“I could call the local constable, the one assigned to our neighborhood.”
“Do that. And I’ll call the station.” She spoke to someone in the room with her; I couldn’t quite hear what she was saying. Then her voice came through clearly again. “Check your doors, call that constable, and don’t open up to anyone but him. When he arrives, have him follow you to the station. You and Michael.”
“Wait.” But she had already clicked off.
I stepped inside, leaving the box where it was, and locked the front door behind me. With Grace up on my shoulder, I hurried to the back door and double-checked that it was locked. She gave a milky burp that left dampness against my neck. I held her close and glanced up at the security box against the back wall. I knew all the cameras were gone, and the morning light shone clearly across everything in my line of sight, from the living room sofa and Grace’s play mat to the gleaming kitchen counters straight to the front door.
But I still felt watched, as if Lena could surveil me without any equipment at all.
Even the tone of the postcard, unafraid, cheeky, sounded like Lena, and I was flooded with a mix of contradictory emotions. This Lena was simultaneously the friend I’d loved and the wife of a murderer, at the very least. With her vitality and her strength, there was no way she’d been a passive victim in thrall to her husband. She’d been the planner, the organizer, and that meant that every dead runaway, every terrified old man, had to be laid at her feet. I knew that.
And she was reaching out to me.
Unlike Aimee’s note, this postcard wasn’t mocking; it invited me to participate. It was an outstretched hand, not a raised middle finger.
Slipping into the bedroom, I started to set the postcard down on the dresser, but I didn’t want Michael to see it and suffer another shock. He wasn’t asleep, but he was engrossed in something on his phone, the light of the tiny screen casting his face in relief. He took one look at me, and the lines of resignation deepened around his eyes. He didn’t even have to ask, What now?
I just told him. And we started to pack.
* * *
At the police station, they separated us, sending Michael and Alondra with the FBI agent and his partner to go through another gauntlet of questions. Lugging Grace in her carrier, I followed Detective Clark into another room, where a selection of items was spread out on the table. Even out of context, a jolt of recognition pierced me.
“Can you identify any of these?” Detective Clark asked.
Of course I could. Lena’s phone in its battered utilitarian case. Were my last texts to her still on it? A pair of oversized sunglasses in a brand she used to call “drugstore not designer.” Her wallet, which I knew would be neatly organized with a few bills and carefully folded receipts. I had been so sure that postcard meant she was alive, but now, seeing her personal items lying there on the table …
“Where did you find these?” I asked Detective Clark. There was something else, a torn piece of paper, behind the sunglasses.
“Do you recognize them?” she countered.
“They’re Lena’s. Her wallet and phone.” And I remembered that the cops had found her car abandoned by the river. It must have been staged. Lena was alive, I knew she was. “Can I see that paper?”
Detective Clark slipped on a thin latex glove and moved the piece of paper closer to me. “Don’t touch,” she warned me.
I didn’t bother to answer, bending closer. Half of a torn postcard, its glossy picture one I knew all too well. Winged Victory, the statue from my old museum. The only postcard from Aimee I hadn’t found in my collection. “Can you turn it over?” I whispered, and Detective Clark complied.
On the ragged portion that remained, I read my own name and address in Aimee’s spiky handwriting. Lena had taken the part with the nasty message. If I could only ask her, What the hell is going on?
“I don’t understand.” I stepped away from the table. “That’s a postcard that was sent to me by someone I used to work with. The picture is from the museum where we worked. But I don’t know why Lena had it.” Unless …
Detective Clark started slipping the items back into plastic evidence bags, but something in the angle of her body let me know her attention was still on me. She was waiting for me to give her something more.
Feeling my way tentatively through my thoughts, I said, “The half that’s missing has the message.”
“Any reason she would have wanted it?” Detective Clark’s tone was studiously casual.
Heat rose in my face. How many times had Lena taken my side? How often had she said Aimee should pay? But that was stupid. I’d just gotten a postcard from Lena from right here in Texas. “I don’t know. The part that’s missing has the address for the museum on it.”
Detective Clark gave me a blank look, and I felt like a complete idiot. Nobody needed a postcard to find an address. That’s what the internet was for. “If you think of anything else,” she said, and I could almost hear the subtext: I’ll be shocked. What a complete waste of time.
* * *
We’d been arguing with the detective and someone new, an FBI agent, for a while. Michael was their primary witness, an important part of their case. When they thought Lena might be dead, apparently they’d been willing to harass him, imply they thought he might be involved, tighten the proverbial screws. But now that Lena was out there, really and truly, suddenly they wanted to protect us. Even though this might be the last straw that cost Michael his job. Even though being shut up together in a tiny hotel room might kill what was left of our marriage. They needed Michael’s testimony. And Alondra seemed to agree with them. “You’ll be safer,” she told me.
“Where exactly do you want us to go?” I asked again.
The detective gave me a reassuring smile, but I wasn’t buying it. “We have a safe house, we can put him up, all of you up, there.”
Michael sat with his arms crossed, the way he had since I’d been allowed back into the interview room. “I don’t want Kacy or Grace involved.”
“I don’t want to be away from you,” I said, but he didn’t even look at me, keeping his gaze on the detective. I could see the same tension in his jaw and shoulders that he’d had on the worst parts of our drive from New Jersey, when a phalanx of trucks enclosed us. He was focused on the road ahead now, just trying to get us through safely.
Alondra asked me, “Is there a place you could go where Lena wouldn’t know to find you?”
In the back of my mind, I’d been thinking about this, going over and over the things found in Lena’s abandoned car. Her phone, her wallet, and the last thing, just a piece of trash to the detective but everything to me. Lena didn’t leave trash in her car, and she didn’t make mistakes. She’d sent me one message: Working on another surprise for you. Was the torn postcard some other communication I was supposed to understand?
It wouldn’t be hard to find my parents; my maiden name was out there on the internet. But my younger sister was subletting a basement apartment not too far from their house. Molly’s name wasn’t on the lease or the utilities, and she’d been on tour with her band for the last month. Her landlord lived upstairs, but supposedly he was out of town almost every weekend. Nobody would know we were even there. I’d be close enough that my parents could watch Grace, which I knew they’d love to do, as long as I could convince them to keep their visits to the sure-to-be-crappy apartment rather than bringing us back to their house.
Would I be going exactly where Lena wanted me to go? Because this was it, the moment when I could make a choice to get answers, save a friend, or catch a killer. That torn postcard might be a clue, a winking invitation. Of course, it could also be nothing at all.
If I told Michael what I was thinking, he’d be angry or afraid. He’d ask me not to go. He might even tell the police what I was planning. And he’d be right. My plan was reckless, but I wasn’t going to put Grace in danger. I’d do everything possible to hide where she and I would be staying, my parents would be the
re to look out for her, and once I got up there, once I was in the right area, I was sure I would find Lena. We’d been fated to be friends, at least it had felt that way, and now it felt like I was fated to be the one to find her.
I had to find her.
What was the alternative? Lena never caught. Michael and me living in fear, always terrified that Lena would be circling us, a shark prepared to strike.
Michael was thinking about all the ways he could keep us safe. I could tell from the tension in his shoulders and the grim set to his mouth that if he needed to, if he thought it would make a difference, he’d divorce me, he’d swear never to see Grace again, he’d go into witness protection to save us from the danger he thought he’d brought down on us. But he couldn’t stop me from wanting to keep him safe. I slipped my hand into his chilled one and twined my fingers with his, pressing our palms together.
“It’s okay.” I tried to put all the certainty I didn’t feel into my voice. “Grace and I will go to my parents’. We’ll hide out at Molly’s place. There’s no way anyone can trace us there. We’ll be safe. You do what you need to do.”
He tried to smile at me, but only half his mouth could manage it. “Thanks.” He squeezed my hand. “I’ll feel better knowing you are both someplace else.”
The detective was watching me closely, too closely. I knew I had no poker face, but surely there were enough emotions—terror, love, grief, an attempt at bravery—that she couldn’t detect the vein of sick anticipation running through it all.
Maybe this would be my new round of affirmations. I am brave. I am smart. I am going to save us.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, Lena whispered, You are going to kick ass.
* * *
I boarded my flight in a blur of juggling the stroller, the diaper bag, and the carrier, followed by wiping everything down, taking advantage of the empty seat next to me to buckle in Grace’s car seat, and giving her a bottle during takeoff. Once she settled, I felt a strange relief in the sterile cabin thirty thousand feet off the ground. At least here, Grace and I were safe. I’d been deluded to think that a torn postcard was some kind of secret communication. Too many sleepless nights and internet forums had made me hallucinate a message from Lena.
I rested my hand on the edge of Grace’s car seat, where the hum of the plane had already sent her to sleep. The police, the FBI, Alondra, everyone was so sure Lena was in Texas. Her aunt was there, all her employees, Brady. There was no reason to think she’d be anywhere else. Instead of racing off to find her and put an end to this nightmare, I was really just running away from danger. All I wanted was safety for Grace, a stable home with two parents who loved her and each other. I could still feel the phantom pressure of my last embrace with Michael, but even as I noticed, it faded away.
When we landed at Newark, I was so relieved to see my parents waving by the baggage claim. Only three months had passed since their visit, but as I set Grace next to them in her little seat and sank into my mother’s embrace, I felt decades older. They looked exactly the same, my mother with her feathery ash-blond hair and oversized earrings, my dad with his steel-rimmed glasses.
Was it my imagination, or were they studying me a little too intently? Then the first bags appeared on the baggage carousel, and I started sprinting back and forth, gathering the portable crib, the stroller base, and our suitcase, while my parents cooed over Grace.
Then my dad picked up the crib and stroller. “Your sister’s place in Hawthorne is just a fifteen-minute drive. Might as well get this show on the road.”
Molly’s sublet was nicer than I’d expected for a basement apartment, like student teacher digs rather than a troll’s cave. The windows were large, even if they were high up on the walls, and the inexpensive furniture was sturdy and undamaged. I could see signs of my younger sister, the framed album covers and a specially matted concert poster I’d given her, the tins of exotic teas, a blanket crocheted by our grandmother with primary-colored flowers edged in black instead of the gray she had used on mine.
Grace took to my parents as if she remembered them, smiling and reaching for my mom and allowing herself to be passed to my dad without a hint of protest.
Once we were settled on the IKEA futon in the tiny family room, my mother asked, “So, have you heard anything else?”
I ran a hand across the crocheted blanket draped over the back of the futon. “Not from the police. They just want us to lay low until they find Lena.”
“You said you got a postcard from that woman?” My mom’s mouth twisted like she could taste something bitter, and I knew she’d put Lena’s name next to Aimee’s in the vault of words she’d never utter again.
“Yes, the police and the FBI are looking into it.”
My mother was no fool, and I’d never had any luck trying to hide something from her. She asked, “Where did the postcard come from?”
“A Fort Bend museum.” But the only postcard I could think about was the one Lena had taken, the one Aimee had sent. Alondra had said the police were pretty sure Lena was still in Texas. Obviously, I hadn’t known her as well as I’d thought. But I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew Lena better than anyone else except Brady.
My mom’s eyes narrowed as if I were a teenager evading a direct question. Instead of challenging me, she turned to my dad. “I think we should stay here with Kacy and Grace.”
He nodded, lifting Grace over his head and pretending to snap at her toes. “I can stop by our house and pack.”
At that, Mom rolled her eyes. “You’ll pack what? A toothbrush and an extra pair of socks. You can’t pack for me. You have no idea what I need.”
“So write it down.” My dad cut his eyes at me to see if I was enjoying the show.
Mom didn’t notice. “It’ll just be easier to do it myself.”
“I’m not letting you go back there alone.” My dad stood up, holding Grace closely. “And if we both go, then Kacy and Grace will be alone.”
As they went back and forth, I felt a warm glow of gratitude. There was evil in the world, vast and malevolent, but there was also this: love that did the work needed, love that came together, even when it was in the ordinary task of packing a suitcase, or grudgingly allowing one’s spouse to pack it.
Finally, Dad promised to stay on the phone the whole time so my mother could tell him what to pack. He handed her Grace and left. The door had scarcely shut behind him when she said, “We shouldn’t have let him go alone.”
“He’ll be okay. Alondra says Lena’s still in Texas.”
She shut her eyes and rested her cheek against Grace’s head. “I just wish I could be sure.”
“I know.” And in that silent moment I wished I could promise my mother that I was done making her worry. Almost two years ago, my mother had suffered with me through my public humiliation, professional ruin, and private breakdown. I knew she’d cried on my behalf, had longed to make things better, had endured the same hopeless frustration I felt when I saw Michael’s pain. If I could spare her now, I would. So I said, “She doesn’t know where we are, Mom. Molly’s last name isn’t on the lease or utilities or anything. And the postcard Lena sent wasn’t actually threatening.”
From the look on my mother’s face, she didn’t find it comforting that a serial killer was communicating with me for fun. Any communication—friendly, threatening, even promotional—was bad. But she changed the subject. “Your hair’s gotten so long.” She reached out and tucked a strand behind my ear.
She stayed on the phone with my father while he packed, running through the minutiae of things she might need (“No, Bill, not the drawer on the left, the one on the right”) and occasionally throwing out a question to me (“Do you think he should pack a cooler of food?” “Would you want cereal for breakfast?”).
Then suddenly she turned to me, and her countenance made me tense. “What does this woman look like?”
“Is she there?” My lungs froze, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I’d bee
n stupid to come here, stupid to put my family at risk.
“No, no.” My mother waved her hand. “I only thought we should tell your father, in case he noticed someone following him.”
I exhaled hard. This was just my parents being prepared. “She’s tall with red hair. Here …” I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the photos. I hadn’t deleted them, and after I scanned through months of Grace in every permutation of expression, there was Lena in a selfie with me, our foreheads together, both of us smiling. I knew my smile had been genuine, but Lena’s looked just as real, radiating joy from the curve of her lips to the crinkles around her eyes.
My mom squinted at it, and I realized she didn’t have her reading glasses on, but she turned back to the phone. “Red hair. Curly. Kacy says she’s tall. Well, I don’t know if she’s in disguise, Bill; how would I know that?
“Okay, keep me on speaker as you drive home.” She clicked her own phone over to speaker and set it down next to her on the end table. Then she turned the full force of her attention on me. “So how are you doing, really?”
“I’m okay. In shock, I guess.” The enormity of Michael alone sixteen hundred miles away and of Grace, so helpless and trusting, sleeping on a collapsible temporary bed in a strange apartment, settled over me, and I twisted my fingers in the crocheted blanket. I didn’t want to lay all this on my mom.
“Are the police going to check in, at least?”
I wished I could just tell her everything, the way I’d done as a kid, but worry lines creased her forehead, and her hands looked so thin. I was too old to make myself feel better at my mother’s expense.
“I don’t know.” Outside the bubble of my planned community, there wasn’t a designated constable ready to stop by and check on me personally. I had texted Alondra to let her know I’d landed in Jersey. She was my liaison with law enforcement. And I’d called Michael, but he hadn’t picked up. Instead, I’d left him a voice mail and sent him a text with a picture of Grace in her car seat from the plane. And he’d texted back: Stay safe and heart emojis. But it wasn’t the same. Neither of us had the comfort of a real voice, real conversation, only a recorded message and fragmented sentiments on a screen.
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