CHAPTER SEVEN

BECCA

The next few hours are a blur. A man introduces himself as Detective Andrus, then leads me to a small interview room. Interrogation room? Same thing, probably. The walls look like they used to be white but have an aged tinge like yellowed newspaper. A small table stands against the wall opposite the door, and two chairs are pushed under it.

“Have a seat,” Andrus says. “I’ll be right back.”

I’ve got Ivy in the carrier. She’s asleep, so I gently set her on the floor before taking a seat in one of the chairs as instructed. Looking around the room, I rock the carrier with my foot in hopes of extending the nap. A camera is mounted above the door, trained right at the table, and it makes me weirdly self-conscious. I’ve seen enough episodes of Dateline to know that these rooms record everything. Actually seeing the room, the camera is something else altogether.

I’m alone for what feels like a long time but is probably only ten minutes or so, long enough to sit back in the chair and slump from fatigue rather than sitting ramrod straight. My phone buzzes, and when I pull it out of my pocket, I half expect it to be a text from Jenn.

Remembering again is another emotional crash landing.

The text is from my ex, Jason. Where are you?

The old irritation flares in me, and I let it eclipse my anguish. What business is it of his where I am? He probably tried dropping off the kids early. I’m about to reply with a vague boundary-setting message, but I stop to check the time to be sure.

How in the world is it nearly five? I look in the diaper bag and mentally count—yes, I’ve changed her diaper and fed Ivy several times. The math works, but I still can’t grasp the day or the passage of time.

This whole thing has taken up the entire day? Jason isn’t early. He’s late. He was supposed to bring the kids home at four, and if he had, I would’ve heard from him then. That doesn’t matter because I’m even later. I’m not home and don’t know when I will be. He’ll throw this in my face for months, if not years, to come. I pinch the bridge of my nose and call him. Under the circumstances, it’ll be better to talk to him instead of trying to explain via text. So I call.

“Where are you?” he says without preamble. “I’m not leaving them in an empty house.”

One of these days, I’ll get past the point where the sound of Jason’s voice puts my teeth on edge, but today is not that day. I think quickly—what can I tell him that will explain enough without telling too much? Having Jason, of all people, learn about Jenn in this way would feel like a betrayal. Besides, I don’t want to field any prying questions he’s bound to have. Not to mention he’d probably let it slip to the kids, and they are not going to learn about this from him. “There’s been an emergency,” I say vaguely.

“Are you at the hospital?” He almost sounds worried. I’ll take it.

“At the police station,” I say.

“The police station?” Jason repeats the phrase as if I’ve said I’m a radicalized terrorist.

“I’m a witness to something. I didn’t do anything.” The call is waking up Ivy; she squirms in her seat, and I resume rocking it with one foot. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to get home, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Look,” Jason says, annoyed, “the decree says—”

“I know what it says,” I interrupt. “This isn’t something I have control over. Something happened at Jenn’s house, and they need to interview me.”

“Wait, what? What happened?”

That got his attention, for better or worse.

“I can’t talk about it,” I tell him. I might be allowed to, but I physically can’t get myself to do it, and I don’t want to. “I’ll call Nancy right now. The kids can hang out at her place until I get home. I bet she’ll even feed them dinner. I’m sure she’s home.”

Nancy lives a few doors down and has kids close to the same age as mine. Maggie and Davis hang out there often, especially after school when I’m still at work.

After a few seconds of silence, during which I wonder if I need to remind Jason who Nancy is, he finally grunts. It’s a minor win. “I guess that’s okay. This time.”

This time. I roll my eyes but keep my voice even. “Drop them off at Nancy’s. I’ll let her know they’re coming.” I’m close to reminding him which house is hers but stop myself. If he’s forgotten, the kids can tell him, and he hates being talked down to.

As soon as I hang up with Jason, I call Nancy, and though I don’t explain the details of the situation, she must hear the fatigue and stress in my voice because she says, “Don’t you worry at all. I’m making macaroni and cheese, and the twins are more than welcome to stay and have dinner. Take all the time you need.”

“Thanks, Nancy, you’re the best,” I say. “Hopefully it won’t take long.” Call ended, I drop my head to my arm on the table in front of me. I’m so tired I can hardly think straight. I’ve missed lunch, and it’s basically dinnertime. I’m going to need to eat something to get through whatever awaits me here.

The door opens, and I look up. Detective Andrus appears but pauses in the doorway as if someone got his attention. He leans back into the hall, talking to someone. Then he comes into the room, carrying a plastic-wrapped sub sandwich and a bottle of water. The door thunks shut behind him as he offers me the food.

“Figured you’d be hungry,” he says.

“I am. Thanks.” The sub looks soggy and probably tastes gross, but for the moment, I don’t care; it’s food.

Andrus nods at Ivy. “Does she need anything?”

Good question. I pick up the diaper bag and look through it. “There’s enough formula for a couple more bottles. I might need some water to mix with it later if we’re here much longer.”

He nods and sets a legal-size notebook on the table. “So. Big day, huh?”

I glance at the camera above the door. While it makes me nervous, it’s good that I’m here. Better that the police talk to me now. I’ll do anything to speed up the process to help catch the person who . . . did this to Jenn. Even in my head, I can’t use the words for what that person did to her.

As I set the diaper bag back onto the floor, I look at Ivy and my heart twists. “What will happen to her?” I ask the detective. “Will she have to go into foster care?” Yes, I already asked one of the officers at the scene, but maybe this detective knows more.

“We’re figuring some of that out now, at least a temporary arrangement. Detective Moffett’s talking with Mr. Banks now,” Andrus says, jotting the date and time at the top of the notepad. “For now, we’re assuming she’ll be able to stay with her father.”

Oh good.

“I’ve watched Ivy lots of times. I’m happy to take care of her if I can, for however long.”

“I’ll make a note of that. How do you spell your name? First and last.”

I tell him, and as he writes, I look down at my clothes. My top has dried after being drenched down the front with bathwater, making it wrinkled. I’d care if I were on my way to work, but not here, not now. Nothing much matters besides the fact that my best friend is . . .

Gone. Expired. Passed. I wonder when I’ll be able to use the real word.

My jeans are still slightly damp. If I were to stand, I’d probably see a wet mark on the vinyl chair, which is uncomfortable to sit on and probably is no matter what you’re wearing. I bet they make sure of that for interrogating actual criminals. I’d give a lot for a cushioned office chair.

As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I feel guilty. Here I am annoyed by an achy backside when Jenn is gone forever. My stomach gurgles, and my head throbs. I finish unwrapping the sub and take a bite. It’s even soggier than expected. The bread feels like paste in my mouth, but I chew and swallow anyway.

I wish I had something to distract me—a show to watch during the spells the cops leave me alone. Like Friends or even something older like M*A*S*H, both of which Jenn and I often quoted from.

Everything circles back to Jenn.

Everything but the twins. Maggie and Davis don’t circle back. So as Andrus makes a few notes and replies to a text, I think of them. They’ll be thrilled to eat Nancy’s macaroni and cheese. After that, they’ll probably play video games in the basement with her kids, also a boy and a girl, only one of them is two years older. They’ll get more screen time than I allow, which they’ll love.

I didn’t tell Nancy where I am for the same reason I didn’t tell Jason. The kids need to hear it from me. Crap. I should have told her not to turn on the news so they don’t hear about their Aunt Jenn that way.

She was their only aunt besides Jason’s sister Miranda, who lives back east and hasn’t seen them since before they could speak.

I was an only child, so I was thrilled to have a friend so involved in my kids’ lives. I’d hoped that one day, Jenn’s children would be my kids’ surrogate cousins.

So much for the twins not circling back to Jenn.

The door opens, and Andrus waves in a woman with a camera and a folder of papers. She hands the latter to Detective Andrus and addresses me.

“Need to take some pictures for evidence,” she says cheerfully. She’s smiling as she tells me to stand against the wall and she clicks away. She has me raise my arms, and she takes pictures, front and back. For what? Evidence of defensive wounds?

Wait, am I a suspect?

My throat tightens, so as I obey the photographer’s instructions, holding up my arms, turning to face the wall, and on and on, I focus on thoughts of the twins.

Maggie and Davis sitting around Nancy’s kitchen table, eating dinner. Hopefully, they won’t need to spend the night there, but if so, Nancy is more than up to the task. I’ll bring her something as a thank you. In the past, I’ve given her a note with some of my decadent homemade brownies or flowers. What do you give for babysitting in a pinch when your best friend is . . .

Gone. Expired. Passed.

Dead.

Killed. Murdered.

Between pictures, the photographer makes notes. Just when I think she’s got to be done, she asks me to lift my shirt.

“Excuse me?” I say.

“Not all the way. Just need to see if you’ve got any marks on your abdomen.” She glances at the detective. “Would you like him to leave?”

My eyes flick up to the camera and back. What would the point be of having Andrus leave when everyone in the department will be able to see this later? I shake my head and lift my blouse.

That’s when Andrus says, “Hm.”

At first, I figure he’s reacting to something on his phone. Then the photographer gets closer and snaps more pictures of my stomach, just to the right of my naval. Where, of course, the faucet dug into me as I heaved Jenn’s body out of the tub. I have a developing bruise. Great. Click, click, click.

Ivy’s awake now and looking around with big eyes that portend a crying jag if I don’t get to her soon. Fortunately, the photo session seems to be over. The photographer makes a few last notes, smiles at me, then leaves.

I’m about to pick up Ivy when another woman enters the room, this time holding a small stack of what looks like scrubs and a t-shirt. “We’ll need your clothes to process for evidence,” she says, then gestures the ones she’s holding, but she doesn’t give them to me. “Here’s something you can change into. I’ll come with you to the restroom.”

As I’m about to say that I can change clothes on my own, thanks, I realize that she needs to be there because my clothes, weirdly, are evidence. They’re wet with the bathwater Jenn died in. That’s about all they’ll find. I gesture toward Ivy. “Can I—”

Andrus interrupts me. “I’ll watch the baby till you get back.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She and I go to the restroom, and I put on the clothes she hands me. She puts my clothes in a paper bag, which she then seals, labels, and signs across the seal. This day is getting more surreal by the minute.

Back in the small room, I take a crying Ivy from Andrus’s arms. I can tell he tried to keep her calm, something that softens my heart toward him a bit, but she’s understandably scared and relieved to see me. I calm her cries, which can probably be heard on the other side of the station.

“I’ll go get that water so you can feed her,” Andrus says, and he slips out before I can thank him.

The sudden kindness makes me grateful, and that lift gives me a little hope. Maybe I’ll be out of here soon and on my way home.

When he returns, he hands me a room-temperature bottle of water and waits until Ivy’s quietly eating. Then he settles in with his notepad and looks at me expectantly as if I have something to say. A warning bell goes off in my head, one that says to keep my mouth shut unless they ask specific questions.

I want him to say that there’s been some terrible mistake, that Jenn is fine, that they managed to revive her, and there’s no brain damage from being without oxygen for so long. A pipedream.

Instead, we go through every detail of what I experienced and saw. Everything I can remember, from checking inside the boat to searching the backyard, then going to the master bathroom and finding Jenn in the tub. Pulling her out—the source of my new bruise—the 911 phone call. Everything.

As gross as the sandwich was, I’ve finished it, and the calories help me think a bit more clearly.

After combing through details again and again, Detective Andrus finally gives me a half smile. “Thank you for staying so long and for being so thorough.”

“Of course.”

He stands. “You’re free to go,” he says. “We may have more questions for you later.”

“I’m happy to help however I can,” I say, then begin strapping Ivy back into the car seat. She protests, but this time a binkie helps. I pick up my purse, the diaper bag, and the carrier. I want to be home and wearing my own clothes.

“Is there anything else you need?” I ask. As much as I want to leave, I’ll stay if it means not having to come back to answer more questions, ever. “I’m happy to take a polygraph or—”

“Not now,” he says, lifting one hand and giving a slight shake of his head. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Will you keep me updated on the investigation?” I sound like I’m begging for a promise. I guess that’s exactly what I’m doing. I need to know that if there’s anything—anything—I can do to help, that they’ll reach out and tell me.

“Sure,” he says with a nod in a tone that makes me believe him not at all. He’s still half smiling, but his eyes look tired. I’m sure mine look worse, and that I look a mess in every other way too—hair, makeup smeared from the water, and that’s on top of the weird, baggy clothes they gave me.

“I’ll wait to hear from you, then,” I say, slowly moving from the table as if it’s a dog that might bite if I move too fast. “If I think of something I haven’t told you, I’ll call.”

“Sounds good.” He holds the door open for me to exit. “You did good today, Ms. Kalos.”

His words make my step come up short as I stand on the threshold. I’m in the doorway, not in the interrogation room, but not in the corridor either. I look up at him. “I did?”

“Absolutely. You did everything you could for her. And you’ve been extremely helpful to us.”

“Thanks,” I say, then duck my head and step into the hallway, once again walking with Ivy’s carrier bumping against my leg every other step.

Halfway to the outside doors, I nearly run into someone. “Excuse me,” I say, but then the smell of a cologne whisks me right back to finding Jenn. Not until that moment do I realize that I associate that cologne with Rick. My head snaps up, and sure enough, Jenn’s husband is standing there.

“Hey,” he says, eyes looking as bloodshot as mine feel. “They’re letting me take a bathroom break.” He nods toward the door beside him, which looks identical to the one I just exited. He’s not done being interviewed, and he wasn’t even there. Poor guy.

“Rick,” I say, breathing his name with the relief of finding someone else experiencing the same grief. I set Ivy’s carrier on the floor and give him a hug. He wraps his arms around me, and for the first time since I entered their house today, I feel safe. I’m not alone in this.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says quietly and rubs my back with a gentle touch. This is the closest we’ve ever been, the most we’ve ever touched. It should feel odd but doesn’t.

Stepping back, I wipe my cheeks with both hands, the tears falling anew. I heft the carrier and feel a twinge. Ivy belongs to him, not me. “Do you want to take her or . . .?”

“Oh. Um . . .” He looks behind him at his interrogation room, then back at me.

“She can stay with me for now.”

He lets out a huge sigh. “That would be a huge relief. Thanks.”

“Of course. Talk to you later, then, when you’re done here?”

“Definitely.”

I give a small wave then head toward the exit. A cop, badge hanging from a belt loop, stands by the restrooms a little farther down the hall, past some vending machines. Rick follows me until he reaches the restrooms, and then we exchange waves.

My feet take me outside. I don’t stop moving until I reach my car. I get Ivy buckled in. She protests, of course, reaching out for me to hold her. “It’s a short ride,” I assure her, but she’s not having it.

Getting inside the car myself, I click my seatbelt into place, grab the steering wheel, then stare out the windshield. I’m anxious and fidgety and just want to be home. I start the car and think through the interview with Detective Andrus, living it a second time as if watching a video on high speed.

I think I did enough to remove myself as a person of interest. Detective Andrus warned me that as the person who found the . . . who found Jenn . . . I am automatically a person of interest.

He also mentioned, though, that the profile of the kind of person who commits . . . this kind of crime . . . is generally male, so I didn’t have any reason to worry unless I was guilty and hiding something. Which, of course, I’m not.

As I drive away, I glance into my rearview mirror at the brown-brick police station and wonder how much longer Rick will be in there. If Jenn’s best friend, the person who discovered her body, was automatically a person of interest, then surely her husband is too.

The sooner they clear him, the better. Then he and I can plan a memorial.

Raindrops splat against the windshield, big and full, all of a sudden. I turn on my wipers and get rid of them, but more follow. More and more until I have to adjust the speed to high. I realize that my vision is mostly blurred by tears.