CHAPTER NINE

BECCA

I drive home, tears blurring my vision as much as the rain. Not until I’m in my garage and turn off the car do I remember that the twins are at Nancy’s. Nothing about this day feels real, so I check my phone to be sure that yes, I did call both Jason and Nancy. I didn’t imagine those conversations. Before that, the call log reads 911. That call lasted only eleven minutes. It felt like at least an hour.

I move to get out of the car, and I realize the scrubs pants are a bit damp. My soaked jeans must have gotten the seat wet. Another reminder that everything else about this day really happened. I wish I could wake up, but this nightmare is reality. I call Nancy.

“I’m home,” I tell her. “You can send them on up. I’ll wait for them outside.”

“Will do,” Nancy says. “Hey, everything all right?”

Has my tone has tipped her off to my worry and exhaustion, or did she guess that something is wrong based on the last-minute babysitting favor on a school night? Maybe Jason was his usual jerk self when he dropped them off at her place. Or she’s seen something on the news.

“It’s . . . been a day,” I say vaguely. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“I’m glad you called, then. You can send the kids over anytime,” Nancy says. “You know that, right? And if you need anything else, just say the word.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. “I do know, and I will. You’re the best.”

I hang up and stare at my phone. Nancy is one of the best people around, the best neighbor I could ever ask for. But she’ll never be Jenn. She’s gone.

After getting Ivy out of the car, I wait inside the garage, out of the rain, for the twins. I have no desire to get wet again. Nancy’s front door opens, and Maggie’s and Davis’s figures hop out, down the stairs, and they head up the street. They turn back to wave to her. They even call, “Thanks, Nancy!” It’s nice to see them having manners when I’m not right there.

When they spot me from the sidewalk, Maggie starts running. “Is that Ivy?” she calls. With each stride, the overnight backpack she brought to her dad’s shifts side to side.

Davis jogs behind her. He picks up speed but falls behind Maggie because he’s pulling his overnight bag, which is an actual carry-on. The wheels bump on the sidewalk seams and make the bag lurch. The twins are so different, something that is visible in everything, down to the way they approach something as mundane as packing for a night away. Maggie wants to have her hands free, and she loves pink, so her choice was that jumbo pink backpack with a glittery unicorn. Davis picked that gray hard-surface carry-on with wheels, which he informed me is tough enough to survive a Blast Burn charge attack by a Charizard, his favorite Pokémon. He’s always been my careful, attentive child, while Maggie is the impulsive, loud one.

I love them so much it hurts.

My grip on the baby carrier tightens with emotion, which reminds me that Ivy no longer has a mother. I picture leaving my babies motherless, and I fight tears. The twins don’t need to see me falling apart right now. They’ll learn about Jenn soon enough, along with things about the world that no little kids should ever have to face. None of the parenting books have prepared me to explain murder.

Maggie reaches me with outstretched arms. She nearly bowls me over as she throws herself in my direction and I try to keep hold of the baby carrier. She pulls back nearly as quickly, then swoops over to Ivy, who’s awake and kicking happily in her seat.

“Hey, Ivy. Hey! Can you smile? Do you need your binkie?” She tickles Ivy’s cheek and is rewarded with a giggle. Maggie whirls about to face me. “Is she staying the night? Can she? Please? Ask Jenn.”

Ask Jenn. Never have two words from my child punched me so hard in the gut.

Davis arrives. “What’s up?” He wears a familiar look—curious, observing, trying to piece together clues, but not worried. His simple question is not a query about how I’m feeling. He’s asking why I wasn’t home when their dad tried to drop them off—something that’s never happened before. And he’s asking about why Ivy is with me after dinner, so close to their bedtime. Fortunately, he’s quickly distracted by Ivy, but even as he plays peekaboo with her, I can see the wheels turning in his head.

I can’t keep the truth from the twins for long. How do you explain something to a couple of third graders that’s filled with more questions than answers even for the adults? How can I explain something to kids that I don’t yet understand?

“Come inside,” I call. “Ivy’s getting cold.”

Since they’ve already eaten at Nancy’s, I begin our regular bedtime routine. The big difference tonight is that I have a baby in tow who proves to be an adorable but constant distraction. The process takes more than an hour instead of the usual thirty minutes. Thank heaven for Ivy, though; without her, I’d be having a much harder time holding myself together. I put on leggings, a sweatshirt, and fuzzy socks: comfort clothes.

The twins have separate rooms now, something I realized was necessary a few months ago when Davis insisted on dressing inside their cramped closet, away from his sister’s eyes. I’ve kept up the tradition of singing to them before bedtime, though now from the hall outside their rooms, where I’m visible from both beds. I find myself rocking side to side with Ivy as I did when they were babies. She leans her head on my shoulder. When the song is over, I blow kisses, and the kids return them. They send extra kisses to Ivy. When I reach to close their doors, Davis breaks his silence.

“Mom?”

So close.

“Yeah? Do you need a drink of water?” I know he doesn’t.

“What happened?”

A simple question that contains multitudes. Spoken with complete trust that I’ll give him the truth. I cannot open that can of worms right now.

“Nothing you need to worry about tonight. Let’s talk about it tomorrow after school, buddy, okay? It’s way past your bedtime.”

Davis gazes at me through the dimness of his room as if studying my face like a lie detector. “Okay.” He lies down, unsatisfied but not pressing the issue.

The doorbell rings. I hurry to answer, grateful for anything to pull me away from my son’s question, even if it turns out to be a college kid trying to sell me pest control. I look out a window to see who might be at the door. A silver Lexus is parked in the driveway. Rick’s car. He’s here for Ivy. At last, someone I can talk to.

On the other side of the door, Rick looks ashen, with bloodshot eyes and mussed hair. His tie hangs loose, and the top two buttons of his dress shirt are undone. This is the first time I’ve seen him looking even close to disheveled.

“Come in,” I say, ushering him inside. With the door closed behind him, I lock it, as if that might keep out further tragedies. “I left the base for the car seat in my car. Diaper bag too. I’ll be right back.”

Rick raises a hand to stop me. “Can we talk for a second?” He walks to the couch and drops there like a sack of sand.

“Of course.” I sit on the other side of the couch and wait for him to speak—and to take Ivy from me. He does the first but not the second. She’s happily snuggled in my arms, so we sit like that for a minute.

“They won’t say so,” Rick begins, “but I’m pretty sure they think I did it.”

“They always look at the spouse first. But of course you didn’t do it.”

“You believe that?” He turns to look at me, pleading in his drawn eyes.

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I don’t believe that you . . .” I glance over my shoulder, keenly aware that the twins might be able to hear, so I lower my voice. “I know you didn’t . . .” A deep breath. “You didn’t kill Jenn.”

He lets out a sigh that’s half groan, half sob. “I can’t tell you how relieved that makes me. But they do. I—I don’t know what to do.”

“Give them anything they want,” I say. “I’m pretty sure they suspect me too because I found her. The sooner they can clear both of us, the sooner they can find the real guy.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees and hands raking through his hair. “They kept me at the station for a lot longer than you, and they want me to go back in the morning.” With a shake of his head, he adds, “Maybe I should get a lawyer. I probably shouldn’t go back until I have one.”

“Spoken like a lawyer,” I say. “Go back in the morning, without one. You have nothing to hide, so you won’t need representation. It’ll look bad if you lawyer up now.”

“I didn’t do this,” Rick says, resting his face in his palms, his fingers reaching his hair, which stands up, mussed. After a moment, he lifts his face and his hands as if in surrender. “I didn’t.”

“I know that, but they don’t. They have to be thorough. Help them clear you.”

“The kinds of things they’re asking . . . I really think I should get a lawyer. I don’t care what it looks like if it keeps me out of prison for something I didn’t do.”

“No, don’t,” I say, putting a hand on his arm to show my solidarity. “I know that might seem like a good idea because you are a lawyer, but to the rest of the world, that will make you look guilty. Remember Jon Benet Ramsey’s parents?”

“Fair,” he says, then drags a hand down his face wearily. “But what if they don’t move on to find the real murderer?”

“They will,” I insist. “That’s literally their job. Without evidence, no charges would stick, and there can’t possibly be evidence if you didn’t do anything.”

“What about my DNA? They’ll find it all over the house.”

“Not finding your DNA in your own house would be suspicious.”

“True.” He pushes against his knees to stand and then begins pacing. “They were so nasty, so accusatory. They acted as if they already have evidence against me.”

“That’s what detectives do,” I assure him. “Is there any evidence for them to find?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

He stops pacing, but his eyes are wild, and he seems to be thinking hard. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. There’s no evidence because I didn’t do anything. Of course.” He lets out a huge breath as if expelling hours of worry.

“Your daughter won’t grow up without her father.” No need to say anything about her mother.

Mentioning Ivy seems to flip a switch in Rick’s head. He looks at her in my arms and again scrubs a hand down his face. “What am I supposed to do with her? I don’t know her schedule or anything. Jenn did all that stuff.” He resumes pacing. I debate whether to speak again, but he decides for me. He returns to the couch and leans in. “Would you take care of Ivy?” He rushes on to clarify. “Not forever. Just for a few days, until things with the cops blow over and I can see straight?”

“I work full time . . .” Has he forgotten that little detail?

“Oh yeah. Right. I mean evenings and overnight and stuff. We have daycare for when Jenn worked.”

I’m a bit uneasy about the idea. I don’t know if Ivy sleeps through the night yet, but if she does, a change in routine and environment will likely upset that. I should make sure Detective Andrus is aware of any arrangement we make so I don’t screw up some procedure that will land Ivy in foster care after all.

“We could probably find a way to give you temporary custody,” Rick suggests, his lawyer hat on.

“I don’t want to cause any problems for Ivy . . . or you.” Can a custody order—even a temporary one—mess things up for a biological parent? I have no idea. Jenn would know; she had plenty of experience in the system. I’d do anything for her, and that extends to her family. She’d want me to take care of Ivy; I do not doubt that. “Sure. Let’s look into it.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Rick almost smiles. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I have some idea,” I say. “Could you give me info on the daycare Jenn used? Keeping things as normal as possible for Ivy would be good.”

“Oh, um . . . I should be able to find that stuff. Sure. I’ll look for it as soon as they let me back in the house.” He gets up and heads for the door.

I follow. “Where are you staying now?”

“At the motel on Main.” He lifts one shoulder and drops it. “Not exactly the Ritz, but it’ll do until I can get back into the house and the media circus outside dies down.” As he steps outside, I hold Ivy out to him so he can say goodnight. He doesn’t seem to notice, just keeps moving toward his car, no doubt in the same kind of otherworldly haze I’ve been in for much of the day. As he starts his car, I lift Ivy’s hand and give her daddy a wave. He lowers the window, ostensibly to wave back, but instead, he says, “I’ll let you know how tomorrow morning’s interview goes.”

Then he pulls out of the driveway, and his taillights slowly disappear into the night.