Bombs Away Brooklyn
Bombs Away
Brooklyn
The subject is consistent in his denials of the murder.
The subject’s polygraph examination indicates no deception.
This investigator concludes that there is not enough evidence to proceed further with charges against the subject.
I turn the pages slowly. These are professional interpretations of my husband’s words, captured forever. Or at least, someone who used to be my husband. Pretended to be my husband.
These are the words of Andrew Locke, not Trey.
Trey never told me any of this. Not about his time in the service, not about his dreams of living a small-town life, certainly not about his first wife. His childhood sweetheart. My God—that, I would remember, right? The accident hasn’t erased these fundamental truths from my head, has it?
There are references to additional transcripts, as well as the videos made of his several interviews with the police. He passed the polygraph—I have a momentary spark of pride in that. Of course he passed. Of course he didn’t kill his wife.
But he’d managed to hide his involvement, the accusations, the suspicions, for all these years.
What kind of person does that?
“One who loves you and will do anything to protect you,” his disembodied voice says.
I shove him away. If he didn’t do it, there was no reason not to tell me.
I close the file, no longer willing to fight that something dreadful has happened to Trey. He saw Eden Barrow, and his old life smash cut into his current one, and instead of just telling me the truth, he ran.
But that is the action of a weak man, and I’ve never known him to be weak.
What else could it be, then? And why are the police so convinced he was driving the car that hit me? The video of him looks wrong; so do the pictures. My brain is an unreliable place, though. Maybe it’s true. Maybe he did. Maybe he wanted me dead all along.
“Mom!”
There are calls from the foyer, the door slamming shut, and my children tear into the room. Neve is wearing her tutu, and Four is wearing a hockey uniform. My heart bursts with joy. I recognize them. My babies are home.
“Where are your coats?” I ask. The two look at one another and shrug.
“Here they are,” trills a voice that doesn’t belong. “They were playing at the Wolffs’ and left them in the car.”
Eden.
She is still here. And the kids have pivoted from my path to hers.
“Aunt Eden, are there cookies?” Four asks.
“You know there are,” Neve replies, then smiles toward me. “Aunt Eden makes us cookies every day.”
“All that sugar will rot your teeth,” I say, because what the hell? “Go wash up, and I’ll cut you an apple.”
Thankfully, they are too excited for me to be home to fight. They thunder upstairs, and I face Eden.
“I appreciate your help. I really do. But now that I’m home, I think it’s best if you go back to Atlanta.”
“Oh, but I have such wonderful news! Come into the kitchen and I’ll tell you and Margot and the kids together. But first, let me hang up these coats.”
I grit my teeth at her simpering smile and walk back to the kitchen.
The kids come running down the stairs. I drop the file in Margot’s lap with purpose and go to the refrigerator, pull out an apple, get the corer from the drawer.
Only . . . the drawers have been reset. I open and close three, noticing each has been changed, rearranged, before I find the corer in the third drawer with some other odd-shaped cutlery.
“I took the opportunity to clean everything out,” Eden says, appearing like a genie beside me.
“The police searched this whole place, and it was a disaster. Covered in fingerprint dust, everything in disarray. I hope you don’t mind.
I set things up in a more logical way, so it’s easier to find what you need.
See? The silverware is right here by the dishwasher, all the towels are in a drawer together, the knives—”
I already have the corer in my hand, or else I would grab one of said knives and jam it into her eye.
“Yes, Eden. I see what you’ve done. Thank you.”
If my exaggerated graciousness is noticed, it doesn’t faze her.
“Okay, everyone, I have some news to share! Sit, sit.”
We sit. Margot is grinning like she already knows, or suspects, what Eden is about to say.
“My transfer came through! I am officially based out of Nashville now!”
The kids lose their minds. They are overjoyed, jumping around, cawing, “Aunt Eden is staying, Aunt Eden is staying,” and Margot is up and dancing with them.
“Aunt Eden can keep living with us, right, Mom?” Neve asks.
“She tells really cool bedtime stories. All about these two sisters who look alike and have adventures!” Margot grabs Neve around the stomach and hauls her niece to her chest. She’s gotten too big to be tossed up onto Margot’s shoulder like she used to.
“Your mom might want you all to herself, you know. You haven’t had a lot of time together.”
I am grateful that my sister is at least remotely aware of this. She seems to have been sucked into Eden’s spell, too. The idea of this stranger tucking in my children makes me want to puke. God knows what else she’s been up to.
“But this is the best part,” Eden says. “I get to work from home. So, Brooklyn, I can stay right here and help you get back on your feet. You’ll need someone to do the errands, cook, and clean, for a while, just until you’re feeling better. The doctors said they didn’t want you overdoing it.”
How does she know what the doctors have said? That has to have come directly from Margot. Or was Eden involved in my medical decisions, too? I knew she was at the hospital all the time, hovering, insinuating herself into everything. The idea that she’s had a hand in my recovery plans rattles me.
Who am I kidding? This whole situation feels . . . wrong.
“May I speak to you?” I say to my sister. My tone is clear, and she sets Neve down and pats Four on the head. “Eat your apple, sweeties.”
“Brook—”
“Upstairs,” I say, because I want to get as far away as possible.
It takes me a minute. I get tired doing the climb for the second time.
In Four’s bedroom, I shut the door and point at the chairs set at perfect ninety-degree angles under the window.
“What the hell, Margot? She’s moved in here? She’s reorganized the whole house? Redecorating is next, I assume. And now she’s staying for good?”
“Yeah. I didn’t want to worry you. I’ve needed help with the kids, and work, and—”
“Are you two involved?”
She tucks her hair behind her ears, not meeting my eyes. “No. It’s not like that.”
“Not for her, maybe, but I see how you look at her.”
There are tears in her voice now. “That’s just because she’s ridiculously kind and attentive.
You have no idea what it’s been like, Brook.
First, we didn’t know if you’d survive, then if you’d even wake up.
Now you have, and you’re home and healing and getting stronger.
I am so incredibly grateful that you’re okay.
But you do need help, and between the three of us, we’ll be able to keep things running. ”
“I’ve been running my family just fine, thank you.”
Her exasperation is clear. “Trey’s gone, Brooklyn.
Things have changed. Or have you forgotten?
He took all the money.” She emphasizes those words, and I think of the crypto wallet in my back pocket.
The realization hits me. He might have stolen our funds, but he’s converted them to crypto, and he left me this wallet so I could have access to the funds.
The thought makes me feel weak and breathless. How do I know this?
It feels important that I keep it to myself for the moment.
“He’ll come back. And even if he doesn’t, I make money.
I have a job. I can provide for my family.
” Can I? Can I cover the mortgage and the cars and school and everything, on my salary alone?
I’m not sure if my current job will cover it.
I don’t even know exactly what our monthly expenses are.
But there’s no way the husband I know would leave me high and dry, and the wallet in my pocket is full of answers.
I know it. I just need to get his phone open and assess the contents of the wallet.
“Will he?” Margot asks. “Or will you go looking for him? Will you take the kids with you while you search?”
“I was thinking about doing just that, yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Malogen? Go to where it all began. Maybe I can find something the police overlooked.”
“Oh yeah, go search the crime scenes, great idea. Especially while a murderer is walking free. Do you want to know more details about what that person did to Trey’s parents? Because I know. And you aren’t safe.”
I narrow my eyes at her sarcasm.
“Well, fine, then. If you’re going to Malogen, then Eden will be a help, because she knows the area.”
“Why are you pushing this woman on me?” I can’t help it; I’m yelling at her now.
She collapses into the chair closest to us.
“I’m not. You two are tied together, Brook.
Through Trey. She feels very close to the kids, and they adore her.
Consider her situation for a moment. Her sister was pregnant when she died.
She never got to see her niece or nephew, never met them.
She’s been afraid to have kids of her own because she feels like it would be a betrayal to her only—dead—sister.
So when she meets the kids of her sister’s husband, who’s been missing for years, she gets attached. It’s totally understandable.”
“She’s a complete stranger. She’s creepy. Don’t you see how she looks at us? Like she wants to shove the kids in the fucking oven and eat them.”
“Wow. Listen to yourself. This is the same person you trusted enough to ask for help in Atlanta. Whose home you took your children to. That you’ve allowed to help you in the hospital. What’s changed?”
“I can’t speak to anything that happened before the accident. I don’t remember enough about my actions to trust that it’s right. But she thinks Trey killed her sister, Margot. She believes it. This is twisted and not safe for any of us.” I enunciate the words. She looks abashed, but plows on.
“The kids are innocent in all of this. They love her. She’s been amazing with them. I couldn’t have handled all this without her. Really. So please, could you just try to be a little more easygoing about it all?”
That pushes me right over the edge. The breakdown is swift and complete.
“He’s gone! The love of my life is gone, and you’re shoving the sister of his dead first wife down my throat, and I hate her, and I hate this situation, and I hate you!”
The silence is deafening. Margot bursts into tears and runs down the stairs. I hear Eden calling after her. The door slams. Her car engine sparks to life.
Great job, Brook. Now it’s just you and Aunt Eden.
I haven’t said those awful words to Margot since we were little.
I didn’t mean it then, and I certainly don’t mean it now.
But they are out there, lingering, like a poisonous fog.
I can never take them back. I might as well shoot her through the heart.
The one person who has always had my back—and I hers—and I’ve pushed her away just when I need her the most.
It doesn’t change the fact that something about Eden Barrow has me on high alert.
I retreat downstairs to my bedroom. Look at the drawers, the closet, more closely.
Eden has rearranged everything. The clothes are hung and sorted according to color and length.
Everything in the drawers is neatly folded, not jumbled.
The bed’s made differently, the pillows plumped.
It’s like Mary Poppins has come through here and redone my entire house. My entire life remade in her image.
What the actual hell is happening here?
I sit on the edge and pull the black wallet out of my pocket.
“Is that Dad’s?”
Four is standing in the doorway. I pat the bed next to me, and he sits. Leans against me.
“You okay, sweetie?”
“I am. We had fun, but I’m really glad you’re home.”
“Tell me about Eden, honey. You two seem to be getting along with her very nicely.”
“She’s great, Mom. She’s not you, though.” His arms steal around my waist, and he clings to me. “When we all got sick she gave us milkshakes, and it made us barf even more. You would have given us JELL-O.”
“Yes, the milk would make it worse. When were you sick?”
“The other day. Remember? We couldn’t come and see you at the hospital. But you got better while we were gone, and now you’re here.”
I hate to tell my son I don’t remember that he didn’t visit. That I don’t recall that he was sick. That I was battling unseen creatures and nightmarish memories in my mind. I am a horrible mother. I swallow back a sob and cover it with a cough.
Four hugs me. “It’s good to have you back.”
I show him the wallet. “Why did you say this was Dad’s?”
“I saw him with it. Before the trip.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“It’s a wallet. For his crypto.”
“Precocious son of mine, explain to me how you know what a crypto wallet is?”
“Dad taught me. You load it up with your crypto and password protect it so no one can get in. It’s safer than a bank, so long as you don’t forget the password.”
“Do you know the password?”
He shakes his head. “Naw. He said you did, though.”
“I barely know what this is, Four. He never gave me a password.”
“Hmm.” My son, the sphinx. “He said you’d know it. He said it would be easy for you.”
“Yes, well, I doubt he was counting on me being concussed and not remembering half my life. What else has Dad been showing you?”
He’s quiet. “If I tell you something, do you promise not to get mad?”
“I promise. Why would I get mad?”
“Okay. But we have to go to the shelter.”