9. Garrett
GARRETT
I stay at the National Cemetery for more than an hour in the rain, then drive to Eugene. After failing my two close friends and their families, standing in the heavy downpour didn’t come close to what I deserve.
The rain has stopped by the time I arrive at River Run Center—the mall where I’m hoping to get most of the things on Athena’s list. I remove my phone from the Explorer’s console and send Zara a text.
Me: Can you come over after work? There’s something I need to talk to you about before everyone else shows up.
It’s our weekly Friday Game Night with my brothers, Zara, Simone, Jess, and Emily.
And while I’m in no rush to tell Zara what happened to Kenda, I can’t put it off any longer.
I plan to tell my brothers tonight about Peony.
Zara deserves to hear the news about Kenda’s death and about Peony from me first.
I climb out of the Explorer and shove my phone into my damp jeans pocket. My sweatshirt isn’t doing much better, but my clothes and sneakers are somewhat dry from the hour drive with the heater on.
I wander through the busy mall, searching for the stores I need. A small group of young mothers pushing strollers walks past me, chatting and laughing.
“I love that dress you bought Casey,” one of them says. “It’s adorable.”
I turn my head in the direction they came from and spot a kids’ clothing store—if the pint-sized clothes on the pint-sized mannequin out front are any indication.
I step into the store and feel as comfortable here as I did at the hotel when Peony started screaming.
I quickly survey the area, a Marine in unfamiliar territory, getting the lay of the land, preparing for the worst, and knowing I’ll never be ready enough.
One half of the store is a sea of pink, orange, and yellow.
The other is a sea of green and blue. But that’s all I know.
If Peony wasn’t in desperate need of clothes and supplies, if Zara wasn’t at work, and if I hadn’t wanted to visit the National Cemetery on my own, I could have brought Zara here. She’d have a better idea of what the heck I’m looking for.
I’m the only man in the store. Probably also the only clueless person here when it comes to kids’ clothing—especially clothes for a little girl.
“Can I help you find something?” a woman asks from behind me.
I turn to her, checking her name tag as I do—Daphne. The petite, blond woman eyes me with sympathy, as if she knows this is all foreign to me—like I’ve gotten lost in the tampon aisle. Am I that obvious? “Where’s the toddler section?”
“Boy or girl? Or are you looking for something gender neutral?”
“Girl and gender neutral.”
She leads me to the pink-clothing side of the store.
“These are our girls’ clothes.” She points to a section amongst the sea of pink, yellow, and orange.
“Those are our gender-neutral clothes for younger kids.” She waves at the circular rack in the middle of the store. “What size are you looking for?”
“Size?” I shove my hand into my front pocket and pull out the list. The paper is damp and torn, the ink faded. I can’t make out much of what Athena wrote. Great. Guess I’ll be winging it after all.
“How old is the toddler?”
“Eighteen months. ”
“I take it this is for a gift?”
“No. It’s for…for my daughter.” The moment the words are out, I want to snatch them back.
Niece. I should have said they were for my niece in case she recognizes me…
or in case Daphne recognizes my name when I pay for the clothes.
I don’t need news I have a daughter being leaked on social media.
It’s my choice if I reveal my fatherhood status and the time frame for doing that.
A smile twitches on the corners of her mouth, then smooths into a full out grin. “I take it your wife usually buys the clothes.” There’s a not-quite-there question in her tone.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“So, you’re looking for something your daughter can grow into.…Is she big or small for her age?”
I shrug. Hell if I know . “She’s about this big.” I demonstrate with my hands, but it’s hard to say for sure. I mostly have only seen Peony when she’s sitting or on Athena’s hip.
“It depends on if she’s potty training. Size twenty-four months fits diapers better. Size two if she’s potty training.” Daphne looks at me expectantly, like she’s waiting for me to answer the question I have no idea how to answer. I do know Peony is still in diapers.
“Is there specific clothing you’re looking for?” Daphne asks, seemingly unaware of my internal debate.
“Everything. All her clothes were lost in a fire.”
Sympathy flashes on Daphne’s face. “I’m so sorry. Did you lose everything in the fire?”
I shrug once more. “It changed my life completely.” That’s the partial truth. It was the mall shooting that turned my life upside down.
Thirty minutes later, I leave the store, carrying way more items than I’d intended to buy. Pink unicorn PJs, as well as tops, skirts, and pants in a variety of colors and styles, fill my arms.
Hopefully, Peony likes something in the pile.
I drop off the clothes in the Explorer and head to the bookstore in the mall, like I do whenever I’m in the city.
It’s one of the places where I’m most comfortable, along with the library.
Both of which might seem odd, given I was a reluctant reader and struggled with the skill in my early years.
It was Zara who taught me the power of getting lost in a story. Who got me addicted to books.
And who inspired me to one day become an author.
Now, reading all genres—but especially thrillers—is part of the job. A very enjoyable part of the job.
I walk past the tables at the front of the store that hold the latest new releases and Booktok bestsellers and head to the children’s section.
It’s a section I haven’t been to since I was a kid, when it brought me comfort, when it brought me joy.
Here, in this store, they’ve gone all out to entice kids into the space, with the bright-colored rugs and kid-sized furniture.
I pick up a board book with a pigeon on the cover from the display of colorfully illustrated picture books.
“Hi, Garrett.” Camila’s faded English accent curls around her vowels.
If Zara is the inspiration for my protagonist’s love interest, Camila is the inspiration for the antagonist’s wife.
She’s tall and willowy, but unlike the villain’s partner, she has a big heart.
“Are you here to sign our recent shipment of your last release?”
“I was in the area. Thought I’d drop by.”
Camila peers at the book in my hand, and the thin dark line of her eyebrows lifts.
“I also need to get a few kids’ books. For toddlers. Any recommendations?”
“Absolutely.” She rattles off a few titles, grabbing two of them from the table where I got the pigeon book, and hands them to me.
The illustrations are eye-catching—not that I know anything about what toddlers like. “These look good. I’ll take them. Where are the books you’d like me to sign?”
I sign the twenty copies they have in stock, pay for the kids’ books, and enter a store farther down the mall that sells toys and furniture for babies and small children.
A toddler not much older than Peony climbs onto a kid-sized armchair and sets it off rocking. She giggles and beams up at her parents.
Her father crouches next to her. “Do you like this chair? Or would you prefer that one over there?” He points to the other option, but I can tell from the way she clutches the arms of her seat, and her grin, the chair she’s on is the clear winner.
Can’t say I blame her. The other chair doesn’t rock.
“Chair!” She taps her palms on the armrests, her grin widening.
I pretend to examine a squirrel-shaped pillow and covertly watch the family checking out the rest of the toddler furniture. I take mental note of what items the little girl approves of, which seems to be a fair amount, and what items barely get a passing glance.
“Is there something I can help you with?” a man wearing a blue store vest asks.
“Yes, I need to order some furniture. For my niece. Do you ship to Maple Ridge?”
“We do.”
We walk around the section, with me pointing out the things I want to order.
The toddler bed. The rocking armchair. A little bookshelf that goes with the other two items. A rug that also got the little girl’s stamp of approval.
And finally, neutral-colored bedding with cute woodland critters on it…
but no pandas. Hopefully that’s okay with Peony.
If not, I’ll find something else she likes more.
I also grab toddler-appropriate wooden puzzles and stacking toys, along with a few other toys Charles recommends for Peony’s age.
“Your niece is a lucky girl to have an uncle like you,” he says, surveying the toys and squirrel pillow on the counter. He checks the computer. “They can deliver the furniture next Tuesday.”
I agree to the delivery-time window, pay for everything, and leave the store with the bedding, the pillow, and the toys.
I might have been a little too enthusiastic with everything, given I don’t have the paternity test results. And I’m positive once Zara gets over her shock and grief about Kenda’s death, she’ll be highly amused at just how overboard I went with my purchases.
As I walk to the mall entrance near where I’m parked, I pass a women’s clothing store with a Taylor Swift song playing in the background. Unlike the other stores I passed earlier, this one seems to cater to women Athena’s age.
I double back and stare at the store. Yes, Athena was offended when I offered to buy some essentials for her, but she has nothing left after the apartment fire.
The least I can do after everything she’s been through—with the fire and witnessing the murder of her former employer—is to get her some clothes.
Thoughts of Kenda bleeding out in the Greensboro mall tighten my throat, and I have to stop to catch my breath. Much like I did a number of times last night, staring at my computer screen, the words failing to come.
Dead. It still doesn’t feel real. Being a single father to a toddler feels more real than knowing I will never see Kenda’s smile again. Never hear her view on issues that are important to her.
My phone pings in my pocket, and I pull it out.
Zara: I can be there around 5:30 ish.
Zara: Can you give me a hint what it is?
Zara: Or is this your way of getting me to make the game night snacks?
Zara: *snickers*
I close my eyes, composing my response in my head. But all I can see is Kenda standing in the mall, blood spreading across her chest. Her image is quickly replaced with Cooper and Clarke, gaping wounds in their bodies spilling blood.
I open my eyes, banishing the image that has haunted me for the past seven years.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I repeat the words several times. The action helps. A little.
“Tell me five things you see,” a voice in my head prompts.
A voice that sounds suspiciously like the therapist I saw for a few sessions after retiring from the Marines.
I quit seeing him soon after, figuring therapy wasn’t for me.
I’d started to write my first novel after that, which did more for me than therapy ever could.
“Tell me five things you see,” the voice in my head repeats, more insistently this time.
I roll my eyes but go with my subconscious’s prodding. “Trash can. Kids. Mall cop. Stores. Benches. ”
Christ, this is so stupid.
“Tell me five things you hear…”
“Laughter. Talking.”
I ignore the rest of the exercise and walk into the store. You’ve got this under control, soldier .
If I’d felt lost in the kids’ stores, that’s nothing compared to this place. I don’t know what Athena likes to wear—other than the jeans and T-shirt she had on.
A young woman approaches, wearing a short flowery dress and a store-employee smile. “You look lost? Is there something I can help you with?”
“I, er…I need help finding a pair of sweatpants and some T-shirts. She’s about your size.”
“A girlfriend?”
“No…just a friend. It’s a birthday present.” Because buying clothes for your kid’s nanny is probably frowned upon.
Maybe I could put William Lockheart, the male protagonist of Untold Mercy , in the same awkward situation. Of course, he would handle it better than I am.
The woman shows me the section I need. I put the bag I’m carrying down and pick up a light-blue T-shirt from the table.
I hold the T-shirt up, checking what’s on the front, but quickly realize it isn’t long enough to cover Athena’s stomach. I grip the back of my neck, deliberating the sexual harassment suit I’ll be liable for if I give her this.
“Do you have anything longer?”
The woman shows me several tops that are much more suitable. I grab two of them. Maybe Zara, Simone, and Emily have clothes Athena can borrow.
“Um, she’ll also need underwear.” I inwardly groan at how that sounded. What guy buys underwear for a female friend? It’s not like I’ve ever bought any for Zara.
Face burning hot, I tell the salesclerk to pick something. She must sense my discomfort. She doesn’t show me what she selected and escorts me to the register .
Zara, Simone, and Emily will never let me hear the end of this…once they’ve stopped laughing their asses off. That’s assuming I tell them.
Christ, if Cooper and Clarke were alive, they’d mock me about it until we were old men in wheelchairs. And even then, that wouldn’t end their ribbing.
Next, I pick up the rest of the items on Athena’s list—diapers, finger foods for toddlers, fruit—as well as a few more toys, and head back to Maple Ridge.
The rain from earlier picks up again as I drive on the highway, large drops hammering my windshield.
And coming along for the ride is dread. It escorts me home, sings to the song on the radio.
Dread about the next part of my day. Dread at telling my parents about Peony.