No Bad Deed

by Heather Chavez

Ozzy looked embarrassed. “I believed him. But then he texted me later that day and admitted everything.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked me not to say anything to you, said you guys were just working through some crap.”

  “When was that?”

  “A week ago.”

  Before I met Carver Sweet. Before he had access to Sam’s phone.

  “It was just those texts? You never again spoke about the affair in person?”

  He smiled. I recognized the expression. It was the same one I had seen on Torres’s face earlier and on Ozzy’s the night before. Pity.

  “We spoke briefly. I told him whatever was going on with Hannah’s mom needed to stop. He said, ‘It’s already gone too far.’ That was it. I didn’t push. He knew he’d screwed up.”

  “What’s her name?” When Ozzy shook his head, I asked, “You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then what did she look like?”

  “She had brown hair, or dark blond. She was short. Then again, Sam’s tall. Most women look small next to him.” He hesitated, trying to think of more details but failing. “That’s all I really noticed. Sorry. But I think they met at a coffee shop downtown.”

  A coffee shop downtown. Yeah, that narrowed the options.

  “Last night, what did Sam say in his texts?”

  Ozzy looked down at his desk and scratched at his scalp.

  “He said he was sorry.”

  My chest tightened. “For what?”

  “For putting me in the middle, I guess.”

  When the silence stretched, I prodded, “What else?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say much.”

  “Important things don’t always take long to say.” Like I love you. Or goodbye.

  “Sam told me not to worry and that if I talked to you, I should tell you the same.”

  His eyes caught mine for an instant before he dropped them again. “I was going to tell you, but . . . I didn’t know how to mention the part about Sam being okay without telling you the rest of it. Honestly, I thought he’d be back by now.” Ozzy looked up, his expression suddenly hopeful. “It’s been less than a day. He’ll be back.”

  I pointed at the picture of the man taking Sam’s car. “If he’s just taking time to work through his issues, how do you explain this?”

  As Ozzy realized he had no explanation, the optimism drained from his face. My expression remained unchanged. I had started to lose hope the moment I had first seen Carver Sweet on the TV screen.

  16

  There were no recent charges for coffee shops in our bank records—either Hannah’s mom had paid, or Sam paid cash—so finding the right one became a game of how well I knew my husband. A few days ago, I would’ve been confident I could meet the challenge. Now, not so much.

  The muscles in my right hand twitched, as they had before I had thrown that water bottle across Ozzy’s office. The question nagged: How well did I know my husband? After talking to his best friend, it seemed more likely the reason for Sam’s absence was an affair. My skin felt hot, bruised.

  Picturing Sam with another woman, touching another woman, I staggered on a memory: me as a teenager, punching a girl in the nose. Breaking it. Because she ridiculed me for not having a mother.

  Another time, a boy, a knee to the groin. I hadn’t wanted him to touch me.

  You need to stop, my father had told me.

  I can’t stop, I’d said, even as I had realized how badly I wanted to. So Red had paid for kickboxing lessons. With the pads, I could hit harder, and my opponent didn’t get hurt. It became my therapy.

  I wished I had kept up the sport, because I very much wanted to kick someone.

  The closest coffee shop was a drive-thru with a walk-up window. Because it was across the street from the school, it was popular with students. Sam wouldn’t have gone there. Not enough privacy.

  Throw an empty coffee cup in any direction and you could hit a Starbucks. But Sam would’ve preferred something local.

  The four spots most likely, then, were all either a long walk or a short drive away. The gourmet place that also served beer was probably out. Great reviews, but not Sam’s style. So that narrowed it to three places. Unless I also counted diners that served coffee. I rubbed my temples.

  I started with the one across from the bookstore. No one recognized Sam.

  I got lucky at my second stop. A blue-aproned barista with a plug that stretched his earlobe nodded when I showed him Sam’s photo.

  “That’s that teacher dude,” he said. “Nice guy. Always tips. Orders medium roast, sometimes tea. Both black.”

  The shop smelled of coffee and cinnamon rolls, and my stomach grumbled. I hadn’t eaten since—I strained to remember. Then it came to me: the spaghetti Sam and Audrey had made together the night before. Not hungry but knowing I should eat, I grabbed a banana from a basket on the counter and a wrapped pesto-mozzarella sandwich from the rack.

  As I paid, I glanced at the young man’s name tag. Josh. “When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  “He used to come in most days, first thing, but I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks,” Josh said. “But I’ve been starting later, so he could be coming in before my shift.”

  I asked Josh what time he usually started, and he said he didn’t come in until noon. But, he added, the manager, Linda, worked most mornings.

  When I asked to speak with Linda, the young barista tugged on his apron. “She had to run out—sick kid—but she’ll be back later.”

  Damn.

  I gave Josh my contact information, then asked the question I’d purposely saved for last. “Did Sam ever meet anyone here?”

  The chatty barista’s eyes went flat. “He usually came in alone.”

  I had a teenage son. I was pretty good at recognizing the lies of young men. It was the older ones I apparently couldn’t read.

  “So who’d he meet when he did have company?”

  Josh gnawed on his lip. “I said he was alone.”

  “You said usually. Which implies sometimes he wasn’t.”

  The barista realized his slip. His knuckles went white as he clenched the straps of his apron. “He came in by himself,” the young man insisted.

  Though I was sympathetic to Josh’s situation, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t push. “I get it. I wouldn’t want to tell a wife that her husband routinely had coffee with another woman either. But I already know Sam met someone here. Hannah’s mom?”

  “I don’t know her name.” The young barista’s cheeks reddened. Another slip. I felt sorry for him. He actually squirmed. I’d seen Leo do the same when I asked about homework he hadn’t completed.

  “What did she look like?”

  Josh fiddled with his earring. “I don’t remember.”

  “Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?”

  He looked to his right, hoping for customers, but the place was empty. He tried the excuse anyway. “I can’t really talk. I’ve kinda got a lot to do.”

  When I lifted an eyebrow at that, he added, “I’ve gotta prep stuff. Wipe off the counters. Refill the creamer. Take out the trash.”

  His face lit up at that last task. He called over a coworker, a short woman with a crew cut, and asked if she could watch the counter.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “So I can take out the trash.”

  “Already did,” she said before returning to her own “prep” work, which evidently involved heavy use of her cell phone.

  “Seems like you have a minute after all, Josh.”

  The young barista’s chest deflated. Finally, he said, “She wasn’t a redhead. Brunette maybe?”

  I was going to ask about the woman’s height, but before I could, Josh added, “They always sat on the patio, so they’re probably on video.”

  My heart sped up. He hadn’t thought to lead with this? “You have video?”

  Josh nodded. “The owner put in cameras a fe
w months back, after someone spray painted a penis on the window.”

  The door opened, letting in a gust of wind and an older couple. Josh stood straighter and smiled. “I’m not sure if we can let you see it, but I’ll check with my manager as soon as she gets back,” he said.

  He started to walk away, but on impulse, I reached out. “What do you get paid a week?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. A couple hundred. Why?”

  “You convince your manager to send me that video, and I’ll return with a week’s pay.”

  For the first time since I’d started talking with him, Josh looked happy that I’d come in. He grinned. “Probably should’ve said five hundred, huh?”

  Then he tightened the strings on his apron and hurried away to take the couple’s order.

  17

  Time seemed to pull the sun through the sky at an alarming speed. When I checked my phone, it was already time to pick up Audrey.

  Waiting alongside the curb, I had three minutes to inhale half of the sandwich before Audrey climbed into the car. I offered her the banana and the rest of the sandwich. She stuffed a third of the banana in her mouth. Though a tiny thing, my daughter had the appetite and eating habits of a piranha.

  “Slow down, Peanut.”

  Around a mouthful of banana, Audrey mumbled, “What’s a peed-o-pill?”

  I used a familiar trick. “Can you use it in a sentence?”

  “Your dad is a peed-o-pill. P-E-D-O-P-H-I-L-E.”

  My shoulders tensed. She must have really studied the word to spell it so perfectly. “Did someone say that to you?”

  The bleat of a horn intruded, and I pulled into the heavy after-school traffic.

  “I know I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” She sounded offended.

  “Then why do you ask that?”

  “’Cause of the note.”

  When I pulled to the side of the road abruptly, the car behind me honked again. I blamed exhaustion and stress for what I did next. As the driver passed, my middle finger shot up in salute.

  I immediately chastised myself: That’s the old me. Pre-Sam, pre-kids.

  In the past thirty-six hours, I’d been spending more time than usual with the old me.

  The motorist looked only slightly less shocked than Audrey, my daughter’s eyes wide, food-filled mouth agape.

  “Don’t ever do what I just did,” I said. “Where’s the note?”

  “Mommy,” Audrey gasped, still reacting to my transgression. “That’s like a bad word with your finger.”

  She wasn’t so shocked that it affected her appetite. She finished off the banana and started on the sandwich.

  “You mentioned a note?” I prodded again.

  “The note the man left in my backpack,” she said between bites of sandwich.

  “What man?”

  “A man with a funny-looking shirt. It had a bear on it, but the bear was smoking something. Bears can’t smoke. Plus smoking causes cancer.” Audrey smiled, bread crumbs at the corners of her mouth, proud that she had remembered something her dad sometimes told her. “Nana Beatrice died of cancer before I was born.”

  “Yes, she did.” I tried to keep my voice calm. “Did this man say anything to you?”

  Audrey shook her head. “I don’t think he wanted me to see him, because he left the note when my backpack was still in the cubby. But I saw him because it was my day to water the plant.”

  I grabbed my daughter’s backpack and reached inside, where I found a crinkled Post-it that read: Your dad is a pedophile.

  “I showed Ms. Dickerson the note, but I don’t think she knew what the word meant. She had a funny look on her face when she read it, though, kind of like that driver just now when you pointed your finger in the bad way.”

  I expected I would be getting a call from Audrey’s teacher.

  “Ms. Dickerson tried to keep it, but I wanted to show it to you so I took it back. That’s why it’s wrinkled.”

  Sandwich finished, Audrey fished a gummy worm from her pocket, picked off the lint, and popped it into her mouth. “So then I asked Bonnie, she’s in third grade, and she said it means someone who likes little kids.”

  So I could probably expect a call from Bonnie’s parents too.

  She reached for another gummy worm, but I stopped her. “Watch the sugar, remember. Anything else?”

  “Well, I thought maybe Bonnie didn’t really know, so I asked my friend Jackson—”

  I groaned.

  “—but then I saw your car, so I decided to just ask you.”

  Thank goodness for that.

  “Did you see where the man went?” I scanned the crowd for a man wearing a T-shirt like my daughter had described. When Audrey shook her head, I asked, “Do you remember anything else about him? Like, what color his hair was?”

  Audrey’s faced scrunched in thought. I hoped I was wrong about what was coming. “I don’t think he had any.”

  My grip on the steering wheel tightened.

  “I don’t understand what Bonnie meant,” Audrey said. “Of course Daddy likes little kids. I’m a little kid, and Leo’s not but he used to be, and he loves us.”

  “Yes, he does.” I reached across the console to the back seat to squeeze Audrey’s hand. “A pedophile isn’t someone like Daddy. It’s someone who says they like kids but who hurts them.”

  “Oh! Like a molester?”

  Now it was my turn to look shocked. “Yes, like that.”

  Audrey nodded in sudden understanding. “Addison said that Kendra’s uncle went to prison for being a molester. But I told her to mind her own business because it’s not nice to gossip.”

  “After you asked what it meant?”

  Audrey nibbled on the edge of her thumbnail. “I might’ve maybe asked. Oh, and he gave me an envelope.”

  “An envelope?”

  “I know I’m not supposed to take anything from strangers, but he put it in my backpack, so that’s different, right?”

  “That’s different. You didn’t open it?” I had no idea what was inside, but I didn’t imagine it would be anything I would want Audrey to see.

  “No. Is Daddy home yet?”

  I took the envelope from Audrey’s backpack and stowed it in the glove box. For the second time that day, I considered calling my father. This time, the idea lingered a little longer. I decided the momentary lapse was because my children were missing their own father. I knew I had to tell them that Sam was gone, but I wanted to break the news when they were together. Tonight, after Leo’s game. So I told Audrey the lie I had been practicing, “Your dad has to be away at his conference a little longer than expected.”

  “Okay,” she said, bouncing her legs as she stared out her window. “Can we get ice cream?”

  “I have to drop you at Zoe’s so I can run an errand.”

  “After?”

  Because of her transplant, I had always been careful about my daughter’s diet, but even after her pocket gummy worm, I found myself unable to deny her this.

  “If there’s time before Leo’s game.”

  Audrey continued to bounce in her booster seat, humming off-key. Despite the interaction with the stranger, Audrey’s world remained a place of mint chocolate chip, a night watching a game at the big-kids school, and both parents at home to love her. I dreaded the evening ahead, when I would have to break my daughter’s heart, and open the envelope, which might break my own.

  As I circled the block, Audrey recounted her day, lingering over the details of a lunchtime game of freeze tag and the successful trade of an orange for a bag of pretzels. By Audrey’s telling, the negotiations had been as intense as any UN peace talk.

  I drove around the block for a second time but still saw no sign of the man in the smoking bear T-shirt.

  “Are you lost? Because you’re supposed to turn there.” Audrey pointed to the main street that led toward Zoe’s house.

  “Thanks.” I headed in the direction of Audrey’s outstretched finge
r. As I did, I realized there was one possible witness to Sam’s disappearance who had received only a passing interrogation: our daughter. In those early hours, I had been fairly certain of Sam’s return and worried about upsetting Audrey if I probed too deeply. Such concerns had evaporated in the time since.

  I turned down the radio and waited for Audrey to wrap up another story, this one about a half-finished drawing that might turn out to be either a dragon or a dog. Then I asked, “Did you and Daddy have fun trick-or-treating last night?”

  “Mm-hmm. But where did Daddy go?”

  I hated lying to my children. Even when Audrey had asked the Christmas before if Santa Claus was real, I had answered with a version of the truth—some people believed, some didn’t. To which Audrey had replied, with surprising indifference, “I knew he was fake. But unicorns are real.” I had been glad she hadn’t pressed on that last part.

  “Daddy went to a conference, remember?”

  From the back seat, Audrey sighed dramatically, as was her habit. “I know that.” Her voice was suddenly serious. “I meant where did Daddy go last night?”

  Struggling for words that contained some honesty, I pulled in front of Zoe’s house and parked. I turned in my seat to face Audrey. “I’m not sure. I thought we could try to figure it out together.”

  I kept my tone light, as if I were suggesting a game that promised great fun. “I saw that pumpkin you mentioned,” I prompted. “It was cool.”

  “The puking one?” She smiled, but it was soft at its edges. Talking about the night before bothered her. “Do you think it would be hard to make? Daddy’s good at art, so I bet he could do it.”

  Her smile disintegrated, and a hand closed around my heart. “I bet he could. Did he see it too?”

  Audrey’s small shoulders rose, then fell. “He was talking to the lady.”

  The hand holding my heart squeezed. “What lady?”

  “The one in the house.”

  I thought of the neighbor, Helen. I described her to Audrey and asked, “That lady?”

  Audrey shook her head. “The lady in the house with the broken windows.”

  I tried to uncoil the tension in my shoulders, forcing my words out slowly to hide my surging anxiety. “Was she on the steps with you guys? Or inside the house?”