Chapter 32
“HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN HIM?” I again try to reach our daughter with my soft tone. Whether or not bc refers to Buttercup, our daughter is mixed up with some guy we didn’t even know existed. Is he even her age?
“We just celebrated five weeks.” She waves her hand at us. “I know it doesn’t sound long, but we text all the time. He listens. I know all about him. Weeks for us is like months, or more.”
I smile and nod without glancing over at Clint. We just need to keep her talking.
“So, who is he?” I feel like a sagging balloon with a slow leak. “Does he go to your school?”
“He’s a freshman at Gatwich.”
Clint leans over his elbows on the table. “He’s in college. In Vermont?”
“Vermont?” I sputter. Not sure why it’s the Vermont part and not the college age that is pressing on my chest. Perhaps because we’re on thin ice focusing on the age difference.
“Only four hours away. He was getting a ride this weekend. He wanted to meet me in Poughkeepsie.”
Clint booms, “Meet you in Poughkeepsie. Have you lost your ever-loving mind? I don’t understand—”
I loop my arm around my husband’s taut bicep and tug. “I think we may be getting a bit off course.”
Clint sits back in his seat and nods, not at me, but I assume he appreciates me yanking him back from whatever edge he was about to careen over. Again.
“The police are coming back. We are still not sure if bc refers to you. Do you have any idea of the time being up? Your dad’s right. It sounds like a threat. Maybe this is about that terrible substitute?”
A banging at the door has all three of us jumping in our seats.
“Probably the police. I’ll check.” Clint wobbles up from his chair. This conversation has taken a toll. He looks every day of his sixty-one years.
Clint ushers the police into our formal sitting room, and we all take seats.
Do I want to know what these men will say?
They’re too early. We needed more time with our daughter.
I feel unprepared for this conversation—a very queasy sensation.
I run my hand down the plush arm of the sofa.
We haven’t done much with the room since we moved in.
My mother helped me pick the two conversation chairs that face the curved leather sofa.
Our coffee table sits between. In its center a squat candle labeled Sea Spray, which has never been lit, is surrounded by a stack of coasters on one side and dated magazines on the other.
Maybe if I keep noticing the room, they won’t bring it all down around us.
The taller officer, with a dramatically receding hairline, flips through his notebook.
“I’m Officer Gary Komoroski.” He hands each one of us a card.
“We’ve canvassed a few of your neighbors.
No one noticed a strange vehicle or anyone suspicious since last night around eleven when”—he traces his finger down the page—“when you, Mr. Hansel, said you were outside, and the garage doors were fine.”
Eleven? What was Clint doing out so late? I glance at him around Erika, but he’s trained on the officers. The three of us are spaced on the long sofa, with Clint and me hugging the arms, and Erika in the middle. Two of the throw pillows are pressed against her stomach.
The officer gives a few more details about the neighbors he spoke to and the surveillance film they will be getting, but based on the layout of the private driveways, most don’t have views of the road. “Any more thoughts on what was written on your vehicle?”
“We think it might be related to an incident Erika had at school with a substitute.” I go on to explain about Danny Doward and the video. Before they ask any questions, Clint interrupts.
“I think it’s related to someone else our daughter met at that party.” Clint flips the officer’s card back and forth in his fingers, almost ripping it. “He’s a student at Gatwich University. He, uh, he calls her Buttercup, so bc could be short for that.”
Erika glares at her father. Ripples of betrayal emanate from her like heat off hot asphalt.
“Tell us about this person, Ms. Hansel. Name? Age?”
“Marcus Jamal. Eighteen. Look, I can tell you what I know about MJ, but I know he didn’t do this. Maybe it was Danny . . . I don’t know. But it wasn’t MJ.”
“That’s fine. We understand. They can both be starting points.” They continue to ask her questions about the substitute, of whom she has almost no information. Her responses change when they start asking about this other boy, about where he lives when not at school and how he communicates with her.
I listen and lap up all the details. These officers get to information much faster than we ever could. An impulsive sob rises up in my throat. I swallow repeatedly to try to dislodge it. We are learning about our daughter’s first boyfriend from the police.
“Any recent changes? I mean, you’ve only known him for a few weeks, but anything out of the ordinary?” The shorter officer, with rounded cheeks and a ruddy nose, speaks up. He introduced himself earlier, but I can’t remember his name.
“I don’t know. Maybe. But again, I just don’t think . . .” She squeezes the brocade pillows hard against her.
We all sit in silence with only a faint ticking from Oma’s German wall clock.
“It’s just . . .” Erika picks at one of the loose threads in the corner of the pillow.
I want to stop her before she unravels the embroidered flower, but I want more for her to continue speaking.
“He had military maneuvers on Sunday. I, uh, I don’t think they went well.”
“What makes you say that?”
The thread loosens from the pillow and a petal on one of the flowers dissolves. “Oh, sorry, Mom.”
Shrugging, I smile, but I gently tug the pillow away from her.
I shouldn’t care about a silly decor item.
It’s just that I remember the fun my mom and I had picking them out.
She risked life and limb as she dove headfirst into a massive bin, convinced she could find the mate.
I clutched her legs so I wouldn’t lose her.
We hadn’t laughed like that since before Dad died.
Very uncharacteristic of my mom to involve herself with throw pillows.
Erika clutches the matching pillow squarely across her lap. “MJ’s been under a lot of stress. You know, college and ROTC.”
“Sure, can be very stressful.” Officer Komoroski nods.
Erika makes a strangled noise and then bears down on the pillow. “I haven’t heard from him since Sunday afternoon. I got worried, and I, uh, took a picture.”
As if all the air has been sucked from not only my lungs but the whole room, I stop breathing.
I knew that picture was wrapped up in this new relationship.
I close my eyes. I can’t watch the officers watching my daughter.
She’s still a child. Someone to be loved and protected from all the predators out there.
I blink and slide toward her. Reaching around her shoulders, my hand bumps into my husband, who has done the same. I let out a deep sigh.
“And you sent it?” the officer gently asks.
Erika’s tense muscles begin to relax. “Just one. He never asked me to. He was having such a hard time. I just wanted to be closer.” She stares down at the crushed pillow. “He never responded.”
“So, the message on the car about time being up?” the officer asks.
“Doesn’t make any sense. Calling me a—and then the car. I don’t get it.” Erika presses her hands to her face.
The officers stand in unison, perhaps some silent communication I missed. “We’ll look into this. If you hear from him let us know.”
“Officers.” I pull Erika close to me. “Maybe there’s another way to look at this? The wrong house, or it was meant for one of us?”
“We’ll look into all the possibilities. Be thankful no one was hurt, and nothing was stolen. We’ll stay on it. The damage will likely be covered by homeowners’ but that cost and the implied threat makes this a priority for us.” Officer Komoroski moves toward the door.
“Unless there’s something else you need to tell us.” The other one steps in front of me. I lower my gaze to make eye contact with Officer Colby. I’d forgotten his name, but his lanyard badge is now clearly visible.
“We’re learning right alongside you, Officer.” My voice is strong, not at all reflecting the storm inside me.
Clint opens our front door, and the officers step out.
I clamp down on my lips, not ready to tell them about my chaos at Garman Straub. I slip in behind Clint as he shakes both their hands.
After running a hand down my husband’s back, I head to the garage door off the kitchen. Now that the shock has worn off, I need to take another look.
Under the fluorescent light, specks of what looks like mica sparkle in the SUV’s gray paint. The Range Rover looks perfect from this side. My steps slow as I move around the front grille. Drips of bloody red paint begin to appear.
I stare at the words. Maybe this is about Erika. But the longer I stand here, the less any of this makes sense.
times up bc
It’s not yet Friday. I still have a day, but the defacement is looking more and more like Betsey Comarsh telling me it’s time to act.