“I’ll put this simply, Ms. Shelton—unless you’d like to sit down and tell me about your mother, we’ll be heading to the station.”
“I can’t leave,” she said, putting her hands together in front of her is if she were praying. “I need to be here for Sophie when she gets home. You’ll have to drag me out of here, I swear . . . I’ll lose it . . . I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” Veronica’s volume climaxed again as she searched for any threat that might work against a police officer. Who could she call for help?
It didn’t seem to matter anyway. Detective Perry continued his interrogation, ignoring her outburst.
“We don’t have to go anywhere yet, Ms. Shelton, but like I said before—you have to answer some questions. Where is your mother?”
She laid her phone flat, hot after being clutched so tightly, and then cracked each knuckle in her right hand and repeated the action with her left before placing them against her thighs. She sat down, back stiff and brain frantic. She’d answer his questions, but he didn’t want to hear what she had to say. He didn’t want to help her, not in the right way, not in the way that would find her baby and fix this mess before Sophie was lost forever.
Detective Perry asked her questions about her mother and about how long Veronica had owned the house, if Veronica was on any medication, how much she’d had to drink the night before, who went to the therapist on the appointment card they’d found, and why the neighbors never saw Veronica caring for her child, just her mother. And most important, he pressed her for why Barb and her car were missing but all her personal effects still sat untouched in her bedroom.
As the answers lined up side by side, even she began to see the writing on the wall—they all thought she was involved. That was why the looks had changed and the questions were cutting rather than careful. They thought she had done it, and the more she listened to herself speak, the more she started to understand the doubt. She had been drunk last night. She’d come home in such a state that she didn’t remember what had happened. Without the recordings, how could she decisively say that Sophie had been there when Veronica got home if she couldn’t remember? And her mother . . . oh God, her mother. Veronica actually had been the one to hurt her, and once they found that blood and realized her story that was full of holes . . . could Veronica blame them?
Then a far more frightening question entered her mind: If they thought she had hurt Sophie, then how were they ever going to find the person who walked her darkened halls and took pictures of an empty crib? That was the person who’d come into her home while her mother was sleeping and stolen her precious child. How could they not see her baby was in danger?
As the questions swirled around her and the hopelessness grew, Veronica started to build another plan. She shook off the internal doubt and confusion and focused on what she did know. She hadn’t hurt her baby. She might not remember what happened last night, but she knew that harming Sophie was beyond her capacity, drunk or sober. There was no doubt in her mind that her mother was just as concerned as she was about Sophie, and she felt strongly her mother had a good reason for walking out the door that morning, even if Veronica couldn’t figure out what it was. That was where her list of what she knew ended—but it was enough.
The police were on the wrong path. Nick wasn’t there to help find Sophie. Her mother’s practiced hands were missing. So now it was her turn. Today she would be the one to take care of her daughter.
CHAPTER 14
Detective Perry was one of those unpleasant individuals who acted like any extra movement he had to make took years off his life. Same went for the number of words in the interrogations he asked. Short, curt questions and annoyed grunts after each of Veronica’s responses. He had her retell the story of Sophie’s disappearance. He asked for all the infant’s vital information again and then several queries about her missing mother’s height, weight, age, mental state. She was waiting for the opportunity to talk about the newer people in her life—Gillian, Lisa, Mark—who may or may not merit suspicion, but they never got there. The conversation turned quickly to a pile of journals on the table, multicolored tabs sticking out on each side of one of the notebooks.
“Where did you get those?” Veronica asked, her fingernails digging into her thighs. She’d filled those journals while fighting through her darkest moments. She’d numb her pain by pouring it out onto the page, writing and drawing obsessively for days on end sometimes. The idea of strangers looking at those pages made her want to douse them with gasoline and toss them in the fireplace.
“In a box in the baby’s room,” Perry said as he tapped his fingers on the pile. He didn’t even say Sophie’s name, like she was just some generic baby that he cared about as much as a child who’d gotten tired of a doll. She swore she could smell his breath from the armchair next to the loveseat—cigarette smoke and coffee.
“I never said you could read those.” Veronica reached across Perry’s protruding belly, trying to regain possession of the books. Perry shifted his hand to cover the journals protectively.
“You gave us permission to search your house, Ms. Shelton; we found these in the process. They are very . . . interesting.”
“They are private,” she said, letting her hand drop but outrage growing inside her at the idea of that man reading her most private thoughts, almost like he’d set up a camera in her bathroom and watched her shower, shave her legs, and wax her mustache.
“There’s some very interesting artwork in here.” He faked a shudder. “Dark stuff. But what I found most interesting was your writing. You’re not just an artist, are you?”
The words “just an artist” were said in the same way her father used to say them when she told him about her major in college. In fact, most people gave her that same skeptical, condescending look until she landed Mia’s Travels. Her father was dead by then, but he probably wouldn’t have been very impressed.
“Those were never meant to be read by anyone but me. Please . . . stop . . .” She put her hand out, asking for the books back, but Detective Perry wasn’t moved. Ignoring her shocked request, he plucked the tabbed journal off the top of the pile, slipped his index finger between the pages, and started to read.
“‘Sometimes I think it would’ve been better if she’d never been born. God, I wanted her so badly. I took those damned shots and I cried at each negative test, but once I got her—I failed her. If Nick were here, it’d be different. I know it would. Ma says time and therapy will help, but I don’t even think I want it to. I deserve this. When her cries break through the sound machine and the ear plugs and the Tylenol PM, I know why she cannot be calmed. She wants her mama and daddy, but Daddy is gone and Mama wishes she were by his side. That poor baby. My poor baby, with no mama there to hold her.’”
The room was silent. Veronica was frozen by the sound of her own words coming out of another person’s mouth. Without hesitation he turned to another page in the journal and started to read again.
“‘Last night I took out all my prescription bottles and lined them up,’” he read. “‘How many would it take to end my life? Which ones would cross into my breast milk so I could take Baby Sophie with me across that sleepy abyss to the eternities? Would it be too hard for my mom? Would it be more generous to give her the opportunity to take my hand and join us in the blissful nothingness of death? Why is it so hard to make that final decision?’” Perry paused and glanced at Veronica, who was frozen in terrified shame. He didn’t speak to her; he just continued reading.
“‘I put the bottles away in my office drawer and locked it, not to keep me from making the decision but to save it for another day when the pain is worse and nothing but a handful of pills will make it so I can hold my baby again.’”
He closed the journal and looked at her with the unspoken accusations filling his eyes.
“Listen.” Veronica finally broke the tense silence buzzing through the room. “I kept those journals so I could see how far I’d come. I don’t feel like that anymore. Tho
se are old. I never think about those things anymore. I’m not mom of the year, but I’m working on it. I love my baby. I love my mom . . .”
“Who is Lisa Masters?”
Hearing Lisa’s name was almost a relief to Veronica. Lisa would vouch for her. She knew Veronica didn’t want to hurt her baby. But then Veronica remembered what happened at their last session, how she’d run out of the door without paying her copay or saying her goodbyes. Could they talk to Lisa without Veronica’s permission?
“She’s my therapist,” she answered, honest but brief. Veronica didn’t feel like she needed to lie about seeing the mental health professional, but in response to her brevity, a darkness passed over the detective’s features, deepening the wrinkles in his bloated face.
“I’m starting to think this would go better down at the station, Mrs. Shelton.” Perry looked over her shoulder to another detective who’d walked in from the front room where the bloodstain was hidden. He made a few motions and seemed to have some kind of secret method of communicating through eye movements and head nods. Oh God, had they found it? She didn’t need a decoder ring to know one thing: if she didn’t act fast, then they’d never let her go, and if they did—it might be too late to save Sophie.
“I can’t go yet . . . I . . . I . . .” Veronica thought through her options. Her phone was on the table, just fingertips away, and one name came to her mind—Gillian. Gillian would help her. Veronica just needed a little time.
“My boobs are full,” she said, rubbing the side of her right breast with a grimace on her face. “I need to pump before I go anywhere. When Sophie gets home, she’ll be hungry.”
Detective Perry cringed and glanced away from Veronica’s breasts at the first mention of nursing. He did the secret eye-language thing with the other man and then sighed.
“Okay, please go . . . pump.” He managed to get the term out of his mouth and then swallowed hard. “I’ll have a squad car waiting for you.”
“Thank you.” Veronica stood, picked up her phone, and headed toward the bathroom, where she would normally never pump. “All I need is a little privacy.”
“Of course . . .”
As soon as the electric whir of the breast pump mingled with the bathroom’s ceiling fan, Veronica texted Gillian with a basic explanation of the situation and an urgent request to meet her in the backyard neighbor’s driveway. Unsurprisingly, Gillian didn’t hesitate, and Veronica realized she’d had no other plan if Gillian had said no.
Once, before letting down her guard with Gillian, she’d mentioned to Lisa her annoyance with the needy woman. Lisa had said, with some reserve, “Everyone is in that waiting room for a reason. Just remember that.”
She was just glad to still have her phone. Officer Burdick had asked if they could take a look at it early on when the officers had first started filling her hallways. Veronica had consented even though she’d been told she didn’t have to without a warrant. At that point, she wanted to do anything she could to help the investigation but asked that they wait to take possession of the phone in case she missed a text from her mother or maybe even a ransom call. Her consent changed when Detective Perry started in with his aggressive line of questioning. If permission to search her house had led to these journals, what would they find on her phone that they could twist a million different ways?
She should’ve tried to get a change of clothes, but after twenty minutes of fake pumping while waiting for Gillian’s arrival text, Veronica was afraid to show her face for fear of being whisked off to the police station. So she was stuck in her dress from the night before. Shimmying out of the three-by-three bathroom window would be difficult enough in a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, but currently pantless, she had to turn off the part of her that cared that her nearly bare backside was hanging out of a window and instead turn on the mom instinct that kicked in when you are giving birth and half a hospital was looking up your gown at a baby coming out of your hoo-ha.
She had very little going for her right now, and pants were the least of her concerns. First was the fact that the police, the actual police, thought she had hurt her daughter and had something to do with her mother’s disappearance. They wanted to take her to the police station and lock her in a room where she’d be no help to her baby. What was even worse, no one seemed to care to look anywhere but in her direction, which didn’t make sense to Veronica, because her mind wouldn’t stop running through possible scenarios and suspects.
The most common narrative churning through her imagination was that it was a terrible masked stranger who had taken Sophie. The “why” in that scenario was ever changing: The worst thought was that she’d been taken for dastardly and base intentions, and the best was that she’d been brought into a home and family that would care for her, having taken her in a misguided attempt to complete them.
The next suspect she’d considered was her mother. With her disappearing act and odd behavior, Veronica had to at least think through that possibility. But it didn’t take too much to snip her off the list, because even with all the negatives of her behavior, the shock on her face that morning when they’d found Sophie missing had been genuine; Veronica could see that clearly. She hadn’t hurt Sophie, but that didn’t solve the puzzle of where Barb went and why she hadn’t returned.
To be honest, she didn’t really have any solid guesses as to the reasoning behind her mother’s disappearance other than that she’d been so badly stunned she’d run away, afraid of Veronica in a way she used to be afraid of Veronica’s father and the other men she allowed to lay hands on her. If so, she’d have to either return home or end up in a hospital eventually. By then hopefully Veronica would’ve found Sophie and this whole mess would be cleared up from every angle imaginable.
Oh God, please let Sophie be alive, Veronica thought as she let go of the window frame and dropped the eighteen inches to the ground. When she hit, she immediately scanned for any officers, feeling like a fugitive. If she could make it through the backyard without being seen, she could get to the small grove of trees that separated her house from her neighbors’ house, the snowbirds Stella and Avery, where Gillian would meet her.
Veronica had no shoes at this point, and when she’d glanced in the bathroom mirror before taking the screen off the window, she’d had a brief thought that she looked like a girl who was taking the walk of shame back to her apartment after a one-night stand. Ready for the next step in her escape plan, Veronica checked her phone and made sure it was pushed deep into the cup of her bra. Thankfully, she’d stashed two twenties in the small wallet attached to the back of it the night before in preparation for her evening out. It would be enough to get her some pants and a pair of shoes at least.
Her heart pumping faster than she thought possible, Veronica gathered all her nerves into her calves and curled her toes under into the thick crabgrass of her backyard, trying to remember what it was like when she did track in high school. Those races were for a medal and some pride at being called “the best,” but this dash was for her kid, and no way was anyone going to stop her. She needed to find out more about the break-in last week, maybe with a call to the insurance company or research about other break-ins in the area.
More than anything she needed some space from the chaos inside that house. She was running from all the confusion and accusatory looks almost as much as she was running toward her self-led investigation. If she didn’t hurry, they’d notice how long she’d been gone “pumping” and break down the door.
One very brief check of the surrounding area and she bolted forward, remembering the exhilaration of sprinting rather than the deeply satisfying burn of the slow and long runs she was used to nowadays. It didn’t end up being very difficult to get from the safety of her landing spot by the house to the cluster of trees. The pine needles poked through the thin fabric of her dress and grabbed at her hair, but she shoved her body farther into the mash of needles and branches, not caring that they scratched at her bare skin and poked at her feet.
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Taking only a moment to look back, she checked the rear of the house. The bathroom window gaped open awkwardly, like someone had carved an eye out of a socket, leaving an uncomfortable emptiness behind. If she’d been more prepared, more cautious, she would’ve tried to replace the screen or close the window on her way out. But once she got in that room after too many questions, every single one inching closer to the accusation that Veronica refused to hear, she didn’t think through everything as clearly as she should have.
No going back now. Now it was only forward, to Gillian, and after that . . . Veronica wasn’t exactly sure. But she’d figure it out.
The back of the house was still clear, and her window for a clean escape was closing rapidly. Not even looking back this time, she pushed off the pine-covered ground and sped around the perimeter of the yard, keeping a close proximity to the grayish-brown fence on the Kensingtons’ side of the property. Thankfully, Stella and Avery had no fence of their own and no gate, so she burst through to the other side in less than a minute, and Gillian’s Civic was waiting, the loud hum of a barely working air-conditioning unit sounding like a freight train in Veronica’s rattled state. Still on edge, but with more confidence this time, Veronica took in a shaky breath, combed her fingers through her wild hair, and sped toward the parked car.
Gillian looked to be sleeping inside the car, the sweat on her forehead nearly a match of the streams down Veronica’s face and in dark circles under her armpits. When Veronica reached the car, the door handle flopped uselessly under her fingertips.
“Gillian, open the door,” she growled through a fake smile, tapping on the glass gently in a hope she could pull off “casual pickup” even while wearing no shoes.
Gillian started and placed a hand on her chest before leaning over and popping the lock manually. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. Come in!”
The endearment sounded so motherly, like Gillian had taken some parental interest in Veronica. She didn’t want a mom right now. She used her mother, hurt her mother; she lost her mother, maybe even pushed her away so hard that she would never come back. No, she didn’t need a replacement mom. She didn’t deserve one, and she’d probably ruin that relationship too.
The Waiting Room Page 12