Max was in the hallway, just out of eyeshot of the bedroom. I didn’t know if he’d been watching, but he certainly had heard everything. This couldn’t continue. I had to take him out of there.
I raced into the hall and pulled Max in toward me.
“I’m sorry,” I told him, not thinking of anything else to say. We had moved well past the sometimes-parents-argue phase in our family dynamic.
He squeezed me back and asked a question I couldn’t make out. I leaned him back so I could see his face.
“What?” I asked.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No. He’s just…just angry at the world right now. But it’s not your fault. You know that, right?”
He looked up at me, his eyes fixed on mine. “Were you scared?”
And in that moment, I was honest with him, because I had no one else I could share with.
“A little,” I admitted.
But that wasn’t altogether true.
I was a lot scared.
Riley had changed. Now he wasn’t just a man I no longer loved. He was a threat. First he hits the wall. Then what? And what would I be willing to do to secure the safety of my son and me?
How would you characterize your relationship with your husband?
No way I was going to tell Detective Pearson all those things. No way I was going to tell him how, after calling 911 that morning I found Riley dead, I hung a picture over the hole in the wall to avoid questions about there having been a fight. Or how I had a neighbor take Max that morning so it would be harder for the police to ask him any direct questions. And I got lucky. I got Detective Cooper assigned to the case, and he was quick to tell me he was retiring in a few days and promptly declared Riley’s death an accidental overdose.
I’m not stupid. I’ve talked to enough cops to know the questions Cooper should have asked, the same questions Pearson is asking now. The truth about how Riley died doesn’t matter. What matters is how it looks, and I’m not going to fuel more speculation by volunteering information about how my marriage had imploded.
Now, as I continue to stare out my window at the police car, I see movement to my right. It takes me a moment to focus, and at first my mind rejects who I’m seeing, but my eyes soon provide concrete evidence. It’s Tasha Collins, and she’s walking a dog outside my house.
Of all people. At this point in time.
Tasha Collins.
She either lives in this neighborhood or she’s trolling me, and I can’t decide which option is more plausible. In the moment, it doesn’t matter.
She’s walking a chalk-white standard poodle, its head held perfectly straight like a schoolgirl in the 1950s walking with a book on her head to perfect her posture.
Tasha slows as she moves past the police cruiser parked in front of my father’s house. She lets her dog sniff around my lawn, as if hoping to find some bodies. She looks the cop car up and down, then turns her head and spies me through the open drapes. My impulse is to duck away, but I fight against it. I maintain direct eye contact with her, and Tasha’s eyes narrow as she homes in on me. She nods, I don’t. She turns away first, but before she does, she allows herself a little smile. A smug little grin.
I’m tempted to go out and tell her there was a suspicious person going house to house and I called the police. But I only consider the idea, and my feet never move from where they’re planted.
Moments later, Tasha and her dog move on, her pace more brisk as if she’s anxious to get home. The cruiser finally pulls away from the curb and rolls gently away.
As I keep staring out the window, I can’t push away the feeling that a dreadful series of events has just been set in motion.
My job is to figure out how to stop it.
Twenty-Five
October 17
Six hours of sleep in the last two days; fatigue and anxiety battle with great ferocity to see which gets the honor of killing me.
I’m two hours into my four-hour Saturday shift at Tuli’s and am desperate to get out of here. Anxiety is winning the war at the moment, and despite my exhaustion, I have energy far beyond what’s needed to stock shelves, which is what I’m doing.
“Hi, Rose.”
I turn and find the cause of my sleepless nights standing behind me. Detective Pearson.
He’s dressed more casually than when he came to my father’s home two days ago. Long-sleeved white dress shirt, jeans, sneakers, and sunglasses hooked into the vee of his shirt. I don’t see any gun visible, but there’s no way a detective walks around unarmed. I flick my gaze down and see the slight bulge on the lower part of his right leg. Ankle holster.
He has neither a shopping cart nor a basket.
“You’re still here,” I say.
“I am.”
“The Milwaukee PD must have quite a budget.”
“I’m not staying in luxury accommodations. I’m leaving later today.”
I’m holding a jar of organic tomato sauce, which suddenly feels more like a weapon in my hand than an item to shelve.
“What do you want, Detective?”
He shifts his footing, placing his right foot back just enough to suggest a defensive stance. Subtle, but I notice.
“I’d like to talk to you one more time before I leave. A bit more formally, down at the Bury police station.”
My gut tightens.
“Just to clear up a few little things?” I ask, recalling Pearson’s initial approach to
