by Britney King
When I arrive home, I pull in the driveway and put the car in park. Sweat beads at my hairline as I stare at the house. Everything I love is just beyond those walls, and I’ve gone and put it all at risk.
I’m not sure if I’m actually getting sick, or if the nausea is just a response to knowing I’m going to have to break the news about Alex to Greg. Killing the ignition, I hesitate to unbuckle, unable to muster the energy to get out and face the situation. If Alex is serious, I could lose everything. I could face prison time. I lean forward, resting my head against the steering wheel. I don’t know how long I’m there in that position, only that I’m jarred back to reality by a knock at the window.
When I look up, the neighbor kid has his nose pressed to the glass, his breath making fog on the glass. What the fuck?
As he raises his fist to knock again, I press the button to slide the window down. He squints into the sunlight, eventually cupping his hand over his eyes so that he can see me. Finally, he drops his hand and leans into the car. He braces himself against the door, his breath coming out in quick gasps. “I thought you were dead.”
“Theo, right?” Greg always refers to him as the neighbor boy, but this close, it’s obvious he’s a full-grown man.
“That’s right.” He extends his hand as though it’s something he’s been taught to do, not something that comes naturally.
“We’ve met before. Remember the fire? I helped your mom. I’m Amy.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“You said that before.”
“You shouldn’t let him hurt you like that. Amy.” The way he says my name as a full sentence catches my attention. “What about the children?”
As he eagerly awaits my response, he glares at me through narrowed eyes. “Theo,” I say, with broad emphasis, trying his tactic on for size. “You, of all people, should know better than to believe the things you hear.”
“Didn’t hear it.” He shakes his head from side to side. “I saw it.”
“What you saw was wrong. And also none of your business.”
Greg exits the garage. Theo makes eye contact briefly. He pats my car door. “Okay. Bye.” I watch as he starts for the fence line. Over his shoulder, he mumbles something. I can’t say for sure exactly what that something is, only that it sounds an awful lot like, “The children are my business.”
Greg opens the door. I exit and walk over to the passenger side. He hops into the driver’s seat. As I buckle my seat belt, he looks over at me. “What was that all about?”
“He saw the video.”
“Where are we going?” I ask every few miles.
My husband doesn’t answer. He simply smiles and grips the wheel. He drives out of the neighborhood and past the neighboring housing developments, until we’re on an old farm road, surrounded by nothing but rolling hills. I ask again.
“I told you it’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises,” I say as the woods grow thicker and the road grows thinner. Farmland spans for miles on all sides.
“You remember that place we took Christmas photos of the girls that time?”
I don’t really, but if I think hard enough, I vaguely recall it. That was at least four years ago. “Sure.”
He nods at the backpack he carries his laptop in. It’s on the floorboard of the backseat. “Check it out.”
“A picnic?” I ask, jokingly.
His bottom lip juts out, and then his mouth twists. “Um. Wish I’d thought of that.”
Reaching for the backpack, I pull it onto my lap. He looks over at me and smiles. “Go for it.”
As I unzip the bag, my throat hitches. “What the hell?”
Inside is the handgun I purchased. The gun I thought was stolen. Along with another pistol I’ve never seen before.
“Surprise!”
“Why didn’t you tell me? All this time you made me think someone took it. You made me think Jack Mooney took it.”
“You should have been honest up front. You weren’t.”
I shrug. “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
“You should have come to me.”
My eyes widen. “I did.”
“Did you really think I wouldn’t protect my family?”
“No—I don’t know—I just thought—”
“I know what you thought. But it was wrong. I’m not a pussy, Amy. And I wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in Jack Mooney.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
Our eyes meet, and he smiles. “The right time.”
He pulls onto the gravel in front of an old, dilapidated barn, turns off the car, and takes the bag from my lap. “Come on.”
“What are we doing?”
“What does it look like?” he quips, flinging his door open. “I’m going to teach you how to shoot.”
We walk for ages through tall grass, making me thankful for my choice of shoes. It’s sunny out, a little nippy but otherwise mild. Although, the sun is waning, and that will soon change. The further we walk, the more I complain. “I forgot my jacket. And what if I’d been in heels?”
“I knew you weren’t. And here,” he offers, sliding his jacket from his shoulders. “Take mine.”
When we come to a clearing, he stops and surveys the area. Satisfied, he sets the bag on the ground. “This oughta do.”
“The sun will be going down soon.”
“I know.”
“Well, since you know everything, it might be a good time to tell you I offered Alex money to take care of Mooney and now…”
“Now what?”
“Now he might be blackmailing me.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
My lips press into a hard line. I shake my head.
“I wished you’d mentioned this before.”
“I know.”
He shakes his head. “No, you don’t…I sent an email to the partners at his law firm today and copied him. I said that he was harassing my wife—though I didn’t mention the truth. I just said it was over real estate business, and that if he didn’t intend on taking it to court, that he’d better leave you alone.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I know Alex. I know what pushes his buttons. He loves his job—and he understands the law. He won’t mess around when it comes to either.”
My eyes narrow. “What if he doesn’t go away?”
“I have a strong feeling he will.” He removes the guns and ammo from the bag and lines them out on a log. “And if not,” he says, glancing over at me, “maybe we’ll just kill them both.”
“Okay,” he says as he slides ear muffs over my ears. “Wait.” He hands me a pair of glasses. “Put these on.”
He steps back, checks his phone, and then shoves it in his pocket. He hands me the gun, steadying my hands around the grip. “Flip the safety. Line up your sight, and when you’re ready, pull the trigger.”
Taking a deep breath, I set my stance and focus on my target. I keep my body balanced, preparing for the shock. And then I pull the trigger back. Even though I blink involuntarily the first few rounds, it’s easier than I thought it would be.
He inserts another clip. “Again.”
I roll my eyes. The gun is heavy, and I have noodle arms, which causes me to have to readjust, drop my arms, and fix my stance.
“What are you waiting for? It’s getting dark.”
I pull the trigger, emptying the clip.
“Don’t focus on the noise or the kick,” he says. “Focus on your target.”
Once I’ve emptied a few clips, he takes over. I watch as he hits the targets he’s lined up at the other end of the fence post. All center mass shots.
“I thought you hated guns.”
“Nah,” he says. “That’s just something I say back home. Otherwise my father would have us all captive for hours, going over every facet of his collection.”
“I thought you said no guns in the house.”
“I did. It’s better not to go ar
ound advertising what you’ve got. The fewer people that know, the better. My father taught me a lot of things. But his enthusiasm for showing off…well, that part we don’t agree about.”
I cock my head to one side and then the other. “I still don’t understand. Why didn’t you just tell me you took the gun? Do you have any idea how much sleep I’ve lost?”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
“Work’s been hectic—life has been hectic. And we haven’t exactly had time to come and do this.”
“So?”
“No point in having a firearm, sweetheart, if you don’t know how to use it.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
I try Lucy’s cell five times on the way home, and our landline twice. Each time, I get no response. Finally, I call Mr. Crowley and ask him to go over and check on things. Greg steps on the gas, knowing it will take the old man forever and a day just to cross the street.
When I hang up, Greg’s face is set, and his brow is creased. “Isn’t there anyone else you can call?”
“The police.”
He mulls it over, his jaw muscle giving a familiar twitch. “Let’s wait for Crowley. The last thing we need right now is to look like irresponsible parents. Or to scare them if the cops show up.”
“She probably didn’t charge her phone. You know how teenagers are.”
“Or she’s on it,” he says. “Wait. I thought she was at least twenty.”
“Something like that. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Mooney is in the hospital. I doubt this has anything to do with him.”
I try Lucy’s cell again. Once again, it goes to voicemail. “I don’t get it.” I shift in my seat. “This whole thing, these past few weeks—they feel like a dream.”
“More like a nightmare.”
“Yeah. But there’s something I can’t figure out…it just doesn’t make any sense.”
“What?”
My thoughts shift. “Wait. First, what did you mean when you said we’d kill them both?”
“Nothing.” He glances over at me. “Just that after the video…well, I think we ought to defend ourselves from another attack.”
“How?”
“Easy. We lure him in. And then take care of the problem.”
“And Alex?”
“I think Alex is desperate but not necessarily serious.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think he’d do anything that would implicate himself. He’s smarter than that. With the email to his bosses, like I said, he’ll go away. That—or he’ll take us to court over something frivolous. One or the other.”
Suddenly, I feel stupid for not having thought of this myself. “Right. But why would Jack Mooney go through all this effort, after all this time? And why me?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“I think I want to.”
“I think that’s a terrible idea.”
“Do you? Because I just want this to end. I want to be able to spend an afternoon with my husband, and leave my children with a sitter and not have to worry that something terrible has happened.”
“I’m sure they’re fine. Call Crowley back.”
Crowley’s phone rings and rings before it goes to what is undoubtedly an old school answering machine. The sun sinks lower in the sky. The car does not go fast enough. Finally, my phone rings, and to my dismay, it is not Lucy. It is Mr. Crowley. He tells me the house is locked up, and he cannot get in. “We’re only a few miles away,” Greg says. “Just thank him and hang up.”
Alex calls me three times in a row. Greg gives me a look when I hold up the screen for him to see. “Don’t answer. Make him put it in writing.”
Greg is right. When I don’t answer, Alex texts. Guess you’re not that smart. You could have had a nice commission. And more. Instead, you’re stuck with that loser, which I promise will be punishment enough.
I click the text, go into my contacts, and block Alex. Then I do the same on Facebook.
Meanwhile, Greg speeds home, racing through the streets of our neighborhood, gaining us a few dirty looks and one middle finger. For sure, the description of our car, if not actual camera footage, along with our license plate number, will be on the neighborhood app for all to see and comment on. I would tell Greg to slow down, but the contents of my stomach are lodged firmly in my throat.
He barrels into the driveway, stamping on the brakes in the front of the house and throws the car into park. He grabs his backpack, removes the handgun, and tells me to wait in the car. As he starts for the house, he pushes the handgun into his waistband.
I do not wait in the car. I am two steps behind him. There’s no sign of forced entry, no sign of anything amiss. At least not at first.
We find Blair in the kitchen, seated next to Lucy's unconscious body, playing on her iPad.
I bolt for the stairs. Naomi is fast asleep in her bed, where Greg said she was when he left her. He dials 9-1-1, while I try to rouse Naomi. I flip on the light and instantly I know something is wrong. Her skin is ashy, and her breathing is shallow. When I call her name, and jostle her, she mumbles incoherently but does not fully wake. My first thought is a carbon monoxide leak. But that doesn’t explain why Blair is fine.
When questioned, Blair isn’t able to explain what happened with Lucy, only that one minute she complained of a stomachache, and the next she was on the floor. When the paramedics arrive, they assess Lucy and then deftly load her on a gurney and into the back of the ambulance. When they do not immediately take off, Greg gives me a look, and I know what he is thinking. This is not a good sign.
Not long after, Lucy’s father arrives. He relays her medical history, which sounds about as uneventful as most young women that age. Members of the fire department arrive and take Naomi’s vitals. They suggest getting her checked over at the ER, and eventually another ambulance arrives to transport her. Greg stays behind; he is going to drop Blair off with Dana and then head to the hospital.
En route, Naomi is mostly unresponsive. It strikes me that in the span of a week, I have held both my children’s hands in the back of ambulances. What kind of person could have such luck?
I mention this to the paramedic, who I expect to conclude what I’m thinking, that I must be a terrible mother. Instead, he seems unfazed. “Like they say,” he tells me, “things come in threes.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
When a detective shows up in the emergency room and asks to speak with me, I find out the hard way what is going on with my daughter. He’s tall and thin, with thick glasses and a balding head. He sports a Christmas sweater and tweed slacks and isn’t at all what I expected.
He introduces himself, and while respectful, he dodges every question I throw at him. Throughout our conversation, he remains evasive, skirting around answering my many questions. But he doesn’t hold back at all in peppering me with his. Most of them revolve around some brownies Lucy is said to have consumed at my house. Had I made them? And if I had, where had I purchased the ingredients?
No, I had not. I explain Blair’s accident. Then I tell him about all the meals we had delivered by friends and neighbors.
According to the detective, Lucy posted a selfie to Instagram with a pan of brownies from our kitchen, captioning the photo with perks of the job. Not long after, while texting back and forth with her boyfriend, she mentioned that she felt sick. Then there was a bit of joking back and forth between the two of them. In her final text, she joked that it served her right for eating our food.
The detective explains that Lucy’s organs are failing one by one, and she has gone into sepsis. Arsenic was detected in both her blood and urine, and her prognosis is quite grim.
It suddenly becomes crystal clear, at least to me, what has happened. Blair despises brownies. She wouldn’t have touched them. But Naomi had been consuming small portions that Greg or I had doled out over the past several days. Lucy finished off the entire pan.
The point at which he asks if I have proof the br
ownies were delivered is the point when my cool facade fades. My back against the wall, I sink down into the hard plastic chair in the emergency room waiting area. Tears well in my eyes as I realize this is never going to end. There is no limit to the amount of damage that can be done. Through sobs, I relay everything, all the stuff about Mooney I can think of. I choke out words that all sound jumbled. Everything blends together. He’s ineffective, but he tries to calm me. He has obviously seen the police reports about the harassment, about Mooney delivering donuts to the girls’ school.
He plays good cop, explaining that he is here to help. Like Greg, he too seems to suffer an allergy against tears. It is clear when he firmly asks again how we might track the brownies. I give him Dana’s number and Sarah’s number and send him a link to the care calendar online.
I can see that he doesn’t believe me, and while I realize that is his job, the insinuation that I would—that I could—poison not only our beloved babysitter, whom I have known since she was a kid herself, but also my own daughter, is too much. It enrages me. And at the same time, I feel dead inside.
All along the police have been of little help. I offer this to him in explicit detail, explaining everything that I have been through, saying that it is next to impossible to get a restraining order in the state of Texas unless you have had a relationship of a sexual or romantic nature. Through gritted teeth, I ask him for an explanation as to why in most cases jurors’ names are not kept anonymous. He listens carefully, but offers no answers, and little to no sympathy. In the end, he seems eager to end the conversation. He tells me he plans to follow up on the leads I have given him, including the info about Jack Mooney, and that he’ll be in touch, and then he leaves.
Greg finally arrives. Just watching him come through the double doors provides a calming effect. Before he sees me, I note his expression. It’s pained and worried and tired. But when his eyes find mine, everything shifts. He offers a small smile, and I think, this is why I married you. This is why I am still married to you. This is why I cannot live without you.