Chapter 31
THURSDAY
The cab rolls down our short tree-lined driveway.
A couple of large blue tarps cover one and a half bays of our garage.
Gutsy move by the hooligans to trespass through our decorative wrought iron gate, which we never close, and another fifty feet to our home, nestled among elms and hemlocks.
Perhaps it was the old growth that gave them the cover they needed.
Clint and I decided, when the craze hit, not to pepper our house with surveillance. We don’t even have a Ring doorbell, popular along our street. Maybe the police can see if anyone else caught a strange vehicle last night on video.
I tap my card against the cab’s credit machine and leave a hefty tip in appreciation of the clean, fresh-smelling car. Artificial pine is better than the stench of unwashed bodies and fetid deep-fried food that can perfume my ride in the city.
I walk up and peek under the plastic tarps. In letters as tall as a schoolkid, one word is scrawled in bloodred paint. Is this retaliation for the video Erika posted? My blood boils at the thought of someone saying this about my baby girl.
Or is this about me?
Betsey knows where I live. Not only was she here last weekend, she’s been an invited guest a few times, including last Christmas.
I distinctly remember sipping a mulled cider while talking about the neighborhood and our decision not to spy on ourselves with cameras.
Not so much from the fear of someone hacking into the feed, like many have concerns about, but just one more bit of technology to manage.
Betsey had familiarity, opportunity, but what would be her motive?
Not a smart way to compel me to cooperate.
The front door opens, and Clint stands in the warm light from the house.
His scruff is more salt than pepper. Probably why he’s almost always clean-shaven these days.
He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a stretch that hugs his biceps.
I got him that shirt months ago, but this is the first time I’ve seen him wear it.
He’s so handsome, but he’s stopped believing me when I say it.
“Admiring our new paint job?” He walks across the front flagstone pavers toward me.
I wanted to add a basic front porch to our Tudor-style home when we bought it five years ago, but the architect we hired to design the renovation said that would be like mixing metaphors.
He suggested this low-slung almost patio nestled within the landscaping.
It has become one of my favorite parts of the house.
If they had defaced those stones or my mahogany rockers, I’d likely be in tears right now.
The garage can be seen from the street, but it is not the heart of our home.
“Have the police been here?” I ask.
“They just left. They’re going to canvass the neighbors and do a little digging. They weren’t happy with our lackluster security.”
“Door locks not enough?” I pick up my bag.
“Especially when we don’t use them.” He tugs my bag out of my hand and places it behind him.
“What do you mean?”
“Follow me.”
He leads me around the corner of the garage to the side door.
The potted wisterias flanking the small threshold have been kicked over.
Did no one think to right them? I wrestle with the terra-cotta pot to the left of the jamb, which has rolled onto the collection stones that serve as a catch basin for our gutter.
“Take a look.” Clint opens the simple white door, painted to match the siding on this side of the garage.
I upturn the pot and spin it in place. While fingering the light-purple blossoms, I glance into the garage.
My breath whooshes out of me.
I drop my hand and stumble through the door, pushing up against Clint. His arm moves automatically around me.
“Has she seen this?” I whisper.
“She was the one to find it.”
^^^
An hour later, we’re sitting at the kitchen table.
Light dances over the table strewn with the remains of a blueberry pancake breakfast. Clint’s instinct had been the right one.
Back two days ago—had it really been only two days?
Not even forty-eight hours?—he suggested ice cream and then lunch yesterday.
Kind of brilliant. Whether it was anger fueling our appetites or the desire to delay the family discussion we were soon to have, this time we all ate.
Heartily. Now the three of us sit back in our seats, satiated.
A drip of maple syrup runs down Clint’s mason jar of boiled liquid gold—the only sign that something is radically amiss.
My husband never lets sticky messes go unwiped.
I tossed my baseball cap in the mudroom and unwound my elastic when we came inside.
My hair has dried into a limp mess. I’m trying to not let it distract me, as I tuck loose strands behind my ears.
The fact that my hair is even a blip on my radar indicates how much I don’t want to have this conversation.
I clear my throat, and Erika jumps up with her and Clint’s plates.
“I’ll do the dishes, but then I need to get on my physics. We have a quarter test on Monday.” She turns on the water in the sink and opens the dishwasher.
Clint grabs my plate and the platter of remaining pancakes. “Honey, why don’t you take a seat? We don’t have to do this right now.” He sets the dishes on the counter.
“You’re always on me about chores. I’d think—”
“Come on.” He tugs lightly at her sweatshirt to get her to return to her chair. “The police are coming back. They’re going to want a fuller story.”
Fat tears roll down her bloodless cheeks.
Her blue eyes shine. Both Clint and I have hazel eyes, though different shades.
When Erika was born with deep-blue eyes, everyone said they’d darken to a color similar to ours, but they didn’t.
They lightened. In times of stress or in streams of sunlight, her irises look like the sky on a perfect summer day.
I swallow a sob and then bite down on my lips.
Just now, I see how identical in color and brightness they are to Lucas’s.
“Do you know who might have done this?” Clint asks.
I flinch as Erika shrugs.
“We need more than that. Maybe start from the beginning.” Clint sits back down.
“I don’t know how,” she whispers, hunched over in her chair.
“Is this about that terrible substitute?” I ask. My heart clunks behind my ribs. Secrets really are prisons.
“No. But I don’t know.” She exhales a huge sigh that catches.
I tip back in my chair to grab the tissues on the kitchen desk behind me.
I place the box in the middle of the table.
When I was a financial advisor, we had a grief counselor visit our office.
In that line of work, you are often talking to clients through some of their worst and best times—family deaths, long-awaited weddings, and confounding seasons of career retirement.
I remember many things from her presentation, but two things in particular: Don’t rush a person to tell you what they need to tell you, and never hand them tissues.
The second one only made sense after she explained that giving someone a tissue may imply that you are uncomfortable with their tears and you wish them to stop.
That may, in fact, be the case, but better to have boxes of tissues within reach. They can decide when to use them.
Our daughter might need to cry. And we’re here for it.
Clint fidgets in his seat. Not getting answers is likely killing him. “You met him at a party and didn’t see him again until he showed up at your school. Anything more to that?”
“I met someone else at the party.” She picks at the polish on one of her fingers.
“Who?”
“Just a guy. My age.” She bites down on the last two words. “I sent some messages—”
“That picture.” Clint bolts straight up in his seat.
“No! No.” Erika shakes her head hard. “See, I don’t know how to talk to you about this.”
“Well, it’s either us or the police,” Clint spits out.
I lay my hand on his leg under the round table. Doesn’t he remember I’m usually bad cop? As hard as this is to go through, I’m not sad about our reversed roles. But I do need him to calm down if we are going to make progress with her.
Erika lowers her chin to her chest and is crying now.
It takes everything in me not to go to her, wrap her in my arms, and bring us both back to beating on drums in Mommy and Me music class.
When the biggest concern was another child snagging the bongo with the leopard-print strap.
But now, I know if I go over to her, we’ll lose her.
She grabs a tissue and mops her face. Shaking her head at both of us, she begins again.
“I started talking to a guy online. He’d been at the, uh, you know, party, and he stood up to Danny, who we all now know to be Mr. Doward.
” She sighs. “I know he couldn’t have anything to do with this. Never mind.”
“What’s his name? Does he go to your school? Who is this boy?” Clint asks in rapid succession.
Our daughter tucks her head in like she is trying to escape down her own neck.
The muscles in Clint’s jaw pulse.
I remember the first time I saw what protective Clint looked like. His long strides through the ranger station as he discovered that my roommate and I’d been left alone on the side of a mountain without proper equipment.
“Honey.” I try to speak as gently as possible. “Why don’t you think the garage is him?”
“Because he’s great. He would never do anything like this. That’s not what . . . It’s just that we haven’t snapped since this weekend, and then Dad took my phone—”
“A phone you never should have had. Did he give you that phone?” Clint can only see the paint. I need him to see our daughter.
Erika’s eyes widen for a moment. “No. I got it from you.”
“What?”
“It’s your old phone. New cover. I’ve had it for months.” She looks almost pleased with herself.
“You took my phone,” Clint snarls.
“You gave it to me, Dad. Remember? When we were diagnosing what was up with the Wi-Fi?” She rolls her eyes like a champ. “You never asked for it back. Can I have it now, maybe if . . .”
“No,” Clint roars. Obviously she’s asked many times before.
I say a silent plea for peace as they glare across the table at each other.
“Okay, thanks for telling us about this boy. If you don’t think he did this, but you mentioned him for a reason .
. .” I soften my face and try smiling with my eyes, although I’ve never understood the description.
Instead, I look at her with all the love that often overwhelms me.
“Is it possible this isn’t about you at all? ”
Clint starts to talk, but I continue. I want to speak to what I’m hoping.
“No, hear me out. Could someone have gotten the wrong house? I know things have been weird for Erika, but maybe this is not anything to do with her.” I sit straighter in my seat.
This could not be about either one of us.
Just some stupid kids who tagged the wrong house.
“Mom.” Erika leans forward. “Dad showed you what was spray-painted inside the garage.”
I nod. The words have seared a brand on my brain. I yearn to scratch them out.
“Buttercup is what he calls me,” Erika says.
“Buttercup?” My voice falters.
“Times up bc—the words written on the Range Rover.” Erika rounds her eyes like I’m a bit slow.
“Why time’s up?” Clint barks. “Blast it, Erika. What is going on?”
“I don’t know!” Erika shouts.
Clint leans across the table. “It must mean something to you. Someone pressuring you. Some deadline for you to do something else stupid.”
“Clint!” I roar.
We stare at each other, my heart pounding. Clint scrubs his face with his hands, as Erika quietly sobs. Silence descends on our table.
I roll Buttercup around in my brain. Someone I had no idea existed is calling our daughter Buttercup? Who has Erika gotten herself mixed up with?
And is that even the truth?