by S W Vaughn
And I’ll carry this hurt around with me forever, like I carry all the others.
11
When I get home, I finally allow myself to break down and have a good cry, alone in my living room with my face pressed into the couch cushions and my shoes kicked on the floor. I’m crying for Brad, for Rosalie, for my lost commission and the frightening texts, even for Joan Carpenter. And I’m crying for my failure as a human being to have some kind of spine, to stand up for myself. Because there’s no one else to stand up for me.
My mother would say that I’m having a pity party and I’m the only one invited. Maybe she’s right. But this is the only way I’ve ever been able to release some of the toxic buildup inside me — even if it’s only to make room for more.
An hour later, I’m cleaned up and dressed down, sitting in front of the blank television with my phone in hand. I’ve spent most of that hour on the phone with the New Hampshire Real Estate Commission, being transferred to various people who had no idea what went wrong but have assured me that they’re looking into it and will get back to me within three business days. Of course, I don’t have three business days between now and one o’clock this afternoon.
I hate this feeling, the powerless sensation of being an observer in my own life while everything happens around me. I’m going to do something about something.
I decide to call Brad.
Retrieving my purse from where I dropped it carelessly on the floor when I came in, I dig around until I find the café receipt with Brad’s room and phone number written on it. My hands shake as I tap through to the dial pad. I manage to put in the area code and the first number before I chicken out, swipe back, and redial the main hospital number, where I ask to be connected to the fifth floor nurse’s station.
A woman that might be the same one from before answers on the second ring, and I swallow in an attempt to relieve my dry throat. “Hello,” I say. “I was wondering … can you tell me whether Brad Dowling has any visitors right now?”
“That’s an interesting question. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked something like that before,” the woman says. At least she sound friendly, and not mocking. “I’m honestly not sure if I’m supposed to give out that kind of information. Can I ask why you want to know?”
Because his mother is insane, I want to say. But I don’t. “I just really need to talk to him directly,” I say. “Without …”
“His mother?”
The understanding in this woman’s voice lifts a weight from me. “Yes, exactly,” I say.
“She’s really something else. Don’t mention I said that,” the woman says.
“Believe me, I won’t. Is she there now?”
The woman pauses, and then says, “Unfortunately. She’s almost always there.”
Disappointment threatens to choke me. I’ll never be able to talk to Brad, now while Willa is around. Even if I stand up to her, she simply won’t allow it. And I’m not family.
“But I’ll tell you this,” the woman says quietly. “She never comes in until at least ten, sometimes closer to eleven. And visiting hours start at nine.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I feel a sudden kinship with this voice on the phone. “Thank you so much,” I say. “Um … who are you, if you don’t mind my asking? I just really appreciate this.”
Another pause. “You won’t tell anyone what I said?”
“Never. Trust me, I know how Willa Dowling can get.”
She laughs. “I’m Teryn. Teryn Holmes,” she says. “I’m a nurse here.”
The name sounds very familiar, and I think maybe I went to college with her. “Thank you, Teryn,” I say. “I’m Celine Bauman, by the way.”
“Oh my gosh. I remember you!” she says with happy surprise. “Weren’t you going out with Brad when — oh, no. I’m so sorry,” she moans.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “But yes. That’s why I need to talk to him.”
“Wow, yeah, you do. No wonder you’re so worried about Willa. That woman is a battleship,” she whispers, and then laughs a little. “She actually tried to get me fired, just because I dated Brad for like a month.”
I suck in a breath and shake my head ruefully. There is no end to Brad’s parade of ex-girlfriends. “That sounds like her,” I say. “Well, thank you again. I’ll try him tomorrow before the battleship gets there.”
Teryn laughs again. “Good luck. I’m rooting for you,” she says.
With the call ended, I settle back on the couch and close my eyes. I might be too afraid to confront Willa Dowling, but I’m determined to talk to Brad. And since I’m apparently not going to work for a few days, it’s going to happen tomorrow.
Even though I have no idea how to actually tell him something so big, so completely unexpected, after he’s already had the shock of learning he was unconscious for five years.
I’m about to get up and go in the kitchen to start some coffee when my front doorbell rings, startling my heart into a higher thump bracket. Whoever it is, it can’t be good news. My few friends who might stop by know I’m usually not home during the day, and they have jobs themselves. So maybe it’s a salesperson, or a Jehovah’s witness … or worse, someone official.
Everything in me wants to sit here quietly and pretend I’m not here. But when the doorbell rings again, I get up to answer it, driven by the horrible thought that something might’ve happened to Alyssa.
The front door doesn’t have windows or a peephole, so I’ll have to open it blind. I steel myself with a deep breath, turn the knob, and pull the door open slowly to find two men in suits standing on my stoop. They’re both in their mid-thirties, one with light brown hair and the other with black. They have badges clipped to their belts … and guns in holsters. They’re police officers, and they have no good reason to be here.
Alyssa.
“What happened?” I gasp, on the verge of fainting. “Oh my God, is my daughter okay?”
The brown-haired one frowns slightly and glances at his partner. “Ma’am, do you have some reason to believe your daughter wouldn’t be okay?”
Oh, God. I’m so dizzy. I grab the side of the door and force myself to breathe, squeezing my eyes shut as white flashes behind them. “No. I mean, she’s in kindergarten,” I blurt. “Did something happen at the school?”
“Maybe we should start over,” the brown-haired cop says. “We’re not here about your daughter. I’m sorry if I startled you. Are you Celine Bauman?”
The relief that flits through me is short-lived, between the confirmation that Alyssa is safe and this man knowing my name. My stomach is a quivering puddle. I can’t even begin to imagine what they want with me — did I get a ticket and forget about it? Can I be arrested for having an expired real estate license?
“Ma’am?” This time the one with black hair speaks. “Could we have your name, please?”
“Yes. I’m Celine Bauman,” I finally squeak out. “What … what is it?”
They share another glance. “I’m Detective Garfield, and this is Detective Chambers,” Brown Hair tells me. “We just want to ask you a few questions. Can we come in?”
Detectives? This isn’t right. They have no business being here, and now I’m more angry than scared. In fact, I think that Sabrina is behind this, or maybe Brad’s mother. But I’m certainly not going to be railroaded into a false arrest. I have rights.
“No, you can’t,” I say firmly. “I don’t know what this is about, but I haven’t done anything. And I don’t have to let you in without a warrant. In fact, I suggest that you speak to whoever sent you here again, because they’re lying.”
Detective Garfield clears his throat. “Ms. Bauman? Can we come in?”
I haven’t said any of that aloud. I’m still standing here, staring at them like a deer in headlights. With a mute nod, I step back and pull the door open wider as my stomach churns with self-loathing.
The detectives seat themselves on the couch. In a small act of defiance, I leave the door open and wa
lk slowly to the armchair, settling myself on the edge. “What do you want?”
Detective Chambers takes the lead. “We’re looking into the death of Rosalie Phillips,” he says as his partner produces a notebook and pen. “You knew her, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I mean, I went to school with her,” I say. “But … it was suicide.”
My face heats up as the words leave my mouth, and I’m sure it’s turned bright red. I don’t know why I said that, after Missy told me that the note was faked and they were investigating it as a murder. I should have just admitted what she said. Now I look like I’m lying to the police.
And they look like they know it.
“We originally thought it was suicide,” Chambers says carefully. He has rich brown eyes, and they’re digging into me like lasers. “Now we have reason to believe there was foul play involved. But you knew that, didn’t you?”
I try to swallow past the lump in my throat. If I change my story now, I’m admitting to lying — but if I keep going, I’ll just look more guilty. I have to come clean. “My friend Missy mentioned that they … I mean, that you thought the note was a fake, the other night. I just forgot she said that.”
They don’t seem satisfied by my answer. Garfield scribbles something on his pad, and Chambers leans forward slightly. “That would be Missy Wilson?”
I nod. “Yes. She … her and Rosalie were best friends.”
“We’ve already interviewed Ms. Wilson. And that’s correct about the suicide note. The handwriting doesn’t match Ms. Phillips’,” Chambers says, still speaking slowly and searching my face. “Now, Ms. Bauman. I understand that you had a relationship with Bradford Dowling at the time of his accident. Is that correct?”
I still have no idea why they’re questioning me, and I’m edging closer to panic with every breath. “What does Brad have to do with —”
“Just answer the question, ma’am,” Garfield interjects bluntly.
A fist closes around my stomach. “Yes,” I whisper. “I was seeing Brad.”
Chambers nods, and Garfield writes something else down. “And what were you doing at Juniper State Park on the afternoon of August 30?”
“What?” I gasp as startled tears form in my eyes. That’s the day Rosalie died. And I was nowhere near the park — I was out school shopping with Alyssa all day. “I … I wasn’t …”
“August 30,” Chambers repeats as he takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket and opens it to a computer printout of a Facebook page. From my account. “You logged your location in as Juniper State Park, with friends, at 4:25 PM. It’s right here. There are photos of the park with the post.”
I feel the blood drain from my face as I stare at the paper, almost uncomprehending. This is impossible. “I wasn’t. I never,” I stammer. “I didn’t post that! I was school shopping with my daughter. She started kindergarten this year.”
My words sound hollow in my ears. Oh my God, they think I killed Rosalie.
I’m going to throw up.
I desperately swallow bile as Garfield’s blue eyes narrow on me. “Are you sure about that?” he says. “We can check the location of your phone when that post was made, you know. We can tell if you’re lying.”
They can’t do that. They can’t. And even if they could, I’m not lying. I have to get a hold of myself, for Alyssa’s sake. She needs me. I can’t be her mother from jail.
The thought galvanizes me, and I manage to calm down. “I wasn’t there. I was shopping with my daughter,” I say again. “That should be easy enough to prove.” I rattle off a list of the stores we went to, including the McDonald’s we stopped at for lunch. “We got home around 7:30, and I ordered pizza from DiStephano’s,” I say. “I can probably find most of the receipts.”
A laden silence follows my little speech, broken only by Garfield’s pen scratching across the paper. Finally, Detective Chambers grunts and stands up, and his partner follows suit. “If you can get us copies of those receipts, we’d appreciate it,” he says as he reaches into his pocket again. This time he pulls out a business card and hands it to me. “Ms. Bauman, do you know anyone who’d want to harm Rosalie Phillips?”
“No. No one,” I say, shaking my head as I take the card. It’s printed with his name and phone number, and the address of the police station. His first name is Oliver. I’m not sure why they’re backing off, but I suspect it’s because they were bluffing. They can’t actually get a location for where my cell phone was over a week ago. And it wouldn’t matter if they could, because I didn’t do it.
“Well, if you think of anything that might help, please call me. And find those receipts,” he says.
Somehow I manage to stand and follow them to the door, and then close it behind them. As the shock wears off, I realize how shattered I feel. I was brought up to trust police officers, to believe they were here to protect and serve. That they actually wanted justice. And I’ve raised my daughter the same way, to understand that people with badges are friendly. They’re supposed to be safe. But those two detectives just tried to steamroll me into confessing a crime I didn’t commit.
If I hadn’t been shopping, if I’d just spent the day at home with my daughter, I was almost certain I’d be in handcuffs right now. They would’ve arrested me for murder.
I resist the urge to take the business card to the kitchen and burn it on the stove, tucking it into my pocket instead. I’ll have to find those receipts — but I’ll just deliver them to the station, and I won’t call first.
I never want to see Detective Garfield or Detective Chambers again.
12
I hold it together for longer than I think I’ll be able to, faking my way through the rest of the day as I turn the house upside down to find the receipts, drop them off at the police station, and pick up my daughter from school. I pretend so hard that everything is fine, I actually believe it for a while. Through the afternoon, and when Jill comes over for dinner and afterward the three of us hang out and play board games and watch cartoons until Alyssa’s bedtime, I’m still okay. I’m fine when I tuck my daughter in and kiss her goodnight.
Then I walk back into the living room and Jill asks me what’s wrong, and I fall apart.
I sit on the couch with her, choking back sobs as I tell her everything from the problem with my license to Sabrina stealing my commission, to the horror of the detectives’ visit. The awful truth of Rosalie being murdered is really hitting me now, and I can’t help but think about the death that was my fault. I almost confess that to her, but I can’t drag the words out.
When I’m finished, she hugs me tight. “I can’t believe those asshole cops,” she says in a thick, scraping voice. “I mean, that’s insane! Do you want me to tell them I was with you when you were shopping? Because I will.”
“No, it’s fine. I gave them the receipts.” I lean back with a watery smile and swipe at my face. “It was just awful dealing with them. They were so … nasty.”
“We should sue them,” Jill pronounces. “I’m serious. They can’t get away with this.”
I actually laugh, and it surprises me. “Well, you’re the legal expert, but I’m pretty sure you can’t sue people for doing their jobs,” I say. “Even if they do them badly.”
“It’d be for harassment. They shouldn’t have come into your house,” she says, her eyes blazing with righteous anger. “They need a warrant for that.”
A stab of guilt lances me, and I can’t bring myself to say that I let them in — or at least, I didn’t stop them. “Really, I just want this to be over,” I say. “But thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything. But seriously, I will if you want me to. Just say the word.” Jill smirks and flops back against the couch with a sigh. “Do you think somebody really killed your friend?” she says. “That’s so crazy. A murder in Wolfsbrook. This place is supposed to be nicer than the city, you know?”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I lace my hands together to keep them from shaking. My emotions have a t
endency to come on fast but take their time leaving, so I’m still feeling a little unsteady. “I don’t know, honestly. The police seem pretty convinced.”
Jill shakes her head. “Maybe they’re wrong.”
I’m not so sure about that. If they only suspected the possibility that Rosalie’s death wasn’t an accident, they wouldn’t have pushed me so hard.
Before I can voice my thoughts, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and frown at the screen. “It’s Hannah,” I say. “I’d better take this.”
When I answer, she says, “Hi, Celine. It’s Hannah Byers.” Once again, like I don’t know who’s calling. Doesn’t she understand what caller ID is?
I raise an eyebrow at Jill and say, “Yes, I know. Is everything okay?”
“Well, I have the house keys and I’m moving in,” she says. “But you weren’t at the office today. What happened?”
My brain stutters and I stand up, pacing away from the couch. She knows what happened. Maxine told her. “Er. I couldn’t do the closing, legally,” I say. “You told Maxine you didn’t want to wait, remember? She must’ve mentioned my license expiring.”
“What? No, I didn’t speak to anyone named Maxine,” Hannah says. “I went there at one, like you said, and there was this Sabrina woman instead of you. And I asked where you were, and they said you didn’t have to be there. But I thought you would be anyway.”
“Celine, what is it?” Jill says from behind me.
I wince and wave her off. It’s hard to concentrate, because I don’t believe what I’m hearing. “Maxine said she called you,” I repeat like an idiot, stubbornly clinging to the idea that she couldn’t have flat-out lied to me. “There was an issue with my real estate license. I was going to ask if you wanted to wait a few days until I got it sorted out, but Maxine told me she’d already asked, and you wanted to go ahead with today.”
Hannah lets out a hearty sigh. “She must have spoken with Julie, then,” she says. “I’m so sorry about this, Celine. I didn’t know any of it.”