The next morning Kathryn walked out of the daycare, feeling the lightness of moving without a child in her arms.
A helicopter flew overhead, traveling west over the freeway. Inside the car she turned up the radio. “…with traffic backed up in both east and westbound lanes on the 10 from Santa Monica to Hollywood. The 405 interchange has been closed as emergency vehicles are clearing debris…”
She reached into her purse for her sunglasses, realized she had forgotten the empty baby bottles she would need to pump later in the day. Shit. Every day she overlooked one thing; the laundry still damp in the machine, the call to building maintenance to fix the disposal, the permission slip for Michael’s field trip. How could she be expected to remember everything? She checked her watch. She would still have enough time to swing by home and pick up the bottles before her scheduled call with the managing editor.
“…live reports confirm that the problem on the 10 and 405 freeways was caused by a major explosion in an SUV early this morning. We have no information yet on whether the explosion was intentional, or if so, who caused it…”
She was grateful she wouldn’t have to drive anywhere near the traffic.
“…CHP reports at least four confirmed fatalities…”
She was relieved to turn off the car in the parking garage and stop the news.
In the kitchen, she realized why she had forgotten the bottles, she had neglected to wash the used ones from the day before, so they weren’t ready in the dish rack for her. Just as the bubbles from the dish soap were overflowing out of the bottle, the phone rang. She fished it out of her purse, craned her neck so she could hold it between her ear and her shoulder and attempted to finish the washing.
“Hello,” she said curtly. Her husband’s manager identified himself and after a moment she paused in her washing, trying to understand the meaning of his words.
“So you don’t know where he is?” the man repeated, with some urgency.
“What do you mean?” Kathryn answered into the phone, soap bubbles dripping off her hand into the kitchen sink. “You scheduled his offshore job. He told me he’d be gone for a week or so.”
Kathryn dried her hands and called her husband’s phone number. She listened. Hung up and dialed again, irritated. She heard a knock at the door.
She opened the door wide to reveal a Caucasian man dressed in a suit.
“Hello?” She closed the door back down to a few inches.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he checked the number on the outside of the door. “I’m looking for Mrs. Siddique.”
“I am Mrs. Siddique.”
He scanned her face. “Yes. Mrs. Siddique, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He flashed a badge, “Agent Roberts, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Why are you here?” she closed the door a little more.
“Rashid Siddique is your husband?”
“You seem to know that already.”
“Where is he right now?”
“Working.”
Silence.
He raised his hand, opened his fingers to reveal a ring, a yellow gold band resting on his palm.
“I think you recognize this ring Mrs. Siddique?”
The blood drained from her face. “Where did you get that? Is Rashid all right?”
“I think you’d better let me come in.”
She stepped aside, motioning for the man to come inside and sit on the couch. She would miss the scheduled call with her managing editor. As the stranger sat down, the room appeared suddenly unfamiliar, unfriendly. She sat across from him in a chair, unable to sit back.
“This ring was found early this morning, inside the remains of an SUV at the scene of the bombing.”
“The bombing…?” she echoed
“Yes, the bombing on the 10 freeway.”
“The accident?”
“It was no accident. An SUV packed with fertilizer bombs exploded canisters of nails and ball bearings. A cell phone set off a detonator, a type of detonator common in the petroleum industry. Mrs. Siddique, your husband is dead. I need to understand how he was involved.”