Chapter 1
Six Years Later
It was almost midnight.
Helena was alone in the living room, seated in the armchair facing an empty, never-been-used fireplace. The bay window was
alight with the swirl of police beacons in the driveway. Helena felt numb, as her gaze followed flashes of red and blue light
cutting across the white walls. Chantilly-lace white. She’d had those walls painted and repainted six times before settling
on the exact shade of white she liked. Back then, Owen would have let her sample the decorator’s entire color spectrum to
make her happy. Decorating their home had become her go-to diversion to cheer herself up after one failed attempt at pregnancy
after another. The adoption had ended that silliness and made her the happiest mother in Miami.
For a time.
A detective from the Miami-Dade Police Department came down the stairs and stopped at the entrance to the living room. Osborne
was his name. He was a large man with a deep voice that sounded even deeper in the dimly lit room.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Pollard. The forensic team will be upstairs in the bedroom for a little while longer. But I just want to
confirm a few details,” he said as he retrieved his pen and pad from his coat pocket. “You said you were at your mother’s
house, in Fort Lauderdale, all day, and your husband called you on your cell around . . . what time did you say?”
It was the third time he’d asked Helena to confirm the time. It was starting to feel like a quiz. “Seven p.m.,” she said.
“And your husband said . . . what again?”
This was getting annoying. “He asked me to please come home. So, I did.”
“And you got here . . . when?”
“Same time I told you before. Around eight thirty.”
He tucked the pad and pen away. “Got it. I’m going back into the kitchen now. Is there anything you need, ma’am?”
Helena turned her attention back to the colored flashes of police beacons on the wall. “No, nothing. Thank you.”
“Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do,” he said.
Helena didn’t answer. He turned and entered the kitchen, leaving Helena alone.
Her day had begun without surprises. She woke before Owen, as always, went to the kitchen, and made coffee. He didn’t want
coffee, or at least not the coffee she’d made for him. She offered to make breakfast. He wasn’t hungry, at least not for any
food she might prepare for him. She asked about his plans for the day. He didn’t have any, or at least none that he wanted
to share with her. It had started like most other days of late. Then it took a very different turn. After Owen had gone to
work, Helena packed a suitcase for herself. And one for Austen.
The detective emerged from the kitchen. Helena noticed something in his hand as he approached.
“The forensic team found a list on the countertop,” he said, softening his deep voice a bit.
Helena looked at him. “What kind of list?”
“Handwritten. On a green notepad.”
Her eyes narrowed with confusion. “That would be our grocery list.”
“I don’t think so. Across the top, this one says, ‘Things Stressing Me Out.’”
He held it so that she could see. It was inside a plastic evidence bag. Helena reached for it.
“Don’t touch, please,” the detective said. “It’s a chain-of-custody thing. I don’t want to have to put you on the list of
people who handled an evidence bag.”
Helena withdrew her hand. “Sorry.”
“Is that your husband’s handwriting?” he asked.
She took another look. “Yes. It looks like Owen’s.”
The detective slid the evidence bag into a large manila envelope.
“What’s on the list?” asked Helena.
“Would you like to read it?”
“Yes.”
The detective hesitated. “We don’t have to do this now.”
“I see no reason to wait.”
“Fair warning: You might find it disturbing.”
Helena raised an eyebrow. “After what happened here tonight, you’re worried that I might find a list disturbing?”
The detective seemed to take her point. He removed the bag from the envelope and held it close enough for Helena to read the
handwriting through the plastic. It was on a lined sheet of paper from the same green notepad they used for groceries. Even
though each item was numbered, it was hard to tell if there was any particular order to this rambling list of “Things Stressing
Me Out.”
1. Work
2. BB’s mom
Helena paused. She took the second one personally. She continued reading.
3. Money
4. BB’s mom
5. The media
6. BB’s mom
7. BB’s mom
A double whammy at 6 and 7. She read on.
8. Debt
9. BB’s mom
10. BB’s mom
11. BB’s mom
12. BB’s mom
It went on for the full length of the page: BB’s mom. Helena averted her eyes, as if to say she’d seen enough.
The detective tucked the evidence bag into a folder. He gave Helena a moment and then asked, “Who’s BB?”
Helena caught her breath. “BB is short for Big Boy.”
“Who’s Big Boy?”
“It’s a nickname.”
“For?”
It had been six years since the adoption. Six years of arguments that had started at the hospital on the day their baby was
born.
“Our son, Austen.”
“So, BB’s mom would be . . . you?”
“I’m his mother. So, yes, presumably. I’m ‘BB’s mom.’”
He took a notepad from his coat pocket, jotted something down, and then looked at Helena. “I’d like to talk to Austen.”
“He’s finally asleep. And it’s midnight.”
“I didn’t mean tonight. Do you mind if I talk to him in the morning?”
Helena considered it, but not for long. “Yes, actually, I do mind,” she said, rising.
“I didn’t mean to offend,” he said, but Helena walked right past him, heading toward the kitchen.
“Mrs. Pollard, you can’t go inside there,” said the detective. “Our team is still working.”
Helena stopped at the entranceway. She didn’t need to go all the way inside the kitchen to have a clear view. Owen. Dead on
the floor. Behind him, white cabinets sprayed with blood. A shotgun lay beside him. The back of his head was missing.
Helena turned and faced the detective. “No one is to speak to Austen about this. Ever. Not as long as I’m his mother.”