pub scene together, etc., etc. Ree and I practically ushered him out the door. His birthday was on Tuesday. We wanted to be prepared.
I started by booting up the family computer. Mr. Smith leapt up to supervise, taking a position next to the warm monitor, where he could watch me smugly through the golden slits of his eyes.
Like most things electronic, the iPod required special software that had to be installed. I hardly have Jason’s skills with a computer, but most uploads are pretty idiot-proof even for me. Sure enough, the installation wizard appeared and I was off and running, clicking I Agree, Yes, and Next in every dialogue box that appeared.
“See, I’m smarter than you think,” I informed Mr. Smith. He yawned at me.
Ree was already sorting through her CD collection. The more she thought about it, the more she was certain Jason needed some Disney music to accompany Billy Idol. Perhaps he’d run faster listening to Elton John from The Lion King. Or, let’s not forget Phil Collins’s industrious work on Tarzan
The computer announced that the iTunes software was up and running. Ree scurried over with a fistful of CDs. I read a few instructions, then showed her how we could insert her CDs into the computer’s drive, and all the music would be copied onto Daddy’s iPod. She found this magical beyond words. Then of course we had to visit the online music store, and download some classics from Led Zepplin and the Rolling Stones. “Sympathy for the Devil” has always been a personal favorite of mine.
Next thing I knew, it was already eight o’clock and time to get Ree to bed. I returned the iPod to its hiding place beneath the oven mitts. Ree quickly gathered up her scattered CDs and stuck them back on the shelf. Then it was upstairs for a quick bath, teeth brushing, potty, two stories, one song, a parting scratch to the cat’s ears, and at long last, quiet.
I returned to the kitchen, brewed a cup of tea. Tomorrow was Labor Day, essentially the last day of summer vacation for myself and Ree. After this would begin the weekly grind of shuttling Ree off to preschool, then getting myself to the middle school. Jason would pick her up by one P.M., then I’d need to be home by five so he could get to work. Lots of hustle and bustle. My husband and me becoming two ships that passed in the night.
I was nervous. I was excited. I was scared. I’d wanted a job. Something of my own. It had surprised me as much as anyone when I’d picked teaching, but I had enjoyed last year. The kids looked up to me, soaking in knowledge, but also kind words. I liked that moment when something I did made a roomful of tweens smile happily. I liked twenty-five kids calling, “Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones,” probably because it wasn’t my mother’s name, therefore Mrs. Jones sounded like someone highly competent and respectable.
When I was in front of a classroom, I felt smart, in control. My own childhood fell away, and in the kids’ eyes, I saw the adult I wanted to be. Patient, knowledgeable, resourceful. My daughter loved me. My students liked me.
And my husband… I was never sure with Jason. He needed me. He respected my desire to get a job, though I knew he would’ve preferred it if I’d stayed home with Ree. He had encouraged me to return to school, even though that had been hard on the whole family. I had told him I needed something of my own, and he had immediately written a check to the online college of my choice.
He gave me space. He trusted my decisions. He showed me kindness.
He was a good man, I reminded myself yet again, as I often did on these nights when the shadows grew long and it felt once again like I was all alone.
So our marriage didn’t involve sex. No marriage was perfect, right? This was adulthood. Understanding that the rosy dreams you had as a kid really weren’t meant to come true. You made trade-offs. You sacrificed for your family.
You did what was right, even if it wasn’t perfect, and you were grateful for all the nights you went to sleep without smelling the cloying scent of dying roses.
Thinking of Jason reminded me that Ree and I needed to bake his birthday cake in the morning. Perhaps I should wrap the iPod now, while he was still out. Then my gaze fell upon the computer and I realized the flaw in our plan.
Jason used the computer every night. Meaning tonight, when he returned from work and booted it up, the first thing he was bound to notice was the brand-new iTunes icon in the middle of the menu bar.
So much for our surprise.
I sat down at the computer, trying to figure out my options. I could uninstall the program. We’d already downloaded our favorite songs onto the actual iPod, so temporarily deleting the iTunes software shouldn’t change anything. Or…
I had this vague memory that you could delete things on the desktop by moving them into the recycle bin. However, the item would remain tucked in the recycle bin until you gave the official command for the bin to empty. Given that, maybe I could drag the iTunes icon into the recycle bin, out of Jason’s sight, and just leave it tucked there. Voila.
Before I got ahead of myself, I decided to test out my theory on an old teaching document. I found the file name, highlighted it, and dragged it to the trash. Then, I double clicked on the recycle bin icon to see what had happened.
The bin opened, and sure enough, there sat my teaching doc As well as one other item, labeled Photo 1.
So I clicked on it.
The grainy black-and-white image filled the screen.
And I stuffed my fist into my mouth so my sleeping daughter wouldn’t hear me scream.
The distance from South Boston Middle School to Jason and Sandra’s home was approximately four and a half miles long, or an eight-minute drive. The short commute was perfect for the daily scramble, when Ree needed to be dropped off or picked up from location A while Sandra or Jason were scrambling to reach location B.
Now Jason ticked off each block in his mind, while clutching the steering wheel with both hands and thinking that eight minutes was too short. He could not get composed in eight minutes. He could not understand the impact of Ethan Hastings in eight minutes. He could not recover from Sergeant D.D. Warren’s grim warning about his child in eight minutes. He couldn’t prepare himself for what was about to happen next, in only eight minutes.
Ree was the last person to see her mother alive on Wednesday night. The cops knew it. He knew it. And by definition, one other person probably knew it.
The person who had harmed his wife. The person who might return to harm Ree.
“I’m tired, Daddy,” Ree was whining in the back, rubbing her eyes. “I want to go home.”
Even Mr. Smith had abandoned his lounging to sit and stare at Jason expectantly. The cat wanted dinner, no doubt, not to mention fresh water and a litter box.
“Are we going home, Daddy? I want to go home, Daddy.”
“I know, I know.”
He didn’t want to. He thought of taking them to a restaurant for dinner, a cheap motel for nighttime. Or hell, filling up with gas and heading to Canada. But in this day and age of Amber Alerts, running wasn’t an impromptu act, especially with a four-year-old girl and an orange cat. Canada? he thought darkly. He’d be lucky if they made it to the Massachusetts border.
Ree wanted home, and home was probably still the safest bet. He had steel doors, reinforced windows. Forewarned was forearmed. Maybe he hadn’t known everything going on in his wife’s world, hadn’t sensed the threat. Well, he was paying attention now. No way in hell anyone was touching his daughter.
Or so he told himself.
Of course, going home also meant facing an empty house without Sandy’s cheerful welcome. Or worse yet, confronting the media that were no doubt camped out in his front yard.
“How’d you kill your wife, Jason? Knife, gun, garrote? Bet it was easy for you, given all your experience…”
He should have a spokesperson, he thought idly. Isn’t that how it worked in this day and age? Become a victim of a crime, hire an entourage. A lawyer to represent your interests, a spokesperson to speak on behalf of your
