Seven Detective Olivia Newhouse
Seven
Detective Olivia Newhouse
The house is quiet when I arrive. I breathe a little easier as I close the front door and disable the alarm. I couldn’t find my garage door opener, so I had to leave my Subaru out front. I think it’s against the HOA rules, but whatever.
It’s after seven. I can’t believe David is not home.
I flip on the light and lean against the closed door. The crystal chandelier sends sparkles over the shiny marble floor and along the polished wood banister that leads up to the second-floor landing.
How can I possibly ever feel like this is home? I should have realized this life was a pipe dream—something meant for a different kind of woman. One who adores the social life, and plans months in advance to ensure no one misses a single one of her parties.
I can’t be that person.
My boxes. Eight large moving boxes picked up from a U-Haul store close to the farm sit to the right of the front door, near the grand entrance to the dining room.
There are dozens more of these same boxes at the farm—at the only home I’ve ever known, the only place I’ve ever felt comfortable—waiting to be filled.
At the house I’m supposed to be packing up to sell.
How do you pack up a lifetime of living?
Not just my life but the lives of my parents?
My father bought the farm right after I was born.
He and Mom decided they didn’t want their only child growing up in the city.
I never attended public school. I was homeschooled until I went to college, and even then I lived at home.
I push away from the door and approach the boxes. I packed each one myself. Brought them here jammed into Walt’s Tahoe and in my Subaru. David was pleased at first. Happy to see me taking steps toward our future, he professed.
I wonder now if that’s what I was doing.
Or was I just trying to keep him happy? To be the woman he expected?
Either way, I promised him I would deal with the boxes.
Since they’re well taped, I’ll need a box cutter.
I blink, inventory my level of exhaustion.
Maybe not tonight, I decide. Tonight I’m too tired.
The distant ache in my skull has not evolved into another headache, and for that I am extremely grateful.
But I know from experience that my luck won’t last. I can’t remember the last time I had clusters of migraines like this.
The headaches usually came one at a time, with weeks or months in between. This is new and agonizing territory.
But then, I’ve never been pregnant before. Never been engaged or grieving the loss of the last of my family.
Slowly I climb the stairs. A long, hot shower will help, I hope. I would really love a couple of beers, but that’s not an option.
Shit. I forgot to pick up the prenatal vitamins.
I stall on the landing. So, I guess I’m really doing this?
Of course I am. I was raised Catholic. But am I capable of being a mother?
Somehow my feet continue moving toward the bedroom.
As always, the bed is made even though I crawled out of the tangle of linens without looking back.
The duvet is plump and blinding white, made of the finest cotton and filled with lush down.
If I fell onto it now, I would sink into its lavish depths.
Pillows, their white cases banded with gold, are arranged three deep against the rich wood headboard.
Beneath all those soft white mounds are luxury sheets.
Sleeping in this bed is like staying in a five-star hotel.
There are two housekeepers who come in every day.
My clothes—generally left in a wad in the hamper—are always laundered and hung in the closet.
I walk through the room and into the bathroom, strip off my clothes, and climb into the shower.
There is no waiting for the water to get hot; it’s instantaneous.
I stand beneath the spray, and the question haunts me again. Am I capable of being a mother?
Drugs have never been a part of my life.
I drink too much beer sometimes, but not often.
Don’t smoke. Though I attended church with my parents growing up, I haven’t been in years.
Occasionally I swear like the proverbial sailor and am not known for my infinite patience.
My housekeeping skills leave something to be desired.
But I do eat reasonably healthy foods when I take the time to eat.
I stare at my flat belly. I should be eating regularly now.
However shocking and unexpected this reality, I have an obligation to do the right thing for me and for the baby.
Twenty minutes later, with my hair dried and my favorite T-shirt and lounge pants on, I head downstairs to see what’s for dinner. I glance at the clock. Almost eight. Where is David?
I have to admit, I’m enjoying the peace without him—how sad is that?
The sixty-inch built-in fridge is filled with offerings. Leftover pot roast looks good. I guess David had pot roast last night while I was lost to the migraine. That’s the other thing about living here. A cook comes most afternoons and prepares dinner, unless we’re scheduled to go out.
I place the clear plastic container on the counter and go still. If there is no dinner prepared for tonight, then there was an engagement on the calendar.
“Oh shit.”
I drag out my cell, only then noting the four unopened text messages from David. One came late this afternoon.
Don’t forget we have dinner with the family tonight.
All the moisture evaporates from my throat. The next one came at five.
I’m sure you’re in the middle of something but don’t forget about tonight.
There is another of a similar nature at five thirty. The one at six is different.
Never mind. I’ve told Mother you’re working late.
My appetite vanishes in a cloud of frustration and regret.
I check my phone’s calendar. Yep. The dinner was there.
How the hell did I forget? And why the hell hadn’t he called me?
It’s easy to ignore text messages. Usually I don’t ignore that many, but after seeing the doctor, I was a little shell-shocked.
Taking the home pregnancy tests was one thing, but having my doctor tell me that I’m pregnant, and about all the things I should be doing, was truly life altering.
I could tell David, and all would be forgiven in a burst of astonishment and happiness and celebratory tears. He is the type of man who isn’t afraid to show his emotions. I’m the one who keeps things hidden. My father called it a self-protective mechanism.
No one can use what he doesn’t know against you.
Despite the missing appetite, I force myself to eat.
The television on the kitchen counter is always on, but the sound is muted.
Carl Fanning’s face flashes on the screen, and I look away.
A child could go missing, and he or she wouldn’t garner the density of coverage focused on this disgusting pedophile.
I banish the frustration that comes with the thought and finish off my dinner.
If the media coverage helps us find the scumbag, then I should be glad for it.
A quick rinse of my bowl and I tuck it into the dishwasher.
I should leave a note telling the cook, whose name I don’t even know, how much I enjoyed the pot roast. I saw her once when she was leaving for the day and I was arriving home.
She reminded me of my mother. Red hair pulled back into a neat twist. Petite.
She looked to be about the age my mother would be if she were still alive.
I stare at my reflection in the window over the sink, the blond hair, the blue eyes.
I didn’t get my mother’s red hair or my father’s brown, or their dark-chocolate-colored eyes.
But the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of my nose is exactly as my mother’s was.
My father swore I had his mind, and I probably do.
As a psychiatrist, his life’s work was analyzing people.
I suppose as a cop, my work, to some degree, is as well.
He and I thought very much alike, that’s true.
Looking back, I find the idea funny because most of my early years were spent primarily with my mother.
She was my mom, my schoolteacher, my riding instructor.
As a young woman, Corrine Newhouse was an award-winning equestrian.
Though I competed in my share of local shows early on, they never wanted that notoriety for me.
They kept me close, protected me from the world until I was too old to be sheltered any longer.
As much as they shielded me, they also prepared me.
I had the best private self-defense classes.
Knew how to shoot a weapon, how to escape trouble, all before my first day as a freshman at college.
Thinking back on what my father called the MacGyver classes, I smile. He taught me how to take the simplest objects and utilize them as tools for protecting myself and for escaping captivity.
The walls of any prison are only as impenetrable as you allow them to be. Escape is always possible, even if only in your mind.
I never talked about these lessons to my college friends since none of them ever mentioned having been taught such things. My dad took readiness to the next level. He was one of a kind.
My phone vibrates against the granite countertop. Easy to hear in the silent kitchen. I tell myself that if I’d had a moment of silence this afternoon, I would have realized David’s texts were waiting.
I pick up my cell, hope it’s him wanting to know if I ever made it home. It would be far easier to apologize via text than face-to-face.
Not David. Walt.
A photo of Dana Reeves and Janie Hyatt appears on the screen. The photo appears several years old. The two women look like teenagers. Reeves’s dark hair is longer and she is much slimmer. Janie is blond.
Where’d you get this? I reply.
Facebook. LOL. Apparently the two have been together since high school.