be silly. She’s even making gestures that she surely saw teens doing online. I swipe back and forth between her making Ivy laugh and the two of us acting like goofy high school kids, taking in how happy and alive she looks. My vision blurs. I swipe at my cheeks.

That walk was days before she died, when spring was promising to come, but winter hadn’t quite released its hold. We often walked together on the mornings I worked from home—usually only on Mondays, but it was St. Patrick’s Day and I promised to help with the twins’ class party, so I’d opted to work from home that day.

I wish I’d had some inkling, some clue, that our time together would be cut short, that this was our last walk. Ever.

Sitting there, I try to remember her voice, her laugh, and I worry I’ll forget both. What did we talk about on the hour-long loop through the neighborhood? Nothing of significance or I’d remember it. Maybe that’s for the best; if I’d known that was the last hour-long conversation we’d ever have, it would have been sad, not fun and silly and happy.

A beep draws my attention, and for a moment, I don’t know what it’s from. Not my phone, not the doorbell or the TV. It’s my new dishwasher, chiming with the finished cycle. Oh yeah. I got a new dishwasher. That’s what we talked about on the walk.

The kid who arrived to install it must have been new; he was nervous and looked about sixteen, though he assured me he was an adult.

“Did you ask for ID?” Jenn asked.

“I considered it,” I said. “But he already looked so nervous and pale that I worried he’d pass out, so I let it slide.”

Only now do I remember that Jenn’s laugh wasn’t as chatty as usual. She’d been quiet much of that walk—not like her at all.

I remember more of our conversation. I told her about Kaden, the obnoxious intern at work who mansplained everything to every woman, no matter how senior in the company. “The guy thinks he’ll be snapped up for a manager-level position as soon as he graduates from college. Not happening, kid.” I laughed, and when she only chuckled shallowly, I looked over at her and found her brows pulled together, not laughing along with my story.

We reached the corner where we always did—where I always turned up to my house and she then walked the remaining blocks back to her place. “Are you . . . are you okay?” I asked—a detail I’d forgotten until now. A detail that seems so meaningful in hindsight that I can’t believe I forgot about it. “You seem quiet today.”

She smiled, not quite making eye contact, and shrugged. “Just tired.” Jenn reached into the stroller and tickled Ivy’s cheek, making her squeal and laugh. That was one of the pictures I had on my phone now. “But she’s worth it.”

“She certainly is,” I remember telling Jenn. “She is so lucky to have you.”

Jenn smiled at that but said nothing.

“I’m serious,” I said. “Just so you know, I’ve put you as the twins’ guardian if something were to happen to me. And honestly, you’re such a good mom that they’d be lucky if they ended up being raised by you.”

“Wow. Thank you.” She tilted her head to one side. “What about Jason?”

“Well, yeah, he’d technically get custody if I’m out of the picture, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d happily give up parental rights to not have to deal with the twins full time.”

We were just standing there on the corner, but I could tell something was on her mind, so I stayed. I waited, knowing that when she thought through what she wanted to say, she’d say it. That’s how Jenn was—thoughtful and deliberate.

“Speaking of estate planning . . .” Jenn’s voice trailed off.

“Yeah?” I said, trying to sound supportive.

She swallowed hard and blew out a breath. “Estate planning and guardianship and all of that—it’s all so easy to put off, you know? I’m married to a lawyer but don’t have a will. How crazy is that?”

“No way,” I said with a chuckle.

“A case of the shoemaker’s family going barefoot.” Jenn shrugged. “I really should set one up, especially now that I have Ivy.”

“It’s hard,” I said. “As a mother, you know it’s important, but being a mother, you don’t want to think about things like your own mortality, let alone that anything could happen to you before they’re grown, you know?”

“Exactly,” Jenn said.

A bond of old wounds connected us; we both knew what it was like to lose family and be on our own much too young. Feeling an urgency to get her affairs in order even more strongly than the typical parent made sense. I’d felt the same thing, which is why I had made a will.

She went on, fiddling with the stroller brake with the toe of her sneaker. “I’d hate to have the courts decide that stuff.”

I shook my head adamantly. “Oh gosh. That would be awful. That’s it. I’m updating my will. I’m calling a lawyer today.”

Jenn looked up then, right at me. “So you know, if anything ever happens to me, you are on deck to raise Ivy. No ifs, ands, or buts.” I raised an eyebrow and looked at Becca. “I hope you’re okay with that.”

“Assuming Rick’s out of the picture, but yes—of course,” I told her. “I’d do anything for her—and for you.”

Her gaze went to Ivy, and she looked lovingly at her baby, who was valiantly trying to shove her entire fist into her mouth. “You’re practically a second mother to her, Becca. You love her as much as I do. You’re an amazing mom to your kids. It just makes sense.” She licked her lips in a way that now seemed nervous to me.

Was it nervousness? Maybe. Maybe not. I could be projecting meaning onto the memory after the fact.

Jenn hugged me then, and I hugged her just as hard. She pulled away with tearful eyes, which she apologized for. I didn’t cry then, but I’m sobbing as I remember.

“Just so you know,” I told her, “if something were to happen to you, but not to Rick, I’d steal her away from him anyway.”

“Please do,” she said quickly—more energetically this time. She laughed, sounding more like herself.

At the time, I assumed she’d simply been worried about asking me to be Ivy’s guardian. As soon as that issue was settled, she was relieved and her old self. Right?

What if something else was on her mind that day?

“Rick has never been one for late-night feedings. Can you imagine what he’d be like during potty training? Or when she’s a teenager?” She sounded entirely lighthearted now.

We both laughed like crazy, then hugged again. She held me tighter than usual, and as I remember it now, I wish I’d held on a little longer, relished the feeling of Jenn being close one last time.

I swipe to the most recent images on the camera roll—the ones I took of Ben’s copy of the toxicology results. I’d dismissed the idea that Jenn had killed herself, but could she have? Did she know that morning on our walk that she wouldn’t be around much longer? Is that why she asked me to be Ivy’s guardian—and egged me on when I said I might “steal” Ivy from Rick?

That’s not the Jenn I knew. Granted, over the last weeks since her death, I’ve learned a lot about her that I didn’t know before. About Rick too. But I still can’t accept the idea that she’d kill herself when it meant Ivy being without a mother and when it could mean Rick raising her.

Yet she made sure she wanted me to be there for Ivy.

Days before she died. I check the date on the picture to make sure I’m remembering the day right. Sure enough, that walk was on St. Patrick’s Day—two days before she died. Did she know what was going to happen?

If so, what does that mean? I swipe one more time, to the picture of Ben’s business card. Should I tell him about that conversation? Should I call Detective Andrus?

I tap the contacts icon on my phone but stare at the screen. If Jenn’s death is ruled a suicide—no matter how incomprehensible that possibility is—then all charges will be dropped from Rick. He’ll be free. Ivy will likely have to go back to live with him.

How long would he stay in town before slipping away, creating a new identity for himself, and continuing to kill innocent women?

From upstairs, a whimper marks the end of Ivy’s nap. My head whips in her direction, and I think of what it would mean for her to return to her father’s care. How long until Ivy went “missing” or had a fatal “accident”?

To think of what her life will be like if Rick gets her back makes my blood run cold. I race upstairs to Ivy’s crib. She’s crying, reaching for me. I scoop her into my arms and hold her tight.

I’ll keep my promise to Jenn—I’ll keep Ivy safe.