Chapter 48
Helena was in her new kitchen, unpacking a box of glass tumblers, when her cell phone rang. The process of moving her and
Austen into their new townhouse seemed never-ending, and not until the fourth ring could she discern where, in the scattered
mix of cardboard boxes and packing materials, she’d left her phone. She snatched it from beneath a pile of bubble wrap on
the granite counter just before the call would have gone to voicemail.
“Hello?” she said in a breathless voice.
It was Julianna Weller. State Attorney Abe Beckham needed to meet with her. Weller was vague about the reason for the urgency
but very specific about the “very important” question the state attorney needed Helena to answer.
“Does Austen know anything about how to shoot a gun?”
Weller didn’t want an answer over the phone. She told Helena to “think about it.” It was Helena’s impression that the prosecutor
was hoping the answer would be no.
Helena checked the wall clock, which was still sitting on the kitchen counter, yet to be hung. Austen was in an after-school
dance class at the conservatory until 6 p.m.
“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” Helena said into the phone, “but I have to leave no later than five thirty to pick up
my son.”
Weller agreed, and the call ended.
Helena took a breath and collected her thoughts.
She knew exactly what the meeting was about.
Her only wonder was why it had taken so long for them to piece things together.
Perhaps the investigation’s focus would have shifted sooner if Helena had been more forthcoming about the way Owen treated Austen.
She’d offered glimpses of his verbal abuse.
What she’d left out was the first—and last—time Owen had gone way too far and struck his son for “flittering around”—not like a “fairy,” but the more vicious “f-word” that people hurled against Helena’s friends in the ballet world.
No question, she should have left Owen. It was out of fear that she’d stayed. Not the fear of physical violence but fears
that Owen would convincingly deny all accusations of abuse, win the battle of “he said/she said,” turn Helena’s disastrous
effort at Austen’s social media campaign against her, and ultimately win the battle for custody of their son.
She tucked her cell phone into her purse and walked to the foyer, trying to stop the memories from flooding back to her. But
it was no use. As she stepped outside and closed the front door behind her, she was painfully aware that she was carrying
the same purse that for a time had concealed the weapon that was used to kill her husband.
It was the same purse she’d grabbed on the day she’d warned Owen never to strike Austen again. The day she’d run out of the
house with Austen, jumped in the car, and just started driving. The day she’d decided that, if they were forced to stay in
the same house with Owen, she was not the only one who needed protection.
“Mom, where are we going?” Austen asked from the back seat.
They were on a busy stretch of Southwest Eighth Street known as “Calle Ocho,” but Miami’s Little Havana neighborhood was not
their destination.
“West,” said Helena. “Far west.”
Beyond the Miami city limits, where the Spanish-language billboards ended and the lands of the Miccosukee tribe began, Eighth Street became a two-lane highway known as the Tamiami Trail.
It was so named because it linked Miami on the Atlantic seacoast to Tampa on the Gulf of Mexico, but Helena wasn’t headed nearly that far.
About a mile short of the entrance to Everglades National Park, Helena turned down a gravel side road that led to a public boat launch, where two men dressed in hunting camouflage were offloading an airboat.
Helena drove past them without slowing down, kicking up dust until they reached an open field, where she stopped the car and killed the engine.
She checked the rearview mirror. Austen was nearly asleep from the monotony of a drive through the Everglades. The scenery
never changed, mile after flat mile of sawgrass to the north and south, broken up only by the occasional sighting of an alligator
or a turtle sunning itself alongside the endless canals of the Miami-Dade water district.
“Austen, I have a question for you.”
He lifted his chin from his chest. “What, Mom?”
“What are the four rules of gun safety?”
It wasn’t a random question. With guns in the household, Helena and Owen had begun their son’s safety education early, focusing
on the four cardinal rules.
Austen’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, and then he recited from memory. “Rule number one: Only point your gun at something
you want to shoot. Two: Treat all guns like they’re loaded. Three: Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to
shoot. Four: Be sure you know what you’re shooting at and what’s behind it.”
“Very good,” said Helena.
Parents could disagree over how young was too young for a child to shoot a firearm, but most agreed that it was not before
they could recite the four rules.
“Austen, did you know your father learned to shoot a gun when he was just seven years old?”
“I’m not him,” he said without interest.
“No. You’re better than him.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “Did we come out here to shoot?”
“First, you’re going to watch me. I want you to study every little thing I do from the second I touch the gun until I pull
the trigger. And then if you feel like it, maybe I’ll let you try.”
“I wouldn’t be any good. Dad said so.”
“That’s because your father is one of those people who thinks ballet dancers are weak. You’re not. You’re strong. I’ll show
you. Sit up straight and hold your arms out to the side.”
He moved to the middle of the back seat and did so.
“How long can you do that without moving?”
“They timed me for two minutes at the conservatory.”
“See? It takes a strong ballet dancer to do that. Combine that with excellent balance, and you’re a natural on the shooting
range. As long as you have the right-sized gun.”
She opened her purse, removed the Beretta Bobcat, and showed him.
“It’s so small,” he said. “Is it real?”
“Yes, it’s real. And with this gun, I want you to remember rule number two above all others. Because this one is always loaded.”
A muffler backfired on a passing vehicle, jarring Helena from her memories. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting in
her parked car, behind the wheel, thinking, but it was time to go. She checked herself in the mirror and was surprised by
what she saw.
She was crying.
Helena dabbed away the tears, started the car engine, and backed out of her parking space, dreading her conversation with
the state attorney.