The Devil Made Me

by Lorena May

  Darby feels herself growing impatient. We don’t have time for this! She stands and taps the newcomer on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she says,” but the sooner we can investigate the better. You are . . ,?”

  He turns a tear-stained face toward her, and with a final sympathetic nod toward Shea, he stands to face the detective, holding out his hand to shake hers. “Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Kyle Bannerman. Ben and Shea’s downstairs tenant.” His face is open and honest. No wonder Shea’s so comfortable with him.

  Darby nods. “Were you home this morning, Mr. Bannerman?”

  He looks down at Shea with anxious eyes. “No, unfortunately. I had a meeting with a client.” He pauses, turning his attention to both detectives. “I’m a social worker, and I’m out and about a lot.” He cocks his head, looking Darby in the eye. An intense, disarming look. “Find that little girl, Detective.”

  Darby scans the house as they move to leave. CSI agents kneel here and there, their practiced eyes intently focused on any evidence they can glean from what looks pretty ordinary to Darby.

  It is a house with a baby, after all, and baby blankets, a few discarded bottles, soothers, soft toys and all the contraptions that come with them litter the family room and kitchen. A baby swing, a jolly jumper, a mat where the baby can lie and reach shapes dangles down. The sink is half-filled with dirty dishes, but all in all the small kitchen is clean and cozy. From the corner of her eye Darby watches Mel stop to thumb through a pad of paper that sits on the granite-covered island in the kitchen. She follows, ripping off the top page and sticking it in her pocket.

  As they descend the stairs to the back entrance Ben accompanies them. Presumably Kyle has stayed in the living room to comfort his landlady.

  “Shea said that the neighbour, Diane, might have the baby?” Darby asks him.

  “Diane is her friend next door. She often pops in. She’s been a great comfort to Shea through her problems recently.”

  “And was Shea expecting her to be home today?”

  He nods, his brow knitting. “I think so. In fact, I was planning to come home from work early so that they could take a painting lesson together. But Shea’s been unable to reach her. Do you think . . .?”

  Darby is quick to answer, shaking her head slightly. “We don’t know what to think at this point, Mr. Anderson. We’ll be in touch.” As they walk out the screen door, Darby glances back. Ben stands with his arms hanging limply by his sides, looking forlorn and helpless.

  *

  The neighbourhood is an older, hilly one lined with mature trees; a nice, middle-class neighbourhood. Like most of the houses on the block, Diane’s is an average-sized bungalow. Rain falls, a steady drizzle. Tugging her jacket tightly around her, Darby darts across the lawn, while Mel walks to the car. She rings the door-bell, hearing the echo of it in the stillness of the house. Bending sideways to peer into the front room, she sees a fluffy calico cat sitting on the back of a chair, looking at her through the window. Another tabby lies on a couch across the room. It’s a tidy, warm-looking room with no sign of human life in it. Diane clearly has not returned. Did she hear the baby crying and rescue it? Why can’t anyone reach her?

  Darby walks around the house, shivering, glancing every so often at the Anderson residence next door. She looks through windows, knocks on the back door, gazes around the neatly landscaped yard. Another cat, white with a mottling of colour on its back, now bedraggled and wet, meows at the back door. There is no other sign of life. If this cat-lover is home surely she’d be letting this poor little creature inside. “Sorry, buddy,” Darby stoops to rub the animal’s soaked fur. “I can’t let you in.” With a regretful backward glance, she makes her way to the car where Mel sits shielding himself from the rain.

  “Okay, let’s go knock on some doors. Find out what the neighbours saw.” He is ready for action.

  As they walk down the sidewalk Darby turns to stare at the two houses for a moment. Something is off. What is it?

  Chapter 4

  Shea, September 13, 2018

  Rain splats against the window as I stand by the kitchen sink looking out. It adds to the overall gloom. In the back yard it plops into puddles around the stepping stones, and it fills the little red wagon we bought at a garage sale last week; the little red wagon we bought for Cassandra. I picture her tiny face, the smile they say is just a gas pain. But it’s a smile that makes my heart glow. I feel the curl of her small hand on my fingers, and the soft warmth of her little body curled against mine. We have such hopes and dreams for her. I look at the wagon sitting there, empty and cold. We want to take her for walks when everything’s better.

  Ben nuzzles my neck, his atypical stubble scratching my over-sensitive skin; prickling the nerve endings. “I’ll bet Diane came in, heard her crying and took her wherever she had to go. It’ll be okay,” he says. But his voice is uncertain. I turn to look into his eyes and see the worry there. The hidden accusation. How could you just let her disappear like that? Can’t you even be trusted to look after one tiny baby?

  I saw it in the eyes of the detectives too. The lively dark-haired woman with her neck tattoo and the grumpy, older man. They both looked at me with scepticism. Of course! How does a woman lose her baby in her own house in broad daylight? For how long was I passed out?

  I think back to the last time I held Cassandra. Her stiff, screaming body. My hands vibrating – wanting to shake and shake and shake her. But I didn’t – did I? The force with which I threw her into her bed couldn’t have hurt her, could it? It was only a few inches. Then – was I passed out in the closet? For how long? Did I do something that I’m not remembering? My heart aches, filling my whole body, making me numb and immovable. I’m a heavy, solid, unfeeling rock.

  Ben can’t sit still. He paces, running his hands through his hair. “I’m going to find Diane,” he says, finally. “She can’t have just disappeared into thin air. Do you have a key to her house? Maybe I can call the people in her phone book to get some answers.” I nod indicating the key rack with my head. He grabs the key on the end – Diane’s – and heads out the door. I stare out the window at rain plopping into puddles, the bare green grass and the little red wagon.

  “Shea?” Kyle bobs his head into the kitchen. “What can I do?” and he slowly walks up to stand behind me. His comforting hands stroke my shoulders, and I feel his tepid breath on my head. “I wish I could take this pain away for you,” he murmurs.

  I turn and bury my forehead in his large, chest; a snug, soothing feeling. Breathing in his natural man-scent, I crumble. I let my body slide to the floor and sit with my back against the cupboard. He kneels down so we’re at eye-level, and his face is filled with compassion. He’s never judged me; never looked down on me; never made me feel less. And I tell him everything. I tell him how I almost shook her; vibrated her. Tossed her a few inches – but quite hard – into her crib. I tell him how I escaped to my bedroom closet. The pills. The lapsed time I can’t account for. And now, tears streaming down my face, I look into his kind, brown eyes.

  “Did I hurt her? Did I do something to her that I can’t remember?” And I’m racked with howling, blubbering sobs.

  “No, Shea.” He holds my face in his hands. “Don’t think that. You would never hurt anyone.”

  I close my eyes, and let my head fall back against the wooden cupboard. You don’t know what I’m capable of. Nor did Ben. He had no idea what he was getting himself into.

  Chapter 5

  2015, Shea and Ben

  They first met at Hye’s. The restaurant was an over-priced chain specializing in great steak and a varied salad bar. Its most impressive feature was its bevy of attractive young waitresses dressed in skimpy white t-shirts and short, tight black skirts tottering around on high heels showing off legs that went on forever.

  Shea first noticed the well-dressed guy with the crooked smile when he’d come in with a group of lawyers the week before. He was younger than the rest, an intern in their f
irm, she learned. Now, here he was again. Alone this time, sitting in her section.

  She gave him her warmest smile. “Well, hello again! Back for another rib-eye?” She waited, inwardly gritting her teeth, expecting the suggestive come-back she’d grown so used to. But it didn’t come. He flushed. His cheeks became red, and he smiled awkwardly, looking down at the menu for a few moments before he spoke.

  “I did enjoy the rib-eye,” he said. “But I’d also like to get to know you better.” He glanced shyly up at her, then down again, quickly re-reading the menu, his hands shaking slightly.

  And that’s how it started. Slowly, gradually. He came into the restaurant regularly, chatting with her about her job, his job, the other waiters, and increasingly, his dreams of becoming a full-fledged criminal lawyer with his own firm. They talked about his sheltered childhood, her chaotic one . . . He was so different than the men she’d dated thus far. It was only after several dinner and movie dates that they’d finally slept together. He was inexperienced; she wasn’t. And he fell completely under her spell. He was smitten. He didn’t seem to notice what an unlikely couple they were. He with his University education; soon to be a full-fledged lawyer. She was a high-school drop-out. He dressed in Gucci jeans and Ralph Lauren shirts. She wore ripped shorts, f*#k you socks and little stretchy tops. He was a social drinker who had tried marijuana once or twice. She’d lived on alcohol and drugs during her teen years, having only recently restricted their use to the rare occasion. He was shy but confident and popular with his small circle of friends. She pretended confidence to the point of brashness and felt anything but.

  Once they became a couple he began to introduce her to his friends and associates. Shea accompanied him to a party for the firm he was interning with. His friend, Moira, from law school, worked there as well. “Shea, meet Moira, fellow intern and untried savior of the innocent!”

  “Or the guilty!” Moira’s laugh was contagious. A melodious kind of belly-laugh, and she winked broadly, her big brown eyes wide and filled with fun. She was stunning! Tall with flowing brown hair, a beaming, shining face, she was pink-cheeked and full-lipped, with a rich vivaciousness. She wore a red dress that accentuated her full breasts, fit closely around her small waist and swirled outward from her swivelling hips. She tossed her hair from her face and hugged Shea close. “Shea! Finally! I’m so glad to meet you!”

  And any bravado or brashness Shea may have tried to exhibit vanished in a puddle of total mediocrity.

  “Come. Let me show you off,” Moira laughed as she wrapped an arm around Shea and propelled her forward. “You are stunning, by the way.” Moira held the small, dark-haired woman at arm’s length for a moment, looking her up and down. Shea felt herself bask in the young lawyer’s glory; flattered and excited in spite of herself. Ben followed happily along behind the two beauties as Moira threw Shea into a whirl of introductions, shielding her from the fact that she so clearly did not fit in.

  Moira never wavered. When others asked Shea things such as, “What do you do?” or, “Did you and Ben attend the same University?” Moira cut in with retorts like, “This is a woman of mystery! A woman of appeal!” and diverted Shea elsewhere, a hand placed tenderly on the small of her back or an arm draped amiably across her shoulders. Moira’s lips and breathy whispers in her ear updated her on each workmate’s peculiarities. “That’s the office scandalmonger!” or “The only man SHE hasn’t slept with is your husband!”

  Meeting Ben’s parents was more difficult. They met for lunch at an upscale restaurant. Sunlight streamed through floor to ceiling windows that looked out upon green hills, exotic lawn ornaments and a bubbling pond surrounded by luscious plants. Inside, soft music played against the tinkle of glassware. Generously spaced, round tables covered with white linen and sparkling silverware filled a room that was softly carpeted and exquisitely furnished. Ben’s parents were already there when they arrived sitting expectantly at a table on the far side of the room. Making the long walk from the entrance felt like it took forever. Shea knew she was being watched. Every move appraised. Ben’s mother sat erect, flawless. Her elegantly styled blonde hair, lightly tanned skin, and perfectly tailored, green dress was accentuated with what Shea was sure were genuine pearls. She held her head with the air of someone confident in her supremacy. Sitting beside her was Ben’s father; a small man of solid build; nice looking. An older version of Ben.

  In her too-tight black dress, tattooed neck and sleeve, her tousled spiky hair, overdone make-up . . . Shea realized immediately that she was not at all what this refined couple had in mind for their only son. And no matter how much she tugged at her clothes, lowered her eyes, smiled sweetly, and tried to say the right things, they would not be impressed.

  Ben, his arm protectively placed around her shoulder walked – almost carried – her to the table.

  “Mom and Dad, this is Shea.”

  Shea stuck her hand out, sucking in a deep breath. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she stuttered, her voice shaky.

  Looking down her refined nose, Edie, Ben’s mother, smiled a half-smile saying, “Likewise. We’ve waited a long time for this.”

  Ben’s father stood, and took her hand in both of his. “Finally, we get to meet you, my dear,” and he gently shook.

  Although she found herself feeling tongue-tied and awkward throughout the luncheon, it became bearable as she realized that Ben and his parents had a respectful, formal relationship. Throughout his life he’d been sent away to private schools. His parents had travelled the world with his father’s business. Edie had become the perfect wife to a wealthy, successful man; an excellent home-maker, hostess and companion. A woman to make any man proud. Later, Ben told her it was not the kind of marriage that he himself hoped for. He wanted a big, close-knit family; a family that laughed, took trips, camped, played sports and games together . . . And she was swept up in it. She envisioned her future self a cookie-making, hearty, hugging, laughing mom. The perfect TV mom. A vision neither of them had ever known.

  They were married a few months after they’d met in the month of June; a small civil ceremony in the lavish home of Ben’s parents. A few close friends of the Andersons, Moira and Shea’s sister, Alyssa were the only guests. Afterward Edie served sumptuous hors d’oeuvres and dainties, making small-talk with practiced ease. Ben’s father warmly engaged Shea in a look at Ben’s life through a picture album. Red-faced and apologetic, Ben looked on. Alyssa sat in an over-stuffed chair, taciturn but virtually invisible. Moira swept the room with her charm, praising the food, the decorating and most of all the beautiful people gathered there.

  The following September, Ben and Moira established their own law firm. She was the barrister, he the solicitor. They were a perfect match. With her outgoing personality and his father’s business connections they managed to attract a large number of clients early on. And they worked hard. Oh, how they worked! Shea seldom saw Ben, but she was immersed in sewing curtains, choosing colors and compulsively cleaning their new home. New to them, it was a good-sized bungalow with a large yard and several bedrooms for the family they hoped to have some day.

  They never saw it coming.

  Chapter 6

  September 13, 2018

  Darby sits back in her chair, chomping on an apple, her feet propped on the corner of Mel’s paper-strewn desk. “So, what do you think?” she asks, reaching over to pick up a piece of paper, eyeing it quizzically, setting it down.

  He exhales heavily. “First thing we must do is find the neighbour, Diane. Maybe she did take the kid. It sounds like she’s in and out of their house a lot. She could’ve taken the baby somewhere to pacify it.” He rubs his forehead with his fingertips. “But where? Maybe she had to go somewhere and took it with her?” Mel squints, thinking.

  Darby eyes the waste-paper basket and flings her apple core into it, raising her hands in a victory gesture when it lands. “It’s possible. Let’s hope . . ..” She reaches into her jacket pocket, and takes out a small piece of paper,
placing it on Mel’s desk. “This was on the Anderson’s note-pad.”

  Mel lifts his glasses from his forehead, putting them carefully on his eyes and reads. “Diane 4:00”.

  Frowning, Darby asks, “So does she have plans with Diane for today? And if so, has Diane kept them?” She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “It’s 4:20 now.”

  “Let’s give her a call.” Mel watches Darby’s face and voice soften. “Hello, Mrs. Anderson? . . . Shea. Darby Greer here. May I just ask you a few more questions? . . . Great. We noticed on your notepad someone had written ‘Diane, 4:00’. Any idea what that’s about? . . . Oh. Okay. She’d made arrangements with you to take a painting class, but hasn’t shown up?” Darby glances at her watch. “Is that usual behaviour for her? . . . Hmmmm . . . Do you know of other friends and family we might call to try and locate her? . . . He did? Oh, fantastic! Can we see it? . . . Great. Thanks! We’ll come by. See you in a bit.”

  When she hangs up she becomes, once again, the cheeky, forceful young woman Mel knows and loves. “Well, she’s co-operative, anyway. As you guessed, Diane didn’t show up and that is highly unusual behaviour for her. AND Ben Anderson has Diane’s address book.”

  “You still think the mother is hiding something?” Mel asks, rubbing his stubbly chin. “Like her relationship with the guy who rooms downstairs?”

  “She was obviously very comfortable with him,” Darby muses. “More comfortable than she seemed to be with her husband. But even if there’s something going on there how would it connect? He seems like a really nice guy; very concerned . . .”

  “And how many women go and sit in their closet?” Mel

  “I don’t know.” Darby lightly kicks the leg of his desk with a worn boot. “There have been no babies, no post-partum depression for this girl!” She tilts her head and smiles. “Though I get wanting to just get away. I’m just wondering how long she spent in there and what, exactly, happened to drive her to the closet. And wouldn’t she have heard some noise if her baby was stolen?”