You Can Never Tell

by Sarah Warburton

  “Yes.” My mind whirled. Wasn’t that what I’d said? Had I misremembered the time? My voice sounded weak, thin, untrustworthy.

  The detective always followed up. “And what time did you say you went to sleep?”

  “Asked and answered, Detective.” I was so grateful for Alondra, fierce and awake, while my next-to-sleepless night and caffeineless morning were catching up to me. This interview room, these nice-for-now questions, everything made me feel caught in a mixture of my worst memories and a waking nightmare.

  “I’m just trying to nail down the times, counselor. We all know it’s not easy to keep track of that kind of detail, especially for a new parent, who might be a little sleep deprived.”

  “Actually …” This woke me up a bit. “Actually, I was really aware of the time. Grace’s on a three-hour feeding schedule right now. Sometimes she goes four hours, but I always know when her last feeding was before I put her down, because that helps me know how long she’s slept.” And how long I’ve slept. “I fed her at eleven and then went to sleep myself. She’s not good about taking a bottle, so when I heard her at two, I got up to feed her. And I checked the time, and it had been three hours. On a regular night, if everything went well, she might even have slept for four more after. Once she went five. And that would have put us between six and seven, which is when I’ve been getting up. She’s pretty regular.” I looked at Alondra. “I even fed her here at six. And she’ll want to be nursed again in about an hour.”

  Alondra said, “Any other questions about my client’s grasp of time?”

  Detective Clark gave a little half smile that acknowledged she’d pushed me and Alondra too far. “Let’s talk about your neighbors.”

  I sat up straighter. Maybe I could tell from the questions she asked what exactly had happened, what they suspected.

  “How long have you known Brady and Lena Voss?”

  “Almost a year and a half now, ever since we moved in.”

  “And how would you describe your relationship?”

  “Friendly?” I sounded like I wasn’t sure. “We’re friends.” Although I wouldn’t describe myself as Brady’s friend. Especially not after seeing him in the hallway. It was terrifying how easily I’d accepted he was a murderer. He must be. “I’m friends with Lena.”

  “And your husband, he was friends with Brady.”

  “I guess.” How much did she know? If I said Yes, they were friends; they worked in the yard and went fishing together, would Michael be implicated in whatever Brady had done? But if I downplayed it, or worse, lied and the cops found out, that might make it look like there was something to hide. As if she could sense my distress, Grace let out a sharp cry. I glanced down, and her eyes were wide open, searching my face.

  “You spend a lot of time together.”

  I didn’t look at Detective Clark and instead watched Grace as she tried to find her mouth with her fist. She shouldn’t be hungry, but she was looking for comfort. “Some. I mean, Lena and I go walking almost every day, and then we all hang out a couple of evenings a week.”

  “What kind of things do you do?”

  “We have dinner, sit around their pool. Lena taught me to bake. Michael and Brady built a tiered garden thing. They’ve been running it around the fence, and they’re making changes to the sprinkler system. Hacking it, they say. That’s why Brady came over last night, like I said. They got the sprinklers on the first raised bed so they looked like a fountain.”

  Grace gave up on her fist and squawked again.

  The detective made a noncommittal hmm. “And when was the last time you saw Mrs. Voss?”

  I reached down and guided Grace’s fingers toward her mouth, but she arched away and let out another cry. She wasn’t going to put up with this much longer, and I wasn’t sure I could either. “Lena? Wednesday. She was going to see her aunt in Texarkana. She’s supposed to be back next week.”

  “Have you heard from her since she left?”

  “She texted me a couple of times.” I reached for my phone, but Alondra put her hand on my arm, and I stopped, as I remembered I didn’t have it anyway. Was she worried that something on my phone could be used against Michael? “I think the last time was yesterday morning.”

  Detective Clark addressed Alondra. “We’ll need to see those texts.”

  “We’ll review your request after the interview.” Alondra’s voice was cool.

  “Who told you about Lena’s trip?” Detective Clark shuffled some papers, as if she had all the answers written down and I was getting everything wrong. Then another thought sent shards of ice into my heart. Was Lena okay? Maybe Brady had sent those texts. If I weren’t in this room, I’d call her. I desperately wanted to hear her voice.

  “Lena told me. She’s okay, right? Have you talked to her?” Grace’s cries were coming faster now, scraping me to the bone. I bent down and unsnapped her from the carrier, lifting her to my shoulder, where she nestled into my neck.

  “Had she mentioned this aunt before?”

  “Yes, she had. Her aunt practically raised her.”

  Detective Clark made some notes on the papers in front of her. Then she said, “Can you think of anywhere else Lena might have gone? Any places that were special to her? Any friends or other family she might have visited?”

  Another jolt to my system. They don’t think Lena is at her aunt’s house, and there’s blood on my sweatpants, and, oh please God, don’t let it be Lena’s. We’d spent so many hours talking, talking, talking, and about what? I knew her opinions on every television show we’d watched, on the merits of triple sec versus orange juice, and I knew tons of details about her childhood, but they were vague, unpleasant. “I know she grew up in Arkansas. I think her aunt was the only family she was close to. She wasn’t on social media, except for the business.”

  “No idea where else she might have traveled?”

  “She said she wanted to go someplace tropical for a second honeymoon. She and Brady didn’t get a real first one, and she wanted to go someplace like Hawaii or the Virgin Islands.” Not a cruise. I could hear Lena’s voice in my head: Floating cesspools of forced fun? Hard pass. But she’d liked the idea of an all-inclusive resort. With Brady, anyway. Even the thought of his smile with its bared teeth made me shudder.

  “No idea who else she might have been in contact with?”

  “She never really mentioned anyone else. She …” How could I explain who Lena was without sounding like I hadn’t known her at all? “She lived in the moment. Even when she talked about the past, it was just a fleeting thing, unspecific. Her business, her husband, their clients, the Bluebonnet Club, that was pretty much her social world.”

  “What’s the Bluebonnet Club?”

  “It’s a social group. We raise money for charity.”

  She gave a little nod, and I felt like a complete dilettante. Helpless to save Michael or Lena, too stupid for a real job, just a lightweight. As if she could read my thoughts, Alondra winked. Of course, the club was where I’d met Alondra. And no one would consider her a bored housewife.

  “Have you tried to get in touch with Lena?” I asked. “Isn’t she at her aunt’s house?”

  The detective didn’t respond, and Grace squirmed against my embrace.

  “Alondra,” I whispered.

  “Later,” she mouthed back. Then, a little louder, she said, “I think my client has been more than cooperative. Given that she and her daughter have been here since two this morning, and given that she is neither a witness nor a suspect, don’t you agree that it’s time to send her home?”

  I expected Detective Clark to protest, but instead she raised an eyebrow at Alondra. “I think you may be right, counselor. As long as Mrs. Tremaine remains available to assist our investigation as needed and refrains from speaking to the press, I think she should be clear to return to her home for now.”

  The thought of a shower, a fresh diaper for Grace, snuggling together under a blanket on our sofa, sounded like such sweet relief t
hat it took a moment for the poison to hit my system.

  Refrain from speaking to the press.

  Not the press. Not again.

  CHAPTER

  16

  I HELD BACK MY questions, not wanting to ask in front of the detective, even though my anxiety was rising. Alondra walked me out into the lobby, and then I turned to face her. “What about the press?”

  Alondra’s mouth was a grim line. “Sooner or later the news will get out. Reporters will contact you.”

  “But I don’t even know what happened.”

  “I know.” Alondra put a hand on my arm. “And as soon as I can tell you more, I will.”

  “So I’m supposed to just go home and wait?”

  Alondra looked apologetic. “Actually, right now the police are searching your house.”

  “What?” Anger flooded me. That detective had said I could go home, but she must have known I couldn’t. “Why?” My box of paper stars, the postcards from Aimee, Grace’s nursery, all being touched and tossed about by strangers. “I want to see Michael.” My words quavered, but the longer he was away, the more I ached to see him, to know he was safe.

  Alondra lowered her voice. “That’s not going to be possible this minute. Right now, he’s assisting the police.”

  “Alondra, what happened? I have to know. There was blood, and I saw Brady—”

  She glanced around the room as if confirming that no one was too close to us. I’d never seen Alondra cautious or tentative, but it was one more unsettling thing in a nightmare series of events. “You can’t talk about this, not with anyone. Not your mother, not your doctor, not your priest. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, barely registering what I was promising. Nothing mattered but Michael.

  “The police have arrested Brady for murder.”

  My insides went hot, liquid. Brady, my best friend’s husband. Brady, who’d never really put me at ease. But Michael had worked next to him in our yard, relaxing in his presence the way I did around Lena. Had Brady taken advantage of that trust? “The blood—what happened? Who’s dead? Michael didn’t do anything.”

  “I can’t tell you about Michael’s statement, but it resulted in the arrest.”

  “But Michael’s okay? They haven’t charged him?”

  “They haven’t charged him yet.”

  “When can I see him?” I could hear the pleading sob in my voice, but I didn’t have the energy to be ashamed.

  “He’s not here. He’s gone with the police to walk them through the crime scene.”

  The crime scene … “Lena’s house?”

  “And he’s given permission for them to search your house as well.”

  My house. Our safe space with Grace’s nursery and all my books and our kitchen table. “But I didn’t … nobody asked me.”

  “They only needed permission from one of you, and they talked to him first.” Her voice was so controlled, so even. That was the kind of strength and self-possession I wished I had. Instead, everything I learned was another blow that sent me reeling, until I couldn’t believe I wasn’t huddled in a fetal position on the ground.

  But Grace was at my side in her car seat. One little leg bent and straightened out at an angle, her bare, uncovered toes flexing in the chill air. I had to be strong for her, hold it together, not break down. But I wasn’t prepared, not as a wife whose husband was being interrogated nor as a mom who hadn’t brought a diaper bag or a Binky. Grace probably already needed a new diaper, and if she’d had a blowout, she’d have to stay in her soiled outfit. Maybe we were free to leave, but the truth was, we had nowhere to go.

  “So Michael’s not even here anymore?” My voice was rising, taking on a hysterical edge.

  “You can meet him at home as soon as they’ve finished their search.” She checked her phone. “Almost done.”

  I shook my head hard, then ran my hands through my hair and tugged, trying to clear my mind, to make this world seem real. A world where Lena might be dead, Brady might be a killer, Michael might be in custody.

  “Kacy, I have to say something, and it’s important. Are you listening?”

  I wrenched my attention back to Alondra. She said, “This is going to hit the news cycle. Maybe in the next few hours, maybe in the next few days. You need to be prepared for that. Is there somewhere else you can go, someone you can stay with?”

  “I can’t go home?”

  “You can …” Her brows were furrowed. “But you might need another place, a quieter place to stay. It’s hard to tell how these things will play out. Is there somewhere else you could go?”

  I thought of an impersonal hotel or Elizabeth’s small house. “Not without Michael.”

  Her lips thinned, and I could almost hear the words she was holding back. That’s what you say now, but wait until things get worse.

  Then she glanced down at her phone. “All clear. You can go home.”

  For now.

  * * *

  I had to drive our car back to the house. In the harsh glare of full morning, I could see details that I hadn’t noticed at night. The smudge on the gray plastic inside the passenger’s side door that might be blood. Another one on the driver’s seat, where Michael’s hand had touched my knee. I’d been awake since two, my nerves felt scraped and raw, and I wanted to burn the clothes I was wearing. Even sweet Grace stank, her diaper bloated, her outfit creased and stained.

  When we turned into our neighborhood, everything was cartoonishly bright. The elementary school was just getting ready to start, and I could see Rahmia and Emir walking with Bibi, shining like cotton candy in the sunlight. On either side of the street, groups of children were running, walking in a cluster around an adult, racing each other on bikes or scooters. I was spilled ink on this storybook picture, a refugee from a noir film stumbling into a Disney song. Nice moms like these didn’t spend the night in a police station. None of my neighbors had blood on their outfit.

  I was driving slowly, ridiculously slow. I didn’t even have my wallet. No identification at all. But there were documents in the glove box. They might get me for driving without a license, but I could prove where I lived. And honestly, if I got a ticket for a minor driving infraction at this point, I’d just laugh.

  I could feel the dread creeping up on me as I approached the turn onto our street. There was a breath, just a second, when I was making that turn past Rahmia’s house and I thought maybe everything would be normal. A flash where I could imagine Michael and Grace and me safely at home.

  And then I saw the cars crowding both sides of our normally uncrowded street. A police car, a white van, a news van with a roof-mounted satellite dish, more cars. And people going in and out of Brady and Lena’s house, carrying plastic tubs. A tent was set up over the front of their garage. And there were reporters, one standing with a microphone on the opposite side of the street, a cameraman nearby.

  Stunned, I eased my foot off the gas, and as I drifted to a stop in the middle of the road, I saw the barricade. A policeman in uniform caught my eye and waved me off to the right. I turned onto Windswept Court driving past the mailboxes, following the road around until it joined up with my street so I could approach from the other direction of the loop. Things didn’t look any better from this side, but the barricade didn’t block my driveway. An unfamiliar car did.

  I parked on the side of the road, two houses down from my own, three from Lena’s.

  Afraid now, afraid of being stopped by the police, of being barred from seeing Michael, of being on the news, I picked up the garage door opener and took Grace out of the back seat.

  Walking quickly, I left the sidewalk and with purpose crossed my neighbor’s yard, positioning myself as close as possible to the garage. When I hit the button, it felt like three dozen people snapped their heads around to stare at me, but as soon as there was enough space, I ducked under, sliding Grace’s seat with me, and sent the door crashing down again.

  Were the police still inside? Would they be expecting me?<
br />
  At the door to the laundry room, I called out, “Hello?”

  Michael answered, “Kacy?”

  He was in the kitchen. I raced to find him, leaving Grace rocking in her little car seat in the hallway.

  My husband looked like he had lost thirty pounds. He was wearing gray industrial sweatpants a size too big and a navy-blue T-shirt with Sugar Land Skeeters on it. A stranger’s clothes, and when I threw my arms around him, I could smell industrial detergent over the sour stench of sweat. He hugged me so hard that for a second I couldn’t breathe, but the pain was proof that this was real, we were together.

  Then I pulled back to look at his face, and I was afraid all over again.

  CHAPTER

  17

  ALONDRA HAD SAID not to discuss the case, but as soon as I saw Michael, every warning evaporated. I touched his cheek, his stubble scratchy against my fingers. “What happened?”

  In the eight hours since I’d seen him last, the lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened, and his shoulders were hunched. “I can’t,” he muttered.

  I hugged him again, pressing myself against the cheap T-shirt issued by the police. “They wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  He looked into my face with an intensity that scared me. “If they charge me and we’ve discussed this at all, you could be charged too.”

  Stumbling back, I knocked down a kitchen chair, its crash echoing through the house. “Charge you? Why would they charge you?”

  From the hallway, I could hear Grace’s tentative cry.

  “I don’t know what the police are going to do. But if we talk, you could be charged as an accessory. That’s what your friend the lawyer says.” He shook his head, the way he always did after running a personal risk analysis. “We can’t take that chance.”

  “Nobody’s going to charge us. Nobody will even know.”