CHAPTER FIVE

BECCA

“Excuse me, are you the one who found the victim?”

I turn to see the person speaking—a police officer. My eyebrows draw together, something I’m aware of doing, though I didn’t mean to. It’s as if I’m observing myself from somewhere else. None of this feels real. None of it can be. “Um, yeah. I mean, yes, I am.”

“Is she your sister?”

“N-no.”

“Are you related?”

“No,” I say again, hating that biology keeps us from being considered family when that’s what she is to me. Was to me? “She’s a friend.” That word almost sounds traitorous. Jenn is so much more. That word can describe someone from high school geometry that you haven’t seen since but happen to be connected to on Facebook. My head pounds. I reach up with one hand and feel my forehead. The muscles are all scrunched up. I rub them and add, “Jenn is a close friend. My best friend.”

Standing by the garage, I rock side to side with Ivy, vaguely aware of more vehicles and people moving around than before. I think one of them is a reporter. The idea of Jenn becoming the subject of the evening news makes me cringe. Ivy’s not screaming anymore. She looks more unsure than anything at the activity around us. I stroke her hair and kiss the top of her head.

“I’m hoping you can help us with a few things. May I ask you some questions?”

“Um . . .” I look at my phone as if looking for a message from Mark about a work meeting. “I think I need to . . .” My voice trails off, and I have no idea how to finish the thought.

“We need to ask you some questions, now. It could help us catch who did this.”

That brings my focus around. “Okay.” I’ll do anything to catch the monster who did this.

“I understand from dispatch that her name was Jennifer Banks. Is that correct?”

Was. The word is jarring.

“She goes by Jenn,” I say. “But yes. It’s Jennifer Banks.”

“Is she married?” The officer’s tag reads J. Michaels. “She wasn’t wearing a ring.”

This time I nod.

“What’s her husband’s name?”

“Rick.” How have I not thought of him at all? Where is he? He was supposed to be back by now, right? He needs to know.

“Rick,” the officer says. “Is that short for Richard?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

“Do you know how we can contact Mr. Banks?”

“Yeah. I have his number.” I grab my phone from my pocket and nearly drop it, clearly as clumsy now as I was earlier. Holding Ivy as I try to unlock it makes the phone unable to see me well enough for face ID, so I have to type in my password with my fat thumb on the tiny keyboard. Eventually, I unlock it and pull up Rick’s contact page, then hold my phone face out so Officer Michaels can see it. “He’s a lawyer at Hancock, Donaldson, and Cleese.”

Officer Michaels takes a picture of my phone screen to capture Rick’s information. “And you found her body, correct?”

Her body. I hate that word. I glance at the house and remember how sure the responding cop was that she was already dead. Of course she was. I knew she was gone the moment I saw her. I arrived way too late. “Yeah. I found her.” The air coming out scratches my throat.

Saying those words makes reality crash down. My life force drains out of me, down my legs, disappearing into the ground like water on parched soil. I’m simultaneously empty and filled with pain all at once, and I know she’s gone. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to accept it. No one is inside, in the master bathroom, resuscitating her. Jenn’s just gone, period.

“Was anyone else in the house at the time? Any children? I noticed a room with toys and a crib. I assume Mr. and Mrs. Banks have children.”

“Just one.” A tear falls down my cheek as I look at little Ivy and stroke her downy hair. She’s getting squirmy. I hold on so I don’t drop her. “This is their daughter. I was babysitting.” My vision begins to narrow, darkness pressing on the edges.

“You look a bit pale,” the cop says. “Let’s walk over to the lawn. I’ll hold the baby.”

I follow his lead. Two steps onto the grass, he takes Ivy just as my arms give out. My knees lose all strength. I feel myself lowering and manage to catch myself with one hand and then the other before I collapse entirely. My arms threaten to give way, so I push myself sideways and lie on my back.

Each breath is a stab, and my vision narrows further. Nothing feels real, as if I’m watching myself from a distance, like one of those stories of people who claim to have died and returned to their bodies later. Am I dying? Will I see a bright light and find Jenn soon? No. And I don’t want to; I can’t leave my kids.

The cold, prickly grass pokes me, almost sharp against the back of my neck and elbows. I’m not dying. I’m simply incapable of understanding this pain, of processing what this day means. For me. For Rick. For the twins. For poor little Ivy.

Once more, Officer Michaels clears his throat. “Your color is looking a little better. Just breathe.”

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“So she’s their only child?”

“Yeah,” I say, but unsure whether I made any sound, I nod too.

“Do you know her name and birthdate?”

A blip of clarity breaks through the fog. “Wait, why do you need that information right now?” I find the strength to sit up. I reach for Ivy, and when she reaches for me, he surrenders her. She curls up against me, glad to be in familiar arms. “She isn’t going to be taken into state custody, is she?” I think of the many horror stories Jenn has told me about growing up in the foster care system.

“That’s not up to me. A judge will make that determination. But chances are good that if her father can care for her, she’ll remain in his custody.”

“Oh, g-good.” I can hardly speak without stuttering with uneven breaths.

Someone calls the officer away, and he excuses himself.

Rick’s not the most hands-on father, but as far as I know, he’s done a decent job to this point. I’d much rather Ivy stay with him than lose both parents in a single day. Feeling slightly stronger now that I’m not worried about Ivy on top of everything else, I gingerly get to my feet and head toward the front door of the house.

Another officer by the door steps into my path. He looks younger than Officer Michaels, and his tag says D. Berger.

“You can’t go in there,” he says.

I gesture at my clothes, which are still damp. “I need a towel.” Then I notice another officer blocking the door entirely. How many are swarming the place? “The diaper bag and car seat are in there, and my purse . . .”

“No one can go inside right now,” Officer Michaels says, returning from whatever had interrupted him. He stands next to the guy blocking my way.

“Wh-why not?” My teeth are chattering. I am a little cold, but not that cold. Is this what shock feels like?

“Let’s get you a blanket from the ambulance. Come with me.” He takes my arm firmly but not painfully, as if to tell me that I have to obey. As weak as I feel, he doesn’t need to use that much pressure. A piece of yarn tied to my wrist would be enough to lead me anywhere.

He takes me to the back of one of two ambulances. I don’t know when they arrived. One is parked a few houses down, and I assume it’ll carry Jenn’s body when they remove it from the house. From the back of the other one, Officer Michaels gets what looks like a giant piece of tinfoil. He unfolds it and wraps it around me and Ivy, who is suddenly fascinated by the shiny material and the noises she can make with it.

“That’ll help warm you up,” Officer Michaels says.

“Can someone get my purse?” I ask. “I think it’s by the front door.”

“I’ll see what I can do. A couple more questions first, though. Can you think of anyone who would want Mrs. Banks dead?”

“No,” I say. “Everyone loves her.” I don’t mention that her marriage wasn’t perfect. Whose is? It’s not as if being a crappy husband means Rick did this.

The officer asks a few more questions, but I can’t think clearly. “We’ve had reports of a suspicious white van in the area. Did you see anything like that today?”

“No.” The cobwebs in my mind clear a bit. “Wait. I did see a white van earlier. It was on my street—a few blocks over.” I wave in that general direction. “It looked a little weird. Maybe suspicious.”

“Did you get a look at the driver?”

I think back but shake my head. “I didn’t. Sorry. Only that it looked like a utility vehicle but didn’t have any logos or anything, and it was moving slowly from house to house. Do you think the van could be connected?”

“We have to follow all leads,” he says vaguely. “Do you know the make or model?”

Of a van? I can barely point out a Prius, and that’s only because Jenn drives one. “No, sorry. Just white and boxy.”

“No problem,” he says. “Stay here, okay?”

I nod, and after he leaves, I sit on the curb with Ivy. No matter how much I try to wrap the blanket around her, she’ll have none of it. She crinkles it between her fists and tries to eat it. I don’t force the issue; she doesn’t seem cold.

Time plays tricks on me. So does my memory of what’s happened. It’s as if my brain refuses to believe I’m living the reality that is this hell, so it periodically freezes like an overwhelmed computer. I have no idea how long Ivy and I are sitting there—long enough for her to fall asleep on my shoulder and for Rick to arrive home. His silver Lexus—I guess I can identify two models besides my Corolla—passes the first ambulance and then pulls next to the patrol car that’s parked at the curb.

Rick jumps out of the car and races over to a couple of officers talking intently nearby. “What happened? What’s going on? Where’s my wife?” He’s red-faced and sweating as if he just ran a marathon in his business suit.

His familiar face is the only adult connection to Jenn that I have left. I stand from the curb, careful to cradle Ivy so she won’t wake, and walk to him. When I reach Rick, I throw my free arm around him and cry into his dress shirt and tie.

“What happened?” Rick leans back, trying to pry himself far enough away to look me in the eye. “Becca, look at me. Is she okay?”

“She’s—she’s gone.” My teeth are chattering, making speech hard. Maybe I should give Ivy to him to hold, in case I get weak again. But his wide eyes and pale face say otherwise—he’s about to go into shock now.

He releases me and turns as if to run inside the house. He’s stopped from entering too. Yellow police tape is stretched across the door frame now. “This is my house!” Rick yells. “What happened to my wife? Someone tell me what’s going on!”

“Your wife was found unconscious in the tub,” Officer Berger says.

“Is she at the hospital? I need to see her.” Rick is starting to look as frantic as I felt when I opened the bathroom door.

“She’s still inside,” Berger says. “I’m sorry, she didn’t make it.”

Rick takes a step back, and presses his fisted hand to his mouth. “No. No, no, no. Let me in. I have to see her.”

Officer Michaels steps in. “That’s not possible right now, Mr. Banks. Let’s go to the station. I’ll fill you in on everything we know so far, and you can help us figure out some more.”

Rick nods like a man on a mission. “I’ll meet you there.” He strides purposefully to his sleek car and gets inside.

I look to Officer Michaels. “Should I keep Ivy with me for now? I can go back home and wait for Rick.”

“Actually, we need you to come to the station too. I’ll make sure we get you some coffee to warm you up.”

“Oh. Okay.” I look around. “I’ll need my purse, though.”

“It’s right there.” Officer Michaels points to the spot on the curb where I’d been sitting. He’d brought my purse to me as I’d asked, and I didn’t notice. He looks at me with a gentle expression, as if he knows what kind of chaos my brain is in right now.

“Thanks,” I manage. “The car seat is—”

“We can’t go back inside,” Michaels says. “If your purse hadn’t been right by the door, we couldn’t have gotten it for you either. We can’t contaminate the scene.”

“Oh. Right. Of course,” I say, but the reality of everything is hammering home, too much too fast. The yellow tape reading CRIME SCENE seems to flash in my peripheral vision. I clear my throat so I can speak. “I have an old car seat in my garage,” I say. “It’s probably expired, but I guess it’s better than nothing.” Thanks to having twins, technically I have two car seats. I’m suddenly glad I didn’t get rid of all the baby stuff.

“Are you up to driving? You can ride over in my patrol car.” Officer Michaels looks at me, concerned.

“I’m fine. I’d rather drive so I have my car,” I say, and somehow, he believes me. I don’t want to be stuck at the station waiting for a ride after . . . whatever this is. “It’s only a couple of miles, right?”

“Right.” He seems to debate for a second but finishes with “Hold on.” He calls the station and arranges for someone to bring over a newer car seat. Soon it’s installed in my car and Ivy’s buckled inside. “Follow me, okay?” He probably wants to make sure I get there in one piece. Or that I actually drive to the station instead of home.

Wait, could I be a suspect? The person who finds the body often is, right?

“I’ll follow,” I promise and pull my keys out of my purse as Officers Berger and Michaels head to their patrol cars. Berger disappears into the small crowd now gathered around the house, including several neighbors and a few reporters—I can tell from the logos emblazoned on the sides of the satellite trucks. Jenn and her family are going to be news fodder. There’s no avoiding it. The details of our private tragedy will become public and turned into clickbait.

After getting in my car and starting it, I look around and wonder how I’ll get out of the cul de sac with so many emergency vehicles everywhere. Officer Michaels gets into the patrol car parked right by the driveway, which is no longer boxed in now that Rick’s driven off. Michaels pulls out, and I follow, which makes my getting out easy; the path opens for him, and I slip through right after. As I drive, my foggy brain begins to grasp why I’m heading to the police station. To be questioned.

Jenn’s death is suspicious. I finally ask the question that should have registered right away: What did happen? Jenn wasn’t taking a regular bath; she was fully clothed. Maybe she was planning to take one, and then a home invasion went bad, and the man—or more than one—knocked her out and held her under the water. I didn’t see any signs of a break-in or of anything that would hint of theft: no rifling through drawers and other belongings, no stolen television or computer, nothing damaged that I noticed.

Was it murder by someone who knew her, then? Who would want to kill Jenn? No one.

The hum of the pavement, even for the few minutes it takes to get to the police station, is soothing enough to let me think more clearly than I have since I opened that door. By the time I find a spot to park, I’ve concluded one thing and decided another.

First, Jenn’s death was not an accident.

Second, I’ll do whatever is in my power to find the monster who killed my best friend and make sure they pay.