An hour later, I’m in the parking lot, and I’m shaking. I have my windows rolled up despite the warm May night. When I notice a trio of women watching, I recognize them from the show and wave my hand in farewell. Then I start my car and back out.
I did well. That’s what everyone said, from the guests who’d come up to me afterward to the librarians who’d been watching from the dressing room.
You handled that so well.
I don’t know what that woman thought she was doing.
Some people . . .
After the show finished, I’d gone to the seat I’d noted earlier—fourth row, third from the center aisle—and marked down the number. 4J. The woman herself was long gone, having left after she interrupted my show.
Why had she done it? I couldn’t wrap my head around that. It was a sold-out show, meaning she’d bought her ticket well in advance with the intention of doing this.
Was she an old friend of Laura’s? She seemed about the right age. Maybe she was a friend who’d been furious when the police hadn’t pressed charges. But they’d investigated and found no reason to believe Oliver had done anything wrong.
The boat trip had been Laura’s idea. Swimming off the side was her idea, too—she always insisted on it, and Oliver always worried that swimming in such open water wasn’t safe. A group of men fishing a bit away had spotted an attractive woman in a bikini balanced on the bow of a boat, and two had picked up binoculars to watch. They saw Laura dive in while Oliver stayed at the stern, well out of reach. They’d then seen her swimming and calling back to Oliver, laughing and teasing before ducking under the water. When Laura didn’t resurface in a few minutes, Oliver frantically flagged them down.
The case was so cut-and-dried that even tabloid media only lured people in with clickbait headlines before acknowledging that it’d been a tragic accident.
There will still be people convinced that Oliver got away with murder. That obviously includes the woman who accused him tonight. And she’d thrown in Oliver’s college girlfriend’s death for extra ammo.
Oliver told me about Greta shortly after we connected, when he confessed how worried he’d been that I might have been suicidal myself. Oliver and Greta had been students together in Vancouver. He’d known she was struggling with the pressures of school and parental expectations, but he hadn’t realized how bad it’d gotten until it was too late. While he’d been in Seattle with friends, she’d downed her whole bottle of antidepressants. He will never forgive himself for not being there that weekend.
And Martine?
The troll hadn’t even said Martine’s name; she’d just thrown out a wild accusation about Oliver’s girlfriend filing a complaint with the police.
Oliver has been seeing Martine for six months now. He’s wild about her, and what I’ve seen of her, I really like. She’s quiet, apparently more like Greta than Laura. She’s smart and sweet and good for him, encouraging him to step off the corporate treadmill, slow down and breathe.
I can’t imagine Oliver doing something to Martine. He is frustratingly even-tempered, and she is so quiet I have to lean in to hear what she’s saying. No fight between them would have escalated to a screaming match that brought the police.
Still, having spent my adult life studying intimate partner abuse, I know I can never say with absolute certainty that someone is incapable of it. Just because Oliver has never been that way toward or in front of me does not mean I can absolve him of guilt or even suspicion.
What I need to do now is speak to Oliver. Warn him in case he’s in danger from this woman. Another person might argue she was just some troll causing trouble, that she’s hardly going to show up on his doorstep tonight with a gun. But anyone who thinks that hasn’t had a loved one murdered by a stalker. And anyone who thinks that doesn’t listen to my podcast. Even if it’s an overreaction, I don’t ever want to be looking back wishing I’d warned him sooner.
I call Oliver’s number over Bluetooth, and my brain mentally adds a hatch to this week’s tally: the number of times I’ve contacted Oliver versus the number of times he’s contacted me. Yes, I keep track, and I like my tally to be always just slightly lower than his. He’s my only family, and I am terrified—terrified—of clinging too tight. Terrified of losing him and terrified of relying on him so much that I suffocate him. I measure everything, and I know that’s not healthy, but it keeps me calm and steady.
I know I am not a burden in any way—Oliver reaches out more often than I do. He invites me out more often than I invite him. Despite his offers, I don’t work for his corporation. I no longer live in his guesthouse. I don’t even accept the money transfers he sends when I have an unexpected expense.
The trust fund from my mother’s estate covers tuition and rent while I slowly finish my doctorate. Right now, with advertising and promotion—and paying Raven, my producer, her cut—I’m not exactly reeling in millions with my podcast, but I have started clearing a very low four figures a month, which covers daily expenses and allows for some savings. Even if my growth pattern slows, I predict being able to take care of expenses and rent in a few months. So, in other words, I’m doing just fine financially.
I turn onto the highway as the phone rings three times before going to Oliver’s voice mail.
“Hey,” I say. “It’s me. Had a weird thing happen at the show tonight, and I’d like to talk to you about it.”
I sign off and then check the car clock. It’s nine thirty. Not late enough for him to be in bed, but late enough that I won’t have caught him working late.
Could he be out with Martine? No, I remember her mentioning a Tuesday book club, because I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask whether they take new members.
So why do my fingers itch to hit the Redial button?
I switch lanes and go to turn on a podcast, but only drum my fingers against the wheel instead, as I think about my own podcast and whether I’ll need to address tonight’s interruption, maybe with a note on my website. My fingers move to the screen to place another call, this one to Raven Kwan, my producer. She’s on the West Coast, so it isn’t too late. I should also warn her about what happened.
Except if I phone her, I might miss Oliver’s return call.
I’ll email Raven later instead. A few minutes pass. Oliver still doesn’t call back.
I mentally replay my message to him and curse myself. I made it sound as if I just needed to vent or cry on his shoulder. If I were him, I’d quietly pretend I didn’t get that message until morning.
I call him.
“Hey, it’s me again,” I begin when I get his voice mail for a second time. “The short version is that a woman interrupted my show to ask about Laura, and she seemed a bit unhinged. I wanted you to know right away.”
I sign off again.
He doesn’t call back.
After I get home, I text Oliver the woman’s description, acting as if I’d just forgotten to mention it in the call. I write a note on everything I remember about the woman: her seat number, her age and appearance and exactly what she said. Then I make myself popcorn and load up a streaming show on my laptop . . . watching exactly twenty minutes of it and remembering not a single scene because I spend more time watching the status of that text.
Unread.
Maybe Oliver has an early-morning meeting and is already in bed. He sometimes does that. Martine also could have stopped by after book club, and maybe they’re in bed and not sleeping.
It’s fine. Drop it, Amy. Seriously, drop it.
But I don’t drop it. I look up the number of the Grand Forks police department and script what I’d say if I called.
Hi, so, uh, I have reason to believe my brother may have been brought in for questioning, at his girlfriend’s behest . . . No? He’s not there? . . . Am I concerned about her safety? Why, no. Not at all. Why do you ask?
Yeah . . . I can’t call.
Instead, I look up Martine’s number, and again I script what I could say.
Hey, Martine. It’s Amy. Weird question, but have you and Oliver had a fight lately? Possibly one that could have led to you calling the police and him being taken in for questioning?
I groan. I have to stop this. There is nothing I can do that won’t make me seem as if I need more therapy, nothing I can say that won’t make trouble for my brother.
Oliver is fine.
Everything is fine.
Go to bed, Amy.
I don’t go to bed.