Текст книги "Where They Found Her"

Автор книги: Kimberly McCreight

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

She did realize that might be easier for her to say. Barbara had been way on the other side of the woods that night, near the circle of logs where the girls hung out, at least the ones who weren’t off hooking up with boys in the wet leaves. The logs were the only place they could sit without getting filthy. The boys, meanwhile, were always taking off into the woods to play something they called “drunk obstacle,” seeing who could scramble the fastest over a pitch-black course of branches and logs. Dumb high school jocks: Everything’s got to be a competition. Steve had never wanted to talk about the details of that night—it upset him too much—but he and some of the other boys had seen Simon slip.

Steve nodded. “Just print them out, okay?” He straightened up and headed for the steps. “What I really need now is to wash that creek off me. I’ve got it coming out of my pores.”

“Okay, but try to be quick,” Barbara said tentatively. She had no choice but to warn him. “My mom’s coming back in a few minutes. For dinner. It’s Tuesday, remember?”

Steve paused on the stairs. His head dropped as he rested a hand on the banister. “Okay,” he said, looking up at Barbara and forcing a smile, obviously steeling himself. “Okay.”

As he drifted up the steps, part of her wished he’d demanded that she cancel dinner with her parents. Because, lately, his doing what she wanted seemed in inverse proportion to his affection for her.

After Steve was gone, Barbara went out to the sitting room. Cole wasn’t in front of the TV, a sure sign she’d left him out there far too long. Instead, he was sitting at his small table, tucked in the corner. His back was to Barbara. From across the room, she couldn’t see what he was doing, but the closer she got, the more it looked like he wasn’t doing much of anything. Except sitting there, staring once again, at nothing.

“Cole, honey,” Barbara called, slowing halfway across the room. She was afraid of startling him. She raised her voice, hoping he’d snap out of it before she got too close. “Bob’s not so interesting today?”

Cole didn’t answer. And he didn’t move—not an inch, not a twitch. Barbara couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.

“We have Nana’s lasagna for dinner, Cole.” Barbara made her voice louder but cheery as she made her way over to him, her hands clasped so tightly they had started to throb. “With no green things in it, just the way you like.”

She saw the markers then, the short, chubby ones. All fifty were scattered across the table and on the floor, most of their caps off, as though someone had tossed them into the air and let them rain down. Why would he do that? Cole was a neat, particular kid. He worried about things like markers drying out. Barbara was a couple feet behind him now. She reached out a hand as a hole opened up in her stomach.

“Bob the Builder, can we fix it?” Bob and his friends sang from behind her.

“Cole,” Barbara said more loudly. Her fingers stroked the air. “Cole, please. Look at me.”

She was right behind him now. She was right there. But he hadn’t moved. And she was so afraid to touch him. Afraid of what he might do—that was it. She felt afraid of her son. And why? It made no sense, but it was true. And she hated herself for it.

“Can we build it? Yes, we can!”

Cole was at least breathing, panting. “Honey?” Her voice was high and choppy. “Are you okay? Please, Cole, say something.”

There was only his breath, puff, puff, puff.

And then Barbara was close enough to see it. There, on the table. The drawing Cole had been working on. It was rough and childish, all jagged lines and out of proportion, like all of his drawings. But there was no pretending it was anything other than what it was.

A picture of a boy with his arm cut off.

Molly Sanderson, Session 10, May 1, 2013

(Audio Transcription, Session Recorded with

Patient Knowledge and Consent)

Q:    Do you think you’re ready to talk about what happened that night?

M.S.: You mean the night I lost the baby? We’ve talked about that a couple times. We can talk about it again if you want.

Q:    I mean after that. The night that brought you to see me the first time.

M.S.: You’re making it sound more serious than it was.

Q:    Justin had to call an ambulance.

M.S.: He did call an ambulance. He didn’t have to call an ambulance.

Q:    What happened that night, Molly?

M.S.: Justin panicked. I’m not blaming him, but that’s what happened. It was five stitches. I didn’t need an ambulance.

Q:    I think it’s important that we talk about it. You’ve made good progress here. But I don’t want to overlook the fact that we’ve been treading lightly around some pretty significant issues.

M.S.: I dropped a glass. It broke. Then I slipped when I was cleaning it up.

Q:    You slipped on your arm?

M.S.: Yes. That’s what happened.

Q:    And Ella?

M.S.: I didn’t realize I was bleeding until Justin came home. I never would have picked her up. If I’d been trying to kill myself, do you really think I would have done it when I was home alone with her?

Q:    You wouldn’t have?

M.S.: No. I would have waited until I was by myself. And then I would have been sure to finish the job.

Molly

From the sitting room, I heard the front door open. Justin. I listened to the familiar sounds of him dropping his bag, hanging up his jacket. I looked past my laptop to Ella, sound asleep on the couch next to me. Justin wouldn’t approve of my having let her fall asleep here instead of taking her up to bed. Admittedly, I was our weak link in the sleep department. But I couldn’t bring myself to say good night. I’d needed Ella’s warm little body pressed up against me. I thought about picking her up and hustling for the steps to hide the evidence, but before I could move, I got a text from Erik. Any word on that former student in the hospital?

Police holding her for questioning, I replied. I’ll need official confirmation before I report.

The more I thought about it, the less comfortable I was covering Rose’s part in the story. And that was unlikely to change after I had confirmation she was a suspect. She was probably like so many of those women I had worked on behalf of for years—scared, alone, traumatized. Not thinking clearly. That was something I certainly knew all about. How could I possibly add fuel to the police fire? I wished Stella had never called me, that I’d never met Rose. Especially after what Ella had told me. Had Stella invented the story about Rose’s sexual assault to protect Aidan? It was hard to believe that even Stella could be that good an actress or that calculated.

Hold off mentioning her until we see where it goes, Erik wrote back. We don’t want to jump the gun with something like this.

Okay, I wrote back, glad to be off the hook, but surprised by the sudden caution, at odds with Erik’s usual take-no-prisoners approach. Any idea when you’ll be back?

Soon, I hope. Helping with uncle’s funeral arrangements.

Your uncle?

Yes, elderly. Long illness.

Sorry to hear. My sympathies to your family.

Thx. Be in touch soon.

Nancy had said Erik’s cousin’s house had burned down. Now it was a dead elderly uncle. It was possible Nancy had gotten it wrong. Possible but unlikely. From the beginning, Erik’s abrupt disappearance had been suspicious. Now I felt sure that whatever Erik was doing had nothing to do with a dead uncle or a house fire.

I held a finger to my lips when Justin appeared in the doorway to our small sitting room, then I gestured guiltily toward Ella. He smiled—no hint of the irritation I’d expected—looking especially handsome in the suit he had on. The faculty cocktail party, I’d forgotten all about it. He must have come home to change after I’d seen him at the Black Cat. It was only then that I looked at the clock: almost eleven p.m. I’d gotten so wrapped up in fruitlessly searching for a connection between Rose and Aidan that I’d lost track of time.

There were no photos of Aidan on Rose’s Instagram account (dormant for days) and no mention of Rose on Aidan’s sparse Facebook page, wide open for the world to see with its absence of privacy settings. I’d come across Rose’s raw-food blog, which included mentions of her roommate, Laurie, and a handful of photos of her friends. But no mention of any boyfriend.

Justin motioned for me to follow him toward the kitchen as he loosened his tie. When I’d slid carefully off the couch without waking Ella and made my way to the kitchen, Justin had his back turned. He was pouring two glasses of Scotch, his twice the size of mine.

“Rough day, huh?” I asked.

“Not the best I’ve had.” His voice was low and heavy.

“Want to talk about it?” I asked, crossing the room to him.

“Feels stupid on a day like today,” Justin said, shaking his head and gesturing toward me—the baby they’d found, he meant. “Different university, same old politics. That’s all. Not very interesting.” He took a long swallow of his whiskey, so long that it verged on a gulp.

“Wow, it must be bad.” I pressed my body against Justin’s back, hooking my arms under his. “Come on, talk to me.”

I wanted him to tell me everything. It had been so long since I’d been able to be there for Justin, to listen to his problems, no matter how trivial, relatively speaking. It was nice to think of our marriage regaining the equilibrium I’d once prided myself on.

“It’s just hard to compete when you’re the new kid on the block. Miles Cooper doesn’t have half my publications, but the president of the university was his professor at Yale. And he plays basketball every Wednesday with the dean of students.”

“You could play basketball,” I offered, kissing him on the neck. “You’re good at basketball.”

“I think you’d be a better way to curry favor with Thomas Price,” he said. “He was there tonight. Seems you made quite the impression.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t give you more warning than a text two seconds before. Talking to him was very last-minute.”

Justin turned around to look at me. He smoothed the hair out of my face. “I hope you made Thomas Price uncomfortable under the weight of your incisive questioning.”

“I’m afraid it was all awfully polite.” In retrospect, maybe too polite. I probably should have pressed Price more about how the university handled student complaints, about sexual assaults especially. “And what do you mean, ‘impression’?”

“He found you ‘absolutely charming.’ Those were his exact words—who even talks like that? Anyway, I think he might have a crush on you.”

I felt a rush of juvenile delight. This was what happened when you spent months locked away from the world: you regressed. Briefly, I imagined a scene in which Justin and Thomas Price fought for my affections. I’d end up with Justin, of course. But that was hardly the point.

“Oh, please,” I said. “He was just being polite because I’m married to you.”

“A crush, I’m telling you.” Justin smiled, then took another huge swallow, finishing his drink. “If only we could get Thomas Price’s crush on you to somehow turn into the university president’s crush on me.”

“Thanks for the note, by the way,” I said, laying my face in the warm crook of his neck. “It really– I needed it.”

“I never should have stopped giving them to you.” His voice was serious. “Never.”

“Yeah, well, I think we both have plenty of things we wish we’d done differently.”

Justin set the empty glass on the counter, then put his hands on my face, running a thumb over my cheekbone. “I’m so glad you’re back, Molly Sanderson,” he said, smiling at me in that way of his that always made me feel like some miraculous, unearthed treasure. “Promise me I’ll never lose you again. No matter what.”

“I promise,” I said, staring straight back at him.

He was still worried about my ability to handle the story. But he was wrong. It would be good for me, even if I wasn’t sure how.

Justin leaned forward, sliding his fingers to the back of my neck and pulling me to him. He kissed me hard, the way he had before he was afraid I might shatter. And I let myself get lost in it, in a way I hadn’t for a long time. Suddenly, I needed us to disappear into each other. I needed everything else to fall away—the past, the future. All my mistakes and shortcomings. All the ways I had failed Justin and Ella and myself. The ways I had failed her, my baby who never was. I needed to know that we had done better than survive. I needed to believe that we were reborn.

Justin kicked the kitchen door closed as he peeled off my shirt and I tugged at his jacket. A second later, my pants were off and I was naked up against the kitchen counter, unbuttoning Justin’s pants as he slipped his fingers under the edge of my bra. I pressed my open mouth against his neck to keep my sounds from waking Ella. As Justin pushed inside of me, I watched us move together in the reflection of the kitchen window.

We lay on the floor afterward, Justin’s crumpled suit between us and the cold tile floor, giggling and panting, our bodies threaded together like our much younger selves. My head was resting on Justin’s damp, naked chest.

“Do you remember the first time you spent the night?” Justin asked, his voice vibrating against my ear.

“How could I forget?” I adjusted my cheek until I found a softer nook under his collarbone. “It’s not every day you get the pleasure of sleeping with your head jammed up against a refrigerator.”

“It was a small apartment, wasn’t it? I remember waking up in the middle of the night, and there you were, pulling on your clothes.”

“It was six a.m., not the middle of the night, and I wanted to slip out before you fed me any lines,” I said. “I liked you. I wanted to keep it that way.”

“But my irresistible charm convinced you to stay.”

“Pancakes early on Saturdays, that was supposedly your thing. Except you had no idea what was open at that hour.”

“Yes, and you pointed out that I’d been lying, while eating the delicious pancakes I did eventually find for us.”

“Did I?” I laughed. “I was a hard-ass. Leslie was right. I’m surprised you wanted to see me again.”

“Come on, Molly, you know I’ve always loved that you’re straight-shooting.”

“Lucky for you I’ve mellowed with age.”

“You’re going to make an amazing reporter, too, I have no doubt.” Justin took a deep breath, which rocked my head up and down. “Just not on this story, okay? I want you to ask Erik to reassign it, Molly. Do it for me.”

I lifted my head to look at him, but he was staring at the ceiling. It was such a bomb, I was assuming I must have misheard him. “What did you say?”

“I’m too worried about what this will—how much this is going to dredge up for you,” he said, meeting my eyes. “Things have been so good lately, Molly. I don’t want to lose what we have back.”

This was my fault. I never should have gotten so emotional at the Black Cat. I’d probably seemed like I was about to go right off a cliff again. I felt so much steadier now. The story was just that: a story. One that meant something to me, yes. But it wasn’t about me.

“I was caught off guard at first that it was a baby. It’s true,” I said. “But I’m okay now. The story actually feels like it will bring—”

“Closure,” he said, finishing my sentence. “Yeah, I know. That’s what you said before. And that’s exactly what’s worrying me.”

“That’s not what I said before.” I hadn’t, had I?

“No, you’re right,” he said, his eyes sad as he stared at me. “You said it was ‘connected’ to what happened to us.”

He was right, that I had said. All I could do was stare at him. I didn’t have any defense.

“We’ve gone over this all before, Molly—there’s never going to be closure. Not for what we lost. And you’re just going to have to learn to live with that. We both will. Give the story back to Richard, Molly. He’s the news reporter, not you.”

“I’m not giving the story to anyone, Justin,” I said, feeling an unexpected flash of anger. I didn’t care if Justin was well intentioned. What he was doing and the way he was doing it were wrong. He was my husband. I needed him to support me. “I have to do this. I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but if I can find out what happened to this baby, maybe I can make sense of . . .”

How had I started down that path again? I did sound delusional. Every road kept leading back to me and my baby. Justin let my unfinished sentence hang there, proof of his point.

“I understand you want to do this story, and I even understand why,” he said finally. “But what if you’re wrong about being okay? What if you’re not the best judge of how you’re feeling?”

“That’s insulting.” I jerked my shirt on, then pushed myself off the floor. “You’re talking about me like I’m—like I have some sort of permanent affliction. I was depressed, Justin. And for good reason, I might add. I’m not anymore. End of story.”

“I’m asking you not to do this one story, Molly,” Justin said, angry now, too, as he tugged on his own shirt. “Haven’t I earned the right to ask for that much?”

“Earned the right because you took care of me?” My chest felt raw as I moved away from the spot where we’d been lying. “Are you seriously going to use that as a bargaining chip? You think that’s fair?”

Justin pressed his lips together as he stood. “You know what’s really not fair, Molly?” His voice was calm and deliberate. He knew better than to forfeit his credibility by losing his patience. “You trying to turn my caring about you into me being an asshole.”

“Well, I’m sorry if our dead baby didn’t roll right off my back the way it did yours.” My voice was too shrill and too loud. But I wanted to hurt him. “That actually doesn’t make you a better person, you know. It just makes you lucky.”

Justin stared at the floor, frowning, shaking his head. “I’ll see you upstairs,” he said. He didn’t look at me again as he stepped toward the door. “But first I’ll put Ella to bed.”

After he was gone, I stood there alone in the kitchen in my T-shirt and underwear, furious and filled with regret. Wanting to apologize and go after him and fight some more. I was saved from having to choose when my phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize. I hoped it wasn’t Deckler again.

“Hello?” I barked.

“This is Chief of Police Steve Carlson, Ms. Sanderson. Sorry to disturb you so late.”

“That’s okay.” I tried to soften my voice. “What is it?”

“You were at the hospital this afternoon?”

Ugh. I did not like where this was starting, much less where I knew it was headed. “Um, yeah, my friend’s cleaning woman was in a car accident. She wanted moral support.” Why had I said it that way? That made Stella sound involved. “Or company, that’s a better way of putting it. My friend can be a little dramatic, even in situations that don’t involve her.”

Oh, great. Dramatic? What was wrong with me? Just because it was true didn’t mean it was something I should be saying to the police. And not saying Stella’s name didn’t make it any better, no matter what I was trying to tell myself.

“What time did you leave the hospital?”

“Probably around one p.m.,” I said. “I went to the university for an interview.”

“Okay. Could you please call me if you hear from Stella?”

No, I will not. That was what I wanted to say. And why should I go around reporting on the whereabouts of a friend? But refusing seemed awfully confrontational under the circumstances.

“Sure,” I said hesitantly. “Can you tell me why?”

“Rose Gowan is gone,” Steve said. “And so, it seems, is your friend Stella.”

I dreamed of babies. Dead ones. One of them was mine. But I didn’t know which, in a roomful of little caskets. I startled awake, bolting upright in the darkness. I could see the outline of Justin, sleeping on his side next to me. I put a hand on him to check that he was breathing, then curled up tight behind him, pretending we hadn’t argued earlier. It seemed such a silly waste now. And with those kinds of dreams, it was hard to maintain that the story wasn’t having an effect on me.

When I awoke again, it was almost seven a.m., and Justin was already gone. He’d left a note: Conference at Columbia; back late. There was another one of his little notes, too. I felt a pang of guilt about our fight the night before.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers—That perches in the soul—Emily Dickinson

I rolled over and picked up my cell phone off my nightstand and sent Justin a text: I know you’re just trying to help. Sorry about last night. xo.

I didn’t expect him to answer, but he did. Right away. I’m sorry, too. And I do believe in you, Molly. More than you’ll ever know. xo.

I felt relieved as I headed downstairs. Glad that Justin and I were no longer technically in a fight. Glad also that there’d been no overnight text from Stella, angry that I’d talked to Steve. Ella had even slept later than usual, leaving me time for a quiet cup of coffee before we got swept into the morning routine.

But as soon as I stepped into the living room, I was unnerved by something out of place. There was a small cardboard file box sitting a few feet inside our front door. Some kind of gift from Justin? Except the closer I got, the more it seemed an odd box for a present. Also, Molly Sanderson was written in large black letters across the top, and it didn’t look like Justin’s handwriting.

I pulled my phone out of my sweatshirt pocket and sent Justin another text, hoping to catch him before he lost a signal when the train went into Penn Station. Is the box a peace offering?

What box?

Come on. The box by the front door?

I’m all 4 peace offerings. But I don’t know anything about a box.

I took the stairs two at a time. Someone had been in our house. Someone could still be in our house. Maybe Ella wasn’t asleep. Maybe something had been done to her. I threw open her bedroom door so hard that it banged against the wall.

Ella jerked up from a dead sleep. “Mommy!” she shouted, bursting into terrified tears.

But she was okay. She was fine. That was the most important thing. I sucked in a mouthful of air—okay, Ella was fine. Now I had to pull myself together and get the two of us out of the house, just in case whoever had been in the house was still there.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said, trying to stay calm as I pulled Ella out of bed and into my arms. I sounded out of breath. I probably looked scared to death, too. Luckily, Ella was still half asleep. “I thought we could go out for pancakes. You know, a special treat.”

“But I’m tired,” Ella whined, rubbing her eyes as she wrapped her legs around my waist. “I don’t want breakfast. I want to go back to sleep.”

“I know, Peanut, I know.” I rubbed her back as I headed down the steps.

I paused only long enough to grab my car keys and purse. Not long enough to notice it was pouring outside, much less to grab an umbrella. I rushed down the front walkway toward the car, with Ella in her Hello Kitty pajamas, trying to shield her from the deluge, relieved to see that I was at least in yoga pants and a sweatshirt and not naked.

Getting soaked, I buckled Ella into the car seat smoothly and slowly, smiling the whole time as though that might convince her she’d imagined all of our racing around. Once I’d climbed in the driver’s seat and locked the doors tight, I wiped the rain off my face, grinning at her in the rearview. But she just turned her sleepy, grumpy face to the side as I backed slowly out of the driveway. It wasn’t until I’d driven three streets away that it felt safe to pull over. I turned off the wipers, and the drumming rain quickly blurred out the windshield.

When I looked up at Ella in the rearview again, she was clutching her blanket and sucking her thumb, sound asleep.

“Steve Carlson,” he answered on the first ring. He sounded like I’d woken him. In bed with Barbara, surely. And yet it was so hard to picture.

“This is Molly Sanderson. I’m sorry to bother you so early,” I began. “But I—I had your number in my phone from last night. And I wasn’t sure who else to call. I think someone was in my house.”

“Are you inside your house now?” he asked, serious, official, cop-like.

My heart picked up speed again. I’d been so prepared to be dismissed out of hand. “No, I’m in my car a few blocks away with my daughter. Someone left a box in my living room while we were asleep. I’m sure I’m overreacting, but—”

“Stay where you are for now,” Steve said. “Give me your address and I’ll check it out.”

By the time Steve had called me to return home, it was barely misting.

He was leaning against an unmarked car—maybe just his car—when I arrived, looking much younger in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I parked behind him, quietly unbuckling my seat belt and leaving the car running as I got out, hoping Ella would stay asleep.

“Morning,” he said, nodding at me, then flicking his eyes disapprovingly in the direction of my humming car.

“I was hoping Ella would stay asleep in there,” I explained.

Steve nodded, but his brow stayed furrowed. “Well, there’s no one in your house.”

“That’s a relief,” I said. “I was home with Ella alone; my husband left early. And when I woke up, there was this strange box sitting inside our living room. I guess I kind of panicked.”

“Did your husband leave the door unlocked when he left?”

“Maybe,” I said. Because entering without breaking in wasn’t a big a deal? Except someone had still invited him– or herself into my home and left God knows what. A baby, my crazy brain jumped there. A dead baby in a box. I was lucky Justin couldn’t read my mind. “We lock the door at night. And when we go out. But when we’re home during the day . . .”

No one in the suburbs ever locks their door, I wanted to say. That’s the whole point of living here.

“In the future, I’d keep it locked, always. Ridgedale isn’t a big city, but reasonable precautions make sense anywhere.” He nodded toward my car. “I also wouldn’t leave a sleeping child unattended in a running car.”

“Right, of course,” I said, fully mortified. “Did you, um, check what was inside the box?”

“Just enough to see that it’s some kind of papers.” He held up his hands. “Didn’t read what’s on them. Don’t want to be accused of interfering with the press. My guess is someone put them inside to keep them out of the rain.”

We didn’t have any overhang, and it had been pouring. The box would have gotten soaked. And so the person just went ahead and opened our door? Steve was presenting it like a normal thing to do. But it wasn’t normal. Not even in Ridgedale.

“What happens now?”

“That’s up to you. Happy to open an investigation. But you should know we’ll need to keep the box, mark it as evidence.”

“That hadn’t occurred to me.”

“That’s why I mention it. I’m not trying to discourage you from pursuing this. That’s entirely up to you. But this kind of thing happens. Years ago, during some mayoral campaign, somebody put a dead rat in Jim McManus’s mailbox—he was the Reader’s editor in chief at the time.” Steve shook his head. “Man, was his wife bent out of shape. Anyway, my guess is this has something to do with your articles. Isn’t that what you people want? A reaction?”

Steve was aggravated about something I’d written. That was obvious. “‘You people’?”

“Meaning your editors.” He rubbed his forehead. He still looked aggravated. But also like he didn’t want to be. “Nothing personal, but they must like that you’re willing to stir the pot. That’s all I meant. It must sell papers or get you clicks or whatever it is you all want these days.”

But my articles had been far from controversial.

“Is there something specific I’ve written that you’re taking issue with?”

“Just pointing out the facts. And the fact is, you’ve riled people up. This ‘find him, he’s out there, another Ridgedale murder’ nonsense. People are going crazy in the comments to your articles.”

I felt a queasy twist in my stomach. I didn’t even want to know those comments existed. Between that and the files and the pressure from Justin, I might beat a hasty retreat from journalism after all.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” I said, and I didn’t like the feeling that Steve did. “I don’t read the comments on my articles.”

Steve frowned and looked uncomfortable. He wasn’t frustrated with me, I was realizing. He was just frustrated.

“So what’ll it be with the situation here?” he asked, looking at his watch.

I didn’t much want to see what was in the box, but I couldn’t imagine letting the police take it without looking through it first. What if it was something important?

“I don’t think I’ll pursue investigating. But thank you so much for coming.” I did appreciate the way Steve had rushed over, no questions asked.

He nodded, pushed himself off his car, and turned toward the driver’s door. “Not a problem. Call me if anything else comes up.”

“Before you go, is there any news about the baby?” I asked.

“You’re interviewing me now?” Steve raised an eyebrow as he stood in his open car door. “Seriously?”

“You’re here.” I shrugged. “And you did say I could follow up.”

He shook his head and exhaled. “You don’t give up, do you?”

The old me did not. It was good being reminded of her. Justin was wrong about this story. It was exactly what I needed. “No, I don’t.”

“ME says it’ll be another couple days before we have an official cause of death.”

“Does that mean he’s still having a hard time determining it?”

Steve’s face tightened. “It means it’s going to take another couple days.”

“But it could still be a homicide?”

“It hasn’t been ruled out. All the more reason we need someone to come forward. And that I hope you do write: Someone out there knows who this baby belongs to, and we need to hear from them.”

My phone vibrated with a text. I pulled it out, thinking it was Justin needing further reassurance that Ella and I were okay after my first cryptic text about some anonymous box.

Coffee after drop-off?

Stella. Shit. Did she seriously have to text me with Steve standing right here, staring at me? He’d specifically asked me to contact him if I heard from her. I’d have to say something. I couldn’t lie for her, not that much. I’d just say as little as I could.

“Stella.” I held up my phone. “I guess she’s back.” Why had I made it sound like she was on the run? “Or here. I don’t know that she ever left.”

“Yes, I spoke with Stella late last night,” Steve said. “She claims she doesn’t know where Rose is. Was surprised as anyone to hear that she had disappeared.”