Blood Loss

‘No, dad,’ said TJ. ‘Don’t go, dad, don’t — I’m so sorry, dad, I’m so sorry.’

Taber leaned down and grabbed TJ’s shoulders. ‘TJ — look at me, OK? Look at me.’

Tears were streaming down TJ’s face.

‘TJ,’ said Taber. ‘I love you very much. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing. This is not your fault. I’m leaving right now, but it’s because I have to process all this. I don’t want to say anything I might regret.’

Melissa stood up and reached for Taber’s arm. ‘Taber, don’t. Please don’t-’

‘I do not know what to say to you, Melissa. I … I’m at a loss. I don’t know how to feel.’

‘You hate me now, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You hate me.’

‘I don’t,’ said Taber. ‘I don’t hate you. I … I just have to go.’

Taber managed to make it down the hallway, out into the cold and sit into his car. He closed his eyes. Tears poured down his face. For six years, he had been haunted by a scene where his young son had found his desperate mother lying in a pool of blood after trying to take her own life. Now, he had a new scene, and it was more horrifying than he could ever have imagined. It flashed, strobe-like, in his head: TJ raising his gun, pointing it at Melissa, out of control, terrified …

Taber Grace slumped back in the seat, and started the engine. He couldn’t bear the noise of his own pain. Replace the sound, replace the images. He turned on the radio and got the tail end of a commercial break. Then the lead news story was introduced, but instead of taking him away from his problems, it seemed to draw them all together and mangle them: his no-show client, his job, his wife, his son …

Most private investigators would do no more than the job they were paid to do. Taber Grace was no different. But, for the first time, the contents of the client file beside him meant a whole lot more to him than someone else’s shit.

18

In the command center at the Sheriff’s Office, extra desks had been brought in from other offices, making it almost impossible to move around the room.

‘These desks are breeding,’ said Ren, squeezing through them to reach Gary’s at the back. He was sitting very still with his hands resting on the keys of his laptop. Ren leaned over the chest-height partition in front of him.

‘If you ever wanted to bring the lab to a standstill, you could bag all your fears and send them in.’ She went over to her desk and brought back anti-bacterial wipes. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Don’t be a hero.’

Gary started wiping things down.

‘Just wondering,’ said Ren, ‘how long will the CARD team be here?’

Gary shrugged. ‘Just a couple days. Why?’

‘Just wondering.’ Ren pulled away, and glanced down at her white shirt. There was a line of dirt across it from the top of the partition.

‘Ew,’ she said. She could hear her cell phone ringing on her desk.

‘Pardon me,’ she said, running over to it. It was her brother, Matt.

‘Hey, Ren, I wanted to say thank you for the gifts you sent Ethan.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Ren.

Silence.

Ren started walking toward the interview room.

‘Are you sure you can afford them?’ said Matt.

Ren stopped walking. ‘Mm … what?’

‘Just … I know that things have been a little tight … and I was wondering … don’t get me wrong-’

‘Oh, I’m not getting you wrong,’ said Ren. ‘I think I’m getting you right.’

‘Don’t be like that,’ said Matt.

‘What’s your point?’ said Ren. ‘I shop, therefore, I’m manic?’

‘Just … shopping when you can’t afford it …’ said Matt.

‘Then there are a lot of bipolar people in the world,’ said Ren. ‘Many of them women with great shoes.’

‘Just … there’s no need to buy Ethan gifts, he’s only a baby-’

‘I can buy my only nephew whatever I like,’ said Ren. ‘Now you are calling me to complain about gifts? Who does that?’

‘I’m not complaining about gifts,’ said Matt. ‘I’m thanking you for them, and hoping that buying them didn’t put you under financial strain.’

Ren laughed. ‘They’re onesies from Target,’ said Ren. ‘I don’t think I’ll be on the streets …’

‘Onesies from Target, a snowsuit from Saks, two sweaters from Baby Gap, booties from Macy’s, two pillows from Pottery Barn Kids, a hat from somewhere …’

‘Are you seriously reading labels?’ said Ren.

‘I’m just worried,’ said Matt.

‘Please don’t worry, Matt. Please. Get on with your life.’

‘I’m concerned your judgment is impaired … that’s what happens.’

‘Impaired judgment? How technical …’ said Ren.

Matt took in a deep breath. ‘OK, let’s forget all that. Tell me, how is your new man?’

‘Gorgeous, and sweet, and fun, and amazing. This could-’

‘Be IT?’ said Matt.

Ren paused. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing,’ said Matt.

‘I can’t just think someone is amazing without there being an issue?’ said Ren.

‘You know him two weeks,’ said Matt.

‘Unbelievable, isn’t it?’ said Ren, ‘that someone can take less than ten years to propose …’

‘Propose?’ said Matt. ‘What do you mean-’

‘Not like that,’ said Ren. ‘I’m saying you took ten years to propose to Lauren, so you’re hardly a swept-off- your-feet kind of person …’

‘But being repeatedly swept off your feet is a true sign of love?’ said Matt.

‘Wow,’ said Ren.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Matt. ‘I am. That was-’

‘No, no,’ said Ren. ‘Kick me when I’m up. I love that.’

‘I didn’t mean to-’

‘I can’t really talk,’ said Ren. ‘But thanks for your over-concern. It’s amazing.’

Mark Whaley was sitting with a detective in the interview room. They were talking sport. He had a glass of water cupped between his hands. He stopped talking when Ren walked in, and looked up at her with hopeful eyes.

‘How did the press conference go?’ he said.

‘We issued photos of the girls, the Sheriff made an appeal to the public, and corrected any misinformation they had,’ said Ren. ‘The media wants to help.’

And wants to demonize your wife.

She sat down opposite him. ‘Can we talk about the forty minutes between when you left the restaurant to when you returned?’ said Ren.

‘What?’ said Mark. ‘Forty minutes? It was twenty. Where did you get forty minutes from?’

‘There are forty minutes unaccounted for,’ said Ren.

‘There couldn’t be … but even if there was …’

‘Forty minutes,’ said Ren. ‘You left the table at eleven thirty-five p.m. You told us that yourself. And we have a text from your wife, sent to her sister at twelve fifteen a.m. saying “Gotta go … he’s back”.’

‘But … forty minutes?’ said Mark. ‘I’m sorry — I had no idea. I …’

‘It’s quite a long time,’ said Ren.

‘Did that text send when it was supposed to send? This makes no sense to me.’