Chapter 38
Susan
Monday
Numb now, I cross-check another credit card entry—a coffee-shop debit on a Saturday at the end of June.
I have no idea what I was doing that day and my messages give me nothing useful either.
Then I remember Google Timeline and the email I ignore every month, telling me where I’ve been.
Clicking into my June email, I scroll to the last Saturday of the month and see that I drove from home to the supermarket, and home again.
Exciting times. Then it strikes me—if Jon gets a similar email, won’t I be able to see where he’s been going?
That would involve somehow getting into his email, which is pretty indefensible.
Then again, I’m already looking at his credit card, having broken into his online banking, so…
I don’t, however, know his email password.
And I don’t know if he has Google Timeline, if his location is being tracked.
That gives me another idea—Greta has been telling Jon to download an app called Strava, to track his runs.
Maybe I can see his runs on her phone? She’d let me look, I think, without it raising suspicion.
Which begs the question, why don’t I just tell Greta and Leesa what’s going on?
But the thought turns my stomach. If I tell them, it sets things in motion…
Another thought keeps nudging in—what if we split and Jon tells people I used to be afraid I’d hurt Bella?
Would he get full custody? Even if my counselor and GP spoke up, explained that I was never a threat, it would look bad.
And my sisters would be horrified. Would other people find out too?
Would Bella find out when she’s older? Shame floods my body.
Slow down. Deep breaths. I shut down the catastrophizing part of my brain and get back to investigating.
My mind is whirring now, thinking about location tracking.
Google Timeline, Strava, Snap Map, Find My Phone.
And the Airtag on Jon’s keys. I can almost see the lightbulb going on above my head.
I don’t need to break into his email, I can just check his AirTag.
It doesn’t show historical data, but it does show current location.
It’s not linked to my phone right now, but I’m pretty sure I can set that up as long as I have his keys.
I check my watch. Only nine hours to go till he’s home.
· · ·
It’s Monday afternoon when it happens. I’m upstairs, staring at Jon’s side of the wardrobe, contemplating going through his pockets.
Bella is downstairs, asleep in her bassinet.
Suddenly, she bursts into a loud cry. Not the whimpering awake she usually does.
A loud cry of shock. I’m down the stairs in seconds and in the living room, scooping her up.
Her face is red and creased with rage and, even when I hold her close, rocking and shushing, she howls.
What on earth could have caused this? Can babies have nightmares?
Tummy pain? She’s never had colic, she’s not teething yet—or maybe she is?
God, there’s nothing like new motherhood to make you feel lost. I sit and lay her down on my lap to check her forehead—warm but not hot—and her tummy—rounded but soft to touch.
Just as it always is. Not that I’m any kind of expert, but it feels normal?
Then I notice her arm. Four bright red marks on her skin.
Four bright red marks that look like fingerprints.
I stare. They can’t be. Yet now that I’ve seen them, I can’t unsee them, and they look very much like someone has gripped her arm and squeezed.
My head snaps up, scanning the living room.
Jon’s not here, is he? And even if he was, he’d never grab her arm like that.
Then…what caused the marks? Surely I didn’t do it when I was trying to comfort her?
Gently, I rub her arm. The marks look less angry now.
Fading into her skin. I stare, waiting for them to disappear.
Willing them to disappear. It couldn’t have been me. Could it?
Bella is calm now, and I place her gently back in her crib.
The marks have all but gone. It was me, wasn’t it…
Trying to comfort her, I managed to hurt her.
My own baby. Christ, I’m a useless mother.
I put my head in my hands and stand there, rocking for a moment, trying not to cry.
It was an accident. But do other people do this?
Hurt their babies? I need to book another appointment with my counselor.
I need to sort my thoughts, sort what’s real from what’s not.
I need to— The doorbell rings, startling me, stopping my spiral.
On my way out to answer, I ready my stock “we’re fine, thanks” response for the power-supply reps who regularly call. But the man on my doorstep isn’t trying to sell me anything—it’s Felipe, Venetia’s husband.