Chapter Twelve Barb #2
Maisy pulls her knees to her chest, curling into a ball.
“She was always secretive, whispering on the phone, having to run out at odd times. And she always had way more cash than any other wannabe screenwriters I know. She said her dad helped her.” I wouldn’t put it past Isaac to pay her rent, to give her a credit card, without telling me.
“I made some joke about it, and she got super defensive. That’s when I knew she was cheating.
All the sneaking around, the nice stuff.
Instead of denying it, she would make it my fault.
‘Why don’t you trust me? Why can’t you take me at my word?
’” Maisy snorts, stands up, and walks over to the counter where the wine bottle rests.
She fills her glass to the brim, spilling a little as she walks over to refill the glass I’ve barely touched. “I saw them together. A few times.”
Them. I force myself to exude calm as I ask, “Did you tell the police?”
“They came around asking for my alibi. After that, they couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”
Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with the feeling that I need to leave as well.
The room’s overly warm, and I’m not sure I like Maisy.
Her brokenness is palpable. I don’t like thinking that Regina was drawn to her because my daughter was broken too.
Only, I have one more question I need to ask, one I know will hurt her.
At some level I want to hurt her. She’s alive, while my daughter’s dead.
“Do you know who she was having an affair with?”
“Some rich asshole who lives on the canals.” I fall backward on the couch.
The canals. The canals. “A few weeks ago, I followed her there. I always thought she hated men. I guess you don’t have to like them to fuck them.
” I startle at this vulgarity, waiting for Maisy to apologize.
She laugh-cries again and downs the rest of her wine. I need to get out of here.
“Do you think—” I can’t believe the words are able to form in my mouth. “Do you think he killed her?”
There’s no way Maisy can answer this, and given her state, I have no reason to trust her. Still, I need her to make this real. Someone murdered my daughter. And not just anyone. A man living along the canals.
Maisy shrugs. “Fuck if I know.”
“Well . . .” I rock my torso a few times until I have enough momentum to catapult off the couch. “I appreciate you talking to me.”
I search the room for paper. When I don’t see any, I rip off a piece of the take-out bag that she threw on the floor and find a marker on the windowsill. I write down my number and hand it to her.
“If you need anything or want to talk.” She nods coolly, but I can tell she’s grateful. “You don’t have a key to Regina’s apartment, do you?”
She shakes her head. “I have some of her stuff, though.”
Maisy disappears into her bedroom, returning with a small cardboard box and a leather jacket.
She hands me the box, packed haphazardly with travel-size shampoo bottles, a hardcover book—Being You: The Art of Embracing Yourself—and a plastic baggie with a jumble of necklaces and several slim, colorful rings I saw Regina wear when we chatted over FaceTime.
The sight of those little shampoo bottles overwhelms me, that Maisy saved them, that Regina kept miniatures at her girlfriend’s apartment, knowing they wouldn’t be together long enough for her to finish a normal-size bottle.
Maisy plays with one of the metal snaps on the leather jacket, not quite ready to relinquish it. When she finally thrusts it at me, the leather is surprisingly soft, obviously expensive. I hug it against me, inhaling. It smells of tannins and fire, no traces of my daughter.
Outside, the sun’s exposed for the first time today, making the afternoon bright in the way I’ve always imagined Southern California to be.
Despite the creeping temperatures, I slip on Regina’s leather jacket as I walk down her steps.
The coat pulls across the shoulders and hugs my upper arms. Forget about trying to button it.
I lodge the small cardboard box under my arm and tuck my hands into the jacket pockets, where I find a cough drop and something sharp.
It’s the post of an earring, three-tiered with diamonds.
Nothing my daughter would wear. The sight of it makes me uneasy.
The jewelry in the baggie is all plastic and cheap metal. Colorful.
My phone buzzes, and I slip the earring back into Regina’s pocket before answering. It’s Linda, checking on me.
Did you meet her? Linda texts.
This is too much for my thumbs to communicate, too much I haven’t sorted out for myself. And besides, I’m late. I text her back yes, that I’ll call later, after I’ve met up with Tessa again.
Don’t forget! Linda says, adding a googly-eyed emoji I don’t understand.
I turn right and head toward that charmless café with the box of Regina’s belongings tucked against my side. Regina was acting weird before she died. Secretive. She hadn’t relapsed. She was having an affair. An affair with a man who lived along the canals.
The Venice Beach sign materializes in the distance. When I’m close enough to read the letters, a panic paralyzes me. There’s only one man along the canals whose son knew my daughter, whose wife is searching for answers. Could it be—am I going to meet the wife of my daughter’s murderer?