twenty-six

Amanda brought Anya home, and I hoped we could talk, but my sister needed to hurry back to my mother’s side. My daughter didn’t have much to say about her day either.

“Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m willing to listen. In fact, I want to talk to you about what’s been happening.”

“Not in the mood.” Anya picked up her backpack and headed for her room.

Digging around in my change jar, I found exactly enough money to pay for a Domino’s Pizza. I ordered Anya’s favorite, thin crust sausage and pepperoni. We ate while watching The Mentalist. Although the food seemed to do Anya good, she still seemed preoccupied.

Thelma called at quarter to eight. “Mr. Schnabel is a godsend, Kiki. You worked a miracle.”

No, but Laurel did. I’d have to thank her.

“He’s out? Everything’s okay?” I got up and took the call into the kitchen. I hadn’t told Anya about what was happening with Detweiler. Over the course of the evening, my energy had leaked out the way air escapes from a helium balloon. I couldn’t handle whatever emotions were bound to come with this worrisome news. Anya had never run into Brenda, but she’d heard plenty about Det-weiler’s wife’s drug use and bad behavior. I was being a big chicken not to tell my daughter all the ugly details, but from the depths of my memory came a line from H. Rider Haggard’s Cleopatra, “Peace, Slave! Leave matters of the world to rulers of the world.” Of course, Anya wasn’t a slave and I wasn’t a ruler, but the accusations against Detweiler would be hard for her to handle. She didn’t need to bother with them. Not yet.

“There will be a bond hearing tomorrow. Milton and his wife, Carla, will be in the court to give their statements. Then we’ll see if Chad can be released.”

“But his safety! They can’t put him in with criminals!”

“They’ll put Chad in solitary confinement, away from the general population. We got them to agree to that at least.”

“Oh, Thelma. You must be so upset. How’s Louis taking all this?”

“Hard. The sun rises and sets on Chad. On all our children. Louis can’t imagine how Chad’s spent casings could have been found at the scene.”

The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Someone could have planted them there.”

“Who picks up spent casings?” Thelma wondered.

“Believe it or not, there was this couple that went to Atlantic City on a killing spree. They murdered another couple. But they were caught because she—the female killer—kept evidence of their crime to scrapbook! The news reports hinted she picked up empty bullet casings.”

A long silence. “You have to be kidding me. I’m glad I stick to my knitting.”

“People think that all scrapbookers are nice people, and typically we are, but hey, we’re a broad cross-section of the population. Most of us are nice, but a few … not so much. I mean, it happens, right? Are they checking the casings for DNA?”

“I guess they’re checking them for all sorts of stuff. But the evidence found at the scene had to be sent to a lab outside of Chicago where there’s a backlog.”

“So Schnabel is being helpful?”

“Oh, my, yes. He knows his stuff, Kiki. Started on the phone making calls with investigators, questioned the lab results regarding the ballistics, questioned the chain of evidence, waded right in. I don’t know how on God’s green earth you convinced him to come to our aid—and pro bono at that!—but what a relief. That silly public defender they assigned Chad couldn’t help a cat sneak out of a pillowcase.”

She paused and asked, “How are you doing, hon? You okay? Everything all right?”

What a trooper she was. I assured her that I was fine.

“Keep your fingers crossed. Say prayers for us.”

She promised to text-message me as soon as the bail hearing was over. I told her to give Chad my love and hung up.

“Are you as tired as I am?” I asked Anya as she sat on the sofa staring at the TV. Her colt-like legs were tucked under her and both cats, Seymour, and Martin snuggled in her lap.

“Yes.” Her eyelids looked as if they were ready to pull down the shades and call it a day.

She got ready for bed, and I went into her room to tell her goodnight. Seymour curled his gray-striped body next to her head. Martin, the yellow tom, nestled in the crook of her legs.

After turning off the light, I hesitated. A powerful impulse drew me closer to my little girl. Gently, I sank down onto her bed. “You sure you’re all right? You’ve been awfully quiet, Anya-Banana.”

“Just thinking.”

“About what? Did you have a rough day at school? Worried about exams?”

“Not really.”

I waited. As I did, my eyes adjusted to the darkness of her room. The silhouette of her dresser and her desk became visible. At last she said, “Mom, why would someone hurt themselves?”

So she was thinking about Brenda and her drug use.

“They don’t see it as hurting themselves. They are running away from pain.”

“By causing themselves pain? How does that work?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m not entirely sure of the mechanism, but people choose activities that distract them from their real problems.”

“But it makes new ones!”

“Absolutely. So when a person keeps buying stuff he can’t afford, for that moment when he’s contemplating the purchase and handing over the money, he’s not thinking about his troubles. When the bills come, wham! Then he’s in distress again. So he goes out and buys something hoping to feel better. It’s a cycle.”

She didn’t say anything. Her breathing had become slow and regular. I tucked her in and crept out of the room.