Chapter 39
FRIDAY
A ringing jars me from sleep. Blinking open my eyes, I see only gray light filling our bedroom. I pat my bedside table for my phone. I come fully awake as I say hello, but I hadn’t even made the decision to answer.
My throat tightens as I realize it’s Friday. It’s probably Betsey. Time to confront it.
“Mrs. Meredith Hansel?”
“Yes?” I can’t place the clipped male voice.
“This is Curt Stevens from WFBC News. Can you tell us about the graffiti on your garage? Do you fear for your daughter?”
I panic, not sure how to respond. He’s asking me about my garage and my daughter. Who is this guy? “No comment.” I poke at my phone three times to finally end the call.
My phone immediately rings. As I’m about to decline the call, our neighbor’s name appears.
“Oh, my dear, they’re swarming your house.” The older woman’s voice is almost breathless.
“What’s that, Mrs. Varnella?” I silently slip from the bed and grab my robe from the hook in the bathroom.
“The reporters are everywhere.” She makes shushing noises. “Napoleon’s scared. Poor boy.” She continues addressing the dog.
I walk to the front window and peer out.
There, on our well-manicured lawn, stands a small army of news vans.
A few reporters spill from the vehicles with cameras poised and microphones in hand.
Why are they coming for us? Why is a house with a large blue tarp a target? Slow news day in Scarsdale. Ridiculous.
“I see them, Mrs. Varnella. Thanks for calling.”
“I hope you can get rid of them. We don’t have this kind of thing here.” Her tone implies we have brought this with us. We’ve been in the house for over five years, but according to many of our neighbors who live in legacy family homes, we’re brand new.
I know I should ask her if she’s feeling all right or if there is anything she needs. The poor woman lives alone. Her only daughter rarely visits. “Thanks again. We’ll talk soon.” I hang up and put my phone on silent, pushing aside my abrupt dismissal of a woman who holds grudges.
Clint’s tousled gray-streaked hair frames his peaceful face. Overnight stubble blurs his strong jawline. I run my finger from his perfect ear to his chin. His eyes slowly open.
“Good morning.”
He hooks me around my waist and pulls me toward him, his hands at the ties of my robe.
“We have visitors.” I say the words with as much nonchalance as I can muster.
“Someone’s here?” He fists the plush straps instead of tugging at them.
“A bunch of reporters outside. Probably need to get dressed.” I screw up my face.
My husband groans and then gently hauls me down until our lips meet.
Fifteen minutes later, showered and shaved, Clint decides to address the contingent on the lawn.
He asks me if I want to join him. No. I prefer not to get my picture taken outside my house under some dodgy headline about defacement of affluent suburbia.
He kisses me on my forehead and heads out.
As soon as he’s gone, I question if we should have called someone for advice.
Are reporters like raccoons? If you feed them, do they just keep coming back?
I head to the kitchen to finish packing the perishables for the cabin. We can never have enough yogurt in our family. I throw in smoothie ingredients, including the goat whey stuff.
Within minutes, Clint is sauntering to the coffee maker.
“Went well?”
“I confirmed our garage had been spray-painted. Didn’t know by who.” He pours the coffee into a large insulated travel mug. “They knew about the car in the garage. That was a surprise. I told them the police were handling it and left.”
“They were satisfied?”
“Definitely not,” he scoffs.
“Then why do you look so smug?”
“Because I love my wife.” He says it as if it ends all other matters.
Something releases in my chest. “You’re a goof.”
“I’m your goof.” He takes a sip from his mug.
The thought of black coffee on an empty stomach makes my belly churn.
“I’m definitely peeved about the police leak though.
” Clint sets his mug down a bit hard on the granite.
“Having all these reporters show up like this is ridiculous. But I just can’t be bothered to care much.
” He leans up against the counter, looking very much like Erika yesterday.
“I’d convinced myself you’d stepped out on me. ”
I finish zipping the insulated pack and straighten. I don’t want to go back to this, but I’m here for it if it keeps him talking.
“Maybe not a full-blown affair,” he says. “I refused to allow those thoughts, but the idea of an emotional affair has haunted me. I’ve been in protection mode for so long I forgot how to . . . how to see us.”
“Weeks of therapy. Why didn’t you say something?” I frown. So much wasted time.
“Didn’t want the answer,” he says with a frankness that looks good on him.
I nod. “How do we protect our marriage? How do we not find ourselves right back here?”
“I was wrong.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was wrong that talking to Lucas was worse than having an affair.” His dark lashes close over his soft eyes.
I slide up next to him.
He speaks into my loose hair. “I do not want that man in our lives, but I do understand why you thought it would help me heal.”
“Maybe we can find another way.” I kiss that soft spot behind his ear.
“Gross,” Erika calls from the living room.
“Hey, you’re up.” I squeeze Clint and then head to the pantry to grab oatmeal.
“You said early start.” Erika slumps onto one of the stools. “And I’m missing the little bug.”
We eat fast. Seems all of us are missing Reid. As I’m wiping down the counters, the doorbell rings. Erika is getting ready, and Clint is messaging a guy about picking up the Range Rover. I peek through the peephole at the two officers.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” I open the door wide.
“Looks like you’ve had the pleasure of some of our local news teams.” Officer Komoroski glances behind him.
One station-emblazoned SUV is backing up in our driveway, and another van is still parked on the street. No sign of reporters milling around. Perhaps they recognized the lack of story. With the police visiting, I wonder if they’ll be back.
“You know anything about our yard party?” Clint’s voice is both hard and loud as he steps into the foyer.
“Just what we observed as we drove up.” Officer Colby’s voice is flat.
“You make it a habit to share with the local news?” Clint is not backing down.
“Mr. Hansel, whatever you are dealing with here didn’t come from us.” The officer’s voice remains calm, but there is a warning shaping his words.
“Can I offer you both a coffee?” I reach out my arm to usher them further into our home.
“No, thank you, ma’am.” They both shake their heads.
“Let’s head back into the living room.” Clint turns and we follow.
As we all take our assumed seats, Officer Komoroski opens his notebook. No pleasantries. Clint looks annoyed instead of conciliatory. I lay my hand on his thigh and feel his quadriceps loosen.
“Danny Doward is out of town at his parents’. Seems unlikely he was involved, but we’re keeping tabs.” He pauses and then looks back and forth at Clint and me. “We also have an update on Marcus Anthony Jamal.”
My heart stutters. The first time I hear my daughter’s boyfriend’s full name is from the mouth of a police officer.
“As you know, Marcus, or MJ, as he’s called, is a freshman at Gatwich University. He is in the ROTC program and began military maneuvers on Sunday night. He’s been with his platoon since then.”
“So, he couldn’t have been our artist?” I ask.
“Marcus has a solid alibi. Also, his phone has been in a secured locker since Sunday at two p.m. He won’t have access until noon today.
” The officer reads the details from his notebook.
“We’ve put in a request to gain access to his phone, as any images your daughter sent would constitute child pornography.
” The officer’s mouth is tight as if he has more to say but isn’t willing to share with us.
“We’d also like to have access to your daughter’s phone and the other one you saw her using. ”
Clint and I glance at each other. I’m confident he’s reading the officer’s tone the same way I am.
“If you do find a picture or pictures, exactly who could be in trouble?” Clint says his words slowly and carefully.
“At this point, if it is as you say, no one will be in trouble. Erika is free to take and possess the pictures she wants to take.” The officer turns his gaze to me.
I begin to stand, but Clint lays a hand on my knee.
The officer raises his palm toward Clint, as if to make a concession.
“Look, we’re not trying to get a couple of kids in trouble; on the contrary we want to keep them and their personal information safe.
We just need to know if there’s anything on the phones that can explain the threats.
After what was written on your garage and car, we may be missing a part of her story. ”
Words to defend the integrity of our daughter slam against the back of my teeth, but I keep them trapped, because I also know she’s not telling the whole truth. Yet it’s one thing for me to think it, and a very different gut punch to hear it from the police.
Clint nods, and I shove myself up from the sofa. “I’ll grab the one I have.”
As I pass the stairs, I slow my pace. Erika stands at the top. Tears flow freely down her face.
I grab the railing, my first foot on the step.
She thrusts her hand out, her face hard. Silence speaking. Do not come.
Bearing the weight of my inability to make any of this better for her, I proceed to my study and locate her device still in my bag.
As I walk back into the room, Clint is handing over the phone he confiscated from Erika. “The code is 4662. It’ll need to be charged.”
I hand the iPhone over to the officer, give him the code, and then clamp my jaws together.
If I speak of work, the officers will start digging around.
We’ll lose the advantage of me knowing the data is real.
Although at this point that’s all there is.
I have no theory. “Do you have other ideas on who could have defaced our property?” I ask.
“We do.”