It was too ludicrous, too gruesome, to think that Gary might follow his ex-wife to another state in order to harm her and her elderly parents. But it also wasn’t that hard to imagine. Jonathan could already picture the headline: ESTRANGED HUSBAND MURDERS THREE. Not even a headline, he thought, more like a single sentence in some local paper. He had never thought of himself as a proud man, but the idea of his family reduced to tabloid cannon fodder, the worst kind of trash, made him sick with rage.
“I’ll talk to him,” he said. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Of course, Gary denied it. They met at one of the bars they often frequented. It took two beers and shot of vodka for Jonathan to broach the subject. At first, Gary was outraged.
“I would never lay my hands on a woman. Any woman,” he said. “You know that. Anyone who knows me knows that.”
“I know,” said Jonathan, idiotically. “I’m just trying to figure out what really happened, you know, why she would say that.”
Gary shrugged. He seemed to have calmed down quite quickly. “Who knows. Maybe she saw it in a movie or something, got it mixed up with real life.”
When Jonathan repeated this explanation to Susanna, later, she shouted with laughter.
“Saw it in a movie? What does he think, that she’s four years old?”
He didn’t want to admit that, at the time, it had sounded like a plausible explanation. That he had been relieved—see, no big deal, just an argument between exes, happens all the time. Susanna gripped his hands in hers and said sternly: “There are two options. Either Helena is lying, or he is. They can’t both be telling the truth. You need to pick a side.”
“I hate this,” he told her.
“Yes,” she said, gently. “It is terrible for you. But it’s much worse for Helena.”
It was Susanna’s idea that Helena should stay with them. She would look after the kids, even though their daughters were too old to need a babysitter. Helena did her best to make herself useful. Their house was never as tidy, their garden never as abundant, as when she was there. She also accompanied their youngest daughter, Beth, as she practiced for her driving test.
Gary was fired after showing up to work drunk, twice. No pension, nothing. Jonathan felt sorry for him, but kept that to himself. Once he was no longer a police officer, Helena was a little less afraid of her ex-husband and, with Susanna’s help, found a job as a live-in caretaker for an elderly woman. Jonathan didn’t point out that if Gary really wanted to kill her, no longer having a government-issue weapon probably wouldn’t stop him.
If not for Gary’s fall from grace, Jonathan might still envision himself as the hero of this story, the good-hearted, sharp-eyed small-town sheriff who brings the innocent child safely home. Instead, he’s just trying not to be the villain: the bumbling, arrogant small-town sheriff who lets the innocent child die and the murderer get away. When the state police came in, the lead investigator thanked Jonathan for being so cooperative. It felt like an insult. Good for you, for realizing how useless you are. Thanks for not punishing the rest of us with your incompetence.
The tea is lukewarm and tastes like dirt. It is unendurable, sitting here with these people, who are either the most depraved criminals he’s ever met or the most tragic victims, just sitting across from him like they’re watching a mildly interesting tennis match.
“I’m going to check on her,” he says, and goes upstairs.
The staircase is narrow and rickety, and would probably be remodeled at some point, given different circumstances. He can imagine a little William, learning to walk, being overwhelmed by the thin wooden steps.
William’s room is the first door on the left. Jonathan remembers the day he was reported missing, instructing the Stoddards not to touch anything, anything could be evidence. He stood in this same doorway, watching the crime scene techs label every juice stain and mismatched sock. Since then the room has been tidied, William’s clothes and toys put back in their place, his bed with its Mickey Mouse sheets neatly made. No child’s room is this neat. It’s like some kind of macabre museum.
Down the hall is Henry and Rosalee’s room. One of them—he suspects Rosalee—has expensive tastes. There are candles in glass jars on top of the bureau and on the matching dark wood tables at each side of the bed. On the wall is a big mirror in a gold filigree frame, and the quilt on the bed is made of spotless white silk. This room is messier, clothes on the bed and floor, drawers left open. He sees food wrappers on the floor near the dustbin, like someone meant to throw them away but didn’t quite make it. The laundry hamper in the closet is overflowing.
As Jonathan moves closer, he sees a pair of Rosalee’s underwear, made of cream-colored lace, with a russet stain on the crotch. He notices the window has been left open. This makes him think that the Stoddards are not afraid. Either because what they cherish most has already been taken, or because they know, already, what has happened to him. Not his job, he has to remind himself.
“Christabel?” There is no response. He goes to the window, which overlooks the backyard. Christabel is there, sitting on the playset. She must have gone downstairs while he was focused on the underwear.
She is on the swings, her feet brushing the grass beneath. Unlike the Stoddard house, the playset is prefab and perfect, probably ordered from a catalog. There’s a ladder and monkey bars and a tiny house, all made of shiny red and blue plastic. His kids would have loved something like this. Does it make Christabel think of her own daughter? And if it does, how can she stand it?
“Hey there,” he says. He wants to sit on the swing next to her, but he’s afraid his weight might bring the whole structure tumbling down.
She says nothing. She’s swaying back and forth, dirt gathering on her white sneakers.
“Do you want to take a break?”
It’s a stupid question—as if there is anywhere Christabel can go where she won’t suffer—but she seems to appreciate him asking.
“I’m all right.”
“Have you found anything?” he asks.
“Nothing,” she says. “Most of these old places, there’s something. Some murmurs. If a house has been around long enough, at least one person has died in it. I don’t mean in a bad way, a violent way. People just used to die at home more, not in hospitals. Most of the time, I can sense that. But here, nothing. It’s like it’s been bleached clean.”
“Jesus. What do you think that means?”
“I have no idea.”
She is lying. Jonathan knows nothing about psychics, but he can recognize a lie when he sees one, especially one this obvious. Christabel knows what happened here, or thinks she does, and she is not telling him.
She looks more like a ghost than ever, swaying back and forth. He wants to grab her, to still her. He wants to scream, Tell me what happened to that boy, right in her strange white face.
He tells himself to relax. He has never believed in this psychic bullshit, and right now is a stupid time to start. Christabel doesn’t know any more than he does. She’s not supernatural, she’s just creepy and sad, and the sooner they get out of there, the better.
“We can leave at any time. I’ll drive you home,” he says.
“That’s nice of you.”
She continues to sway until he puts a hand on the swing, steadying her. Then she stands up easily, obediently.
“Go wait by the car,” he tells her. “I’ll say good-bye to the Stoddards.”
Christabel gives him her address, and he plugs it in the GPS. He turns on the radio so that it won’t be so awkward for them to sit in silence, but it doesn’t make him any less uncomfortable. He can’t shake the certainty he felt at the Stoddards’ house—that Christabel knows something and is choosing not to tell him.
Why not? The answer comes as easily as the idea: she wants to protect him. Whatever happened is so horrible that she doesn’t want to burden anyone else with it. She’s locking it inside herself for safekeeping.
He turns down the street toward
a block of beige apartment buildings. The thin iron balconies are decorated with laundry and dead flowers in terra-cotta bowls. He wonders which one belongs to her.
“This is me,” she says, cheerfully, undoing her seatbelt. “Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem,” he says.
“Would you like to come up for some tea?” she asks.
It seems impossibly rude to refuse.
He isn’t sure what he expected. Lots of scarves, probably, and candles, and crystals, and shit like that. But Christabel’s apartment looks like she ordered every item in it from one page of a catalog. The couch, the carpet, and the curtains are the same shade of grayish blue. On the coffee table is a pristine white orchid in full bloom. He can’t quite figure out what the apartment smells like. Something slightly chemical, but not unpleasantly so, maybe some kind of cleaning liquid. The whole place is pristine.
“What kind of tea would you like?” Christabel asks.
“Anything without caffeine?”
“Smart,” she says. “Have you ever had dandelion tea?”
“No,” he admits. “I didn’t know that existed.”
“It’s very good for you. Would you like to try some?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
He sits on the couch. There’s nothing there for him to busy himself with, no magazines or coffee-table books.
“May I use your restroom?” he asks.
“Sure. First door on the right.”
The bathroom, too, is mostly blue, with blue tiles on the floor, and a blue-and-white-striped shower curtain. He can’t resist the urge to check her medicine cabinet. It’s mostly empty, except for a bottle of aspirin, some bobby pins, a tube of organic toothpaste, and Band-Aids. No prescription pills, he notes, though maybe she keeps those elsewhere. He returns to the living room. There are two frames on the wall. One is a picture of a pretty dark-haired girl who he assumes is Christabel’s daughter. The other is a piece of paper with writing in scraggly letters. It takes him a minute to decipher what they say.
The forest
The forest
Light leaking through the trees
Moon sliced in two
Jonathan feels ashamed, but powerful, as if he were looking through Christabel’s emails or watching her undress. He goes back to the couch. A cup of tea in a blue ceramic mug is waiting for him on the table. He’s surprised by the taste, rich and sweet.
“This is really good,” he says.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s really good for your immune system.”
They sit silently.
“You must really like the color blue,” he notes.
“Yes,” she smiles. “My favorite, since I was a kid. The benefits of living alone. You can have exactly what you want.”
“It’s a beautiful place. Very peaceful.”
“Thank you. That’s what I was going for.”
“Well, you did a great job,” he says, and then, because he can no longer stop himself:
“Do you miss her? Your daughter?”
She smiles at him with her eyes closed. “Why would I miss her? I speak to her every single day.”
It’s dark by the time he gets home. The neighbor’s dog barks at him as he fiddles with his keys and unlocks the door.
The light in the kitchen is on. His eldest daughter is in North Carolina, at a beach house owned by her boyfriend’s parents. His youngest, Beth, sits at the kitchen table on her laptop. He kisses her forehead, resisting the temptation to look at whatever’s on her screen.
“How was your day?” she asks him.
“Not bad. Yours?”
“Not bad either. Mom and I went to the pool. She’s so fast, I had no idea.”
“Where is she now?”
“Upstairs, taking a shower. There’s a plate of food for you in the fridge. We had pot roast. They’re not that good.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
She waits for him to finish washing his hands at the kitchen sink.
“Have you found that little boy?”
There is no judgment in her voice, just curiosity, concern. Still, he doesn’t want to meet her eyes.
“Not yet, honey.”
She gives a sad, small smile, like she wants to say something encouraging, but knows better.
“I’m going to say hi to your mom,” he tells her.
“OK, Dad. I’m probably going to bed pretty soon.”
“Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
Upstairs, Susanna is in bed, folding down the corners of a magazine. She smells vaguely of chlorine, and of the lavender shower gel she uses, and of his cologne, which she claims to prefer to perfume. She’s wearing a big Case Western T-shirt and a pair of lacy underwear, now more holes than fabric. She grins as he enters.
“How was your day?”
He flops on the bed, face-first, his shoes still on. She strokes the back of his head absently.
“That bad?”
“Not bad. Bizarre. Do you know—or remember—Christabel Morgan? Christabel Heller, when she grew up here.”
“It sounds vaguely familiar, but no, I don’t.”
“Well, she’s a psychic now.”
“Oh, Christ.” Susanna is even more skeptical of these things than he is.
“I know, I know. We don’t let them anywhere near cases unless we’re desperate, which we are. The interesting thing about her”—“interesting” was absolutely the wrong word, but he didn’t know where to begin looking for a better one—“is that her daughter was murdered. And I’m not totally sure, but I think that’s when she became a psychic.”
“Spooky,” said Susanna, and then, more seriously, “God, to lose a child. And like that. I can’t imagine anything worse. I really can’t. No wonder she lost it.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t think she lost it. I don’t think she can see the future in tea leaves, or anything like that. But if anyone had access to the shit the rest of us can’t see, I think it would be her.”
Under other circumstances, Susanna might have teased him for this, but instead she says: “I guess that’s not impossible. That poor woman.”
“But she’s not …” Jonathan shrugs. “She’s not grieving. And I don’t mean she’s moved through her loss or whatever. She said she speaks to her daughter every single day.”
“Well. Maybe she does. Or thinks that she does. Maybe at some point there’s no real difference.”
They sit together in silence. He lets Susanna’s hair run through his fingers like water.
“So, did she help you?”
“Sorry?”
“With the case.”
“No. Not really.” Without looking at her, he says, “I think she knows something, or thinks that she does, and she isn’t telling me.”
“That’s so weird. What makes you think that?”
“Just a sense.”
“Why would she lie to you?”
“Not lie, exactly. More like, keep something hidden that she doesn’t want me to know. Like she’s protecting someone.”
“Who?”
“Fuck if I know. It’s not her job to decide who gets protected, who gets to know what.”
He can hear the anger and exhaustion in his voice. Susanna looks at him cautiously.
“You said she was a little kooky. Maybe she doesn’t know anything anyway.”
“No, probably not. You’re right.” He gets up and stretches. “Do you want some tea?”
“Chamomile, if we have any left. Thank you.”
He goes downstairs to the kitchen. His daughter is still there, focusing hard on something in the darkness. The light from her laptop glows against her gold hair.
Luna
Fate would be a good excuse for what I did. I had graduated from college a month before, and I had no job prospects. Blake and Katherine Campbell needed a nanny for their five-year-old daughter, Ruby, and I had extensive child-care experience. It was a lucky break.
Except that I ch
ecked the social media accounts of both Blake and his wife nearly daily. His wife’s interested me more. She posted beautiful photographs of her little girl, her blooming garden, the delicious meals she made using ingredients from both the garden and the health food store empire owned by Blake’s parents. She had over five thousand followers on Instagram, mostly other environmentally conscious mothers like herself.
Blake posted pictures of his wife and daughter, and of the hikes they went on as a family, and of his band, the Bad Teeth. Either he hadn’t figured out the privacy settings on his Facebook, or he didn’t care about them. I knew about the books he read (mostly memoirs by comedians) and the organizations he raised money for (mostly food banks and animal shelters). I knew what his band sounded like (folky, and not very good) and the details of his résumé (managing health food stores and occasional volunteer work).
At first his online openness shocked me. But I realized he had no reason to think anyone was looking for him, watching him. It had been fifteen years since he killed my half sister. She was now just a name on a plaque in a community garden, and he was a grown man with a job and a wife and a child. Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty. Sixty days in a mental hospital, a stint in rehab, and now he was back to being a real person.
I learned from Katherine’s Instagram that the three of them were moving to Massachusetts and needed a nanny. Blake’s father was opening a new health food store, which Blake would manage.
I sent Katherine an email. I put my mother’s last name, rather than my father’s, on my résumé. Three days later I got a response from Katherine. My heart skidded still at the sight of her name in my inbox. She asked if I could provide any references. The woman who ran the nursery school where I had worked part-time in college sent one. Katherine called and asked if I could come to their house to meet her and Ruby. It was no problem, I said, and drove three hours to their house.
Their new house was vaguely Victorian-looking. I could imagine a real estate agent convincing them that it was elegant rather than creepy. Katherine greeted me at the door. She was taller than I expected. Her reddish hair was tied up in a messy bun. A golden retriever accompanied her, trying to lick my face. “Easy, Flower,” she said to the dog, grabbing it by the collar.
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