In Her Eyes

by Sarah Alderson

  ‘And then Robert, your husband, got very successful. Made a lot of money.’ There’s a pause. Nate knows this, of course. Everyone knows this. Robert’s been profiled in the Washington Post and Wired, as well as in all the local newspapers. He gave a TED talk a few months ago too.

  ‘You can’t think Dave has anything to do with this,’ I say. ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Nate answers. ‘I’m just making the point that you and your husband are well off. That probably made you a target.’

  Damn TED talk. Yes, we’re rich, I want to say to Nate, but there are many people richer than us. The bloody Rothschilds have a home here and God knows how many A-list actors. Why did they choose us? All at once the shock of it, the realization of what’s happened, that my daughter is lying in another room on life support, hits me with the force of a bullet. I let out a sobbing gasp, which reverberates through my head.

  Nate takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘It’s OK,’ he says gently. ‘We’re going to find these people. I swear to you.’

  I stare into his eyes, and he fixes me with a look of such certainty and reassurance that the pain in my head subsides a little and I find myself believing him. Nate waits until I’ve gotten a hold of myself and then starts up again with the questions. ‘What time did you get home?’

  I think back. Everything is so fuzzy and unclear. ‘I dropped Laurie home, then picked up June . . . About eleven, maybe a few minutes before? I don’t know.’

  ‘When you got home were you aware of any cars in the drive or parked on the street, or anyone following you?’

  ‘No, not then,’ I say, shaking my head, ‘but later . . . yes, there was a car in the drive. Gene . . .’ I stop. I don’t want to get Gene into trouble.

  Too late. ‘Go on,’ Nate presses.

  ‘Well, just that I was closing the blinds . . .’

  ‘Where? In the living room?’

  ‘Yes. I saw Gene leaving his apartment. It’s over the garage.’

  ‘What time would this have been? Do you recall?’

  ‘I don’t know, a few minutes after I got back. Maybe just after eleven? I saw him get into a car that was parked halfway down the drive.’

  Nate’s pencil stops scratching and he looks at me. ‘The car didn’t pull up to the house?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘And did you get a look at the car? Make? Model? Color?’

  I shake my head again. ‘It was too dark. I think it was an SUV but I couldn’t swear on it. Why don’t you just ask him? I’m sure he’ll tell you.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to him already. He didn’t mention it but I’ll check with him again.’ He looks back down at his pad and underlines something.

  Why didn’t Gene tell him he went out?

  ‘So, Gene left the property,’ Nate goes on, ‘and you don’t know where he was going and you didn’t see him return?’

  ‘No, but I wasn’t watching out for him. He lives his own life. Comes and goes as he pleases. I went upstairs and took a shower.’

  ‘And you were in the shower when you heard the break-in?’

  I nod. A shudder runs up my spine and I have to close my eyes to stop the room from spinning. June’s scream echoes around my skull and the pain is so great, for a moment I think my head is going to explode.

  ‘Ava?’

  I’m pulled back into the present by Nate’s hand on top of mine. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks me. I open my eyes and I nod, an action I instantly regret.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Nate asks. ‘Do you want to take a break?’

  I shake my head, careful to keep my movements to a minimum, the pain settling to a low thrum. I just want this over with.

  He lifts his hand and once again my body betrays me by pining for his touch. ‘OK, so what happened next?’ he asks. ‘Do you remember?’

  I start to tell him and as I do I can feel my heart beginning to race, adrenaline piston-pumping into my system. As I describe every detail it’s as if I’m there, reliving it all over again. I can feel the bump as I fly into the side table, the vice-like grip of his hand around my ankle as he drags me across the bed. The bruises on my body start to throb.

  When I finish, Nate waits a beat then asks, ‘Is there anything else? Can you remember what they were wearing?’

  I try to picture the men but it’s a blur. ‘Just black. All black.’

  I watch Nate write that down.

  ‘The first one was about five foot ten or eleven maybe. Shorter than you. Medium build.’ I try to remember the details but they’re all fuzzy and indistinct. ‘The other one was smaller – maybe five eight or five nine? He was the one who took June upstairs.’

  ‘Why did he take her upstairs?’ Nate asks, suddenly alert.

  I close my eyes and try to remember. The pictures are so out of focus. ‘He . . . um . . .’ My heart pounds. ‘I . . .’ The pain in my head crescendos and I fall back onto the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut.

  ‘OK,’ Nate interrupts gently. ‘It’s OK.’ He waits a minute, until I’ve opened my eyes again. ‘Let’s go back. Did you hear either of them speak at all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the way they spoke? What did they say? Did they have accents?’

  ‘The taller one he didn’t really say much. I don’t know. He just sounded normal.’

  Nate looks frustrated. ‘Could you tell if he was white? Hispanic? Black?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. I’m sorry.’ I feel like I’m failing a test somehow. Why couldn’t I have remembered more? Is it the head injury? Has it affected my memory?

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘He spoke more.’ What’s your fucking name? Which way’s your bedroom?

  ‘Ava?’ Nate presses.

  ‘Um . . . he sounded maybe, I don’t know, southern? There was a kind of twang to his voice but it was hard to tell, because of the mask. It was muffled.’

  Nate nods. ‘You’re doing great. This is all really helpful.’ I look at him and he smiles encouragingly. Our eyes stay locked for a while before he drags his gaze back to his notebook. ‘OK,’ he says, flipping back through the pages.

  ‘You said he had a gun. Do you remember what the gun looked like?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about guns. It was a handgun, small – I guess.’ I glance at the gun holstered on Nate’s waist. ‘A little like that one,’ I say, pointing.

  ‘Like this?’ he says, taking the gun out of its holster and showing it to me.

  I cringe back against the headboard. Oh God. Just seeing a gun again makes my hands start to shake. Nate sees my reaction and quickly reholsters the weapon.

  ‘I think so. I can’t really remember though.’

  ‘And when you got to the kitchen, Robert was already there with June?’

  I nod. ‘The other one, he was holding a gun to Robert’s head and he . . .’ I struggle to remember the order of it. ‘June was crying. And . . . and he, um, he made her come over to him and then he said that they were going to go and open the safe.’

  ‘Were those his exact words?’ Nate asks.

  ‘I . . . I think so. I don’t remember. It was all so fast. He told her to lead the way.’

  ‘So the shorter one took Robert and June to the study? To open the safe?’

  I nod.

  ‘And you were left in the kitchen alone with the other gunman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long were they gone for?’

  ‘I don’t know. It felt like forever but maybe a couple of minutes? Then I saw the short one with June, pushing her towards the stairs.’

  ‘Why were they going upstairs, do you know?’

  I can’t suck enough air into my lungs and my vision starts misting.

  ‘Where was Robert at this time?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see him. His study?’

  I look at Nate hoping he can tell me where Robert was. Until now I’ve not given it an
y thought. Nate holds my gaze for a moment.

  ‘He was beaten, knocked out.’

  Poor Robert. That at least explains the bruises on his face.

  ‘What did you do next, Ava?’ Nate presses.

  ‘I grabbed a knife – a carving knife – from the block and . . . the man had his back to me and I . . .’

  Nate looks up at that. ‘Did you stab him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here,’ I place my hand on my shoulder to show where I sliced him.

  Nate nods and makes a note.

  ‘We fought. And I grabbed hold of the cutting board on the side. It’s wooden. And I hit him with it.’

  Nate looks up through his lashes at me and there’s a trace of a smirk on his lips. ‘That must have hurt.’

  ‘I thought maybe I’d killed him.’

  There’s a part of me that feels relief that I didn’t kill him but there’s another part of me – a bigger part of me – that feels disappointed.

  ‘Ava?’

  I look up, startled. Nate’s watching me carefully and it strikes me again how surreal it is that he’s here but at the same time how glad I am, even after everything. ‘What happened next?’ he asks.

  ‘I took the gun, his gun, and I went upstairs.’

  ‘Into June’s bedroom?’

  I nod.

  ‘And then what happened?’ I hear Nate ask.

  The room turns to static and the hammering in my head gets louder and louder. Everything turns black at the edges, my vision shimmers.

  ‘Ava?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Did you fire the gun?’ Nate asks.

  ‘It was so fast. He shot June. And then . . . and then I don’t know what happened . . . maybe the man from the kitchen came up behind me and hit me.’ The static roars to life in my ears, obliterating everything. ‘I don’t remember anything after that.’ As if on cue the pain in my head ratchets up three notches and I hunch over, squeezing my eyes shut. The tears leak out.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Nate is on his feet, standing beside me, and I’m suddenly sobbing against him, and he’s holding me, his arm around my shoulders. ‘It’s OK,’ he whispers, one hand stroking the back of my neck. The tears won’t stop and Nate’s other arm wraps around me, strong and reassuring and protective. He’s soothing me, saying my name, and I cling to him like he’s a life raft. I’m so glad it’s him here, even though I know I shouldn’t be.

  ‘Excuse me, Sir?’

  Nate steps backwards, away from the bed, and I glance towards the door as I wipe my eyes. There’s a police officer standing there. He glances my way and gives me an apologetic smile. I swipe my hand over my face, feeling hot with embarrassment.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt but I just had a call from ballistics.’

  Nate nods. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he tells me. ‘But thanks for this.’ He waves his notebook at me.

  I nod at him.

  ‘I’ll come back later. In the meantime, get some rest.’

  I watch him head to the door. ‘Nate,’ I call just as he’s about to disappear.

  He turns.

  ‘What if they come back?’ I ask.

  Chapter 10

  June looks so tiny lying in her hospital bed that I’m immediately thrown back to the days when we lived on the cancer ward with her. The rage inside me swells as I sit by her side in my wheelchair and hold her hand, feeling as impotent as I did back then, and just as angry – maybe angrier because I have a focus for my anger this time, I’m not just raging at a bunch of out-of-control cells.

  ‘June,’ I whisper over the slow, steady beeping of the machines keeping her alive. ‘It’s Mom.’ I fall silent. I don’t know what else to say. What is there to say? Can she even hear me?

  They said that the first twenty-four hours are critical and it’s been almost twenty and so far there’s no change.

  Please God, I say as I stroke June’s hair. It must be the thousandth time I’ve thought the words in the last hour. She beat the odds before. She’ll beat them again. I have to believe that. But looking at her lying there, lifeless and pale as a corpse, her chest rising and falling shallowly as a machine forces air into her lungs, I can’t help but feel like the game is already up, that every breath is a countdown.

  I turn and catch a glimpse of the police officer standing guard outside our door. When Nate came back an hour ago to finish our interview, I asked him again about the men returning to finish the job. He reassured me that we had nothing to worry about, but that he’d also arranged a police guard – two seemingly contradictory statements that I didn’t call him on because I was afraid to. He must think there’s a risk and that terrifies me.

  The door suddenly flies open.

  ‘Mom!’

  Hannah bursts into the room. She’s wearing jeans and an oversized sweater and carrying a small backpack over her shoulder. I wince as she hugs me and she pulls back, face aghast, at the sight of my IV and bandaged head.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I tell her, reaching up to stroke her face. ‘I’m OK.’

  She turns to June and her face pales. ‘When will she wake up?’ Hannah asks, staring down at her sister.

  ‘Soon,’ I hear myself answer.

  She sits down on the other side of the bed from me. Her hair – lighter brown than June’s, and wavy like mine – is tied up in a messy ponytail and she looks exhausted, circles ringing her cornflower-blue eyes, her face pale and stark without her usual lashings of makeup. She strokes the dyed blue ends of June’s hair, her bottom lip starting to tremble.

  ‘She dyed her hair blue,’ she stammers, tears spilling down her cheeks.

  My throat constricts, tears welling in my own eyes. ‘Did Laurie and Dave pick you up?’ I ask, trying to turn the focus from June because it’s too much.

  Hannah nods. ‘Laurie called me this morning. I got the first flight I could.’

  The door opens again. This time it’s Gene, looking exhausted, with a day’s worth of stubble, still wearing the clothes I saw him in last night. He’s carrying a cup of coffee. ‘Hey,’ he says when he sees Hannah.

  He puts the coffee down on a side table and shuffles towards her, but she doesn’t get up and so his intended hug becomes a pat on her shoulder. He frowns and backs away, picking up his coffee and coming to stand behind me.

  I would have thought the animosity between them might have softened given the circumstances but it’s still there, going strong. Hannah has had an issue with Gene ever since he moved into the apartment over the garage, since before that really. She’s had it out with me on more than one occasion – she thinks he’s spoiled and gets away with everything. She’s the one who got a 4.0 grade point average, she’s the one who scored an academic scholarship, she’s the one who’s worked the hardest, so why is Gene the one who gets rewarded all the time?

  It’s classic jealousy between siblings and I get her point of view. But it’s not a competition. We bought her a car. We pay for the tuition that isn’t covered by her scholarship as well as her accommodation, and NYU is one of the most expensive colleges in the country. She’s not exactly getting a bum deal.

  ‘Where’s your dad?’ I ask Gene.

  ‘He’s in with the insurance person – I think there’s a problem with the paperwork.’

  I sigh. For God’s sake. We were victims of a burglary. Our daughter is in a coma fighting for her life. And they’re expecting us to fill out forms? The whole healthcare system in this country is insane.

  ‘I’m telling you, we should have moved to Canada years ago,’ Gene says.

  It’s something we joke about a lot – given the backward state of healthcare and the rising number of gun-toting crazy people in the US.

  ‘Why don’t you move there?’ Hannah asks. ‘Oh, that’s right, you wouldn’t be able to live rent free if you did.’

  ‘You gave a statement to the police?’ I ask Gene, trying to change the subject.

  He glances my way, distracted. ‘To that
Sheriff guy.’

  ‘Where were you last night?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.

  ‘I went out with a friend.’ He swallows hard as he stares at June.

  ‘What friend?’

  Gene shakes his head. ‘No one you know,’ he mumbles, then his eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m sorry. I should have been home. I could have . . .’

  ‘I’m glad you weren’t,’ I say, taking his hand, and hearing Hannah sigh loudly in the background. She’s got it into her head that Gene’s my favorite, which is frankly ridiculous. I don’t have favorites. That should be clear to all of them.

  Gene brushes his hand over his face to force back the tears.

  ‘I’m going to find Dad,’ Hannah says, getting up and rushing out of the room, letting the door bang shut angrily behind her. Gene takes her empty chair and slides his hand into June’s and we sit there in silence, locked in our own thoughts.

  The doctor, a woman a couple of years younger than me, comes in a few minutes later and runs some tests on June. I wait, biting my tongue, hoping that she’ll turn to me smiling and tell me that June is showing signs of improvement, but when she does finish writing up her notes, her expression is grim.

  ‘Is there any change?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Walker. We’ll let you know the minute there is.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Gene says to me when the doctor leaves.

  I don’t answer. It used to infuriate me when people told me that while she was going through chemo and it infuriates me just the same now. He’s not clairvoyant. How could he know she’s going to be fine?

  ‘You remember the time her hair started to fall out?’ Gene asks quietly.

  I nod. All her beautiful hair. How can I forget that moment when she screamed at me and I came running, terror making me fly so fast my feet barely touched the ground? We knew, of course, it was a side effect of the chemo. But June hadn’t fully understood what would happen to her; how sick she was. Not until then.

  ‘She was so upset,’ I whisper, stroking her hair back from her face, remembering how fair and straight it used to be.