“Lucy called me dumb!” Matthew wailed, face turning red as he waved his index finger at his older sister as if it were a wand. If only I had a wand to make these arguments magically disappear.
“Don’t call your brother dumb,” I said automatically, stepping around them to hang my coat up in the hall closet. Michael had offered to drive the babysitter home, smartly managing to avoid the chaos. I tuned out the kids’ arguing, trying to decide what to make for dinner. Just as I was closing the closet door, I heard a pinging sound and realized I’d left my phone in my coat pocket. A text from Sarah. It said simply Watch this! with a link to a local CBS affiliate. If I’d gotten it in an email I would have assumed it was spam and deleted it. I pressed the link and it opened, a broadcast from last night. “Police are releasing video tonight of slain plastic surgeon Dr. Viktor Lysenko’s final drive—”
“What is it, Mommy? What are you watching?” Lucy hung on my arm trying to pull the phone down to see.
“—along I-279. Dr. Lysenko was killed in an apparent carjacking over a week ago and police are actively looking for—”
“Nothing, it’s not important,” I said, quickly shutting it off and slipping the phone in my pocket. “Let’s go see what we can make for dinner—or are you too full of junk to eat anything else?”
“Too full of junk,” Matthew agreed with a laugh, bouncing along next to me as I headed into the kitchen. What was on that video and where had it come from? Were there cameras along all roads, even the small roads outside of the city? We should have thought about that the other night, we should have realized that Viktor’s drive home had probably been recorded. And what about our driving? Had we been recorded? I felt sick as I scoured the cupboards for something quick to feed my family.
*
“Mac and cheese?” Michael’s reaction wasn’t nearly as enthused as the children’s had been. He stood in the kitchen surveying the empty cardboard cartons that were still on the counter.
“We saved some for you, Daddy!” Matthew exclaimed, waving his spoon around excitedly in the air. Exactly how much sugar had Kristi given him?
“Thanks, buddy,” Michael said with a forced smile, taking a bowl down from the cupboard.
“There’s also some salad,” I said, indicating my own bowl of greens. “Of course, you’re welcome to make something else.” I was proud of keeping my tone light, when what I wanted to do was lash out at him because of the stress.
Michael halfheartedly offered to do the kitchen cleanup and I accepted with alacrity, hurrying the kids upstairs for their baths and feeling very grateful that they were past the age where I had to worry about them drowning. Lucy had refused to keep bathing with her brother almost two years earlier, which meant that I’d usually stagger their baths, but not tonight. I needed some privacy, so I told Lucy to bathe in our large master tub at the same time that her brother was in the bath down the hall. To inspire cooperation and minimize complaints, I said they could each have a bubble bath. It worked. Ten minutes later they were in their respective tubs, happily flicking bubbles, while I pulled out my phone in the privacy of my bedroom and clicked open the link from Sarah.
“KDKA is the first to bring you this footage of carjacking victim Dr. Viktor Lysenko’s drive home from Pittsburgh’s East End to his home in Sewickley Heights.” The announcer’s voice was breathless, as if something super exciting were being shown, but all I could see was grainy footage of cars zipping along a stretch of road. This was I-279, the announcer said, before the film slowed down and then I could make out the vibrant green of Viktor’s Mercedes. What time had that been? Were they going to talk about drive time between the city and Sewickley and the discrepancy between the times he’d been on that road and when the police supposed the carjacking had taken place?
“Police are hoping that the drivers of the vehicles surrounding Dr. Lysenko’s Mercedes, especially this black Ford Escalade,” an arrow appeared above an SUV tailgating the Mercedes, “will come forward to help with the investigation.”
Wait a minute—did that mean what it sounded like? I peeked into the bathrooms to check on the kids, who seemed fine, although there was an ominous-looking bubble island growing on the tile floor in the main bath. Ducking back into the bedroom, I called Sarah’s cell phone.
“Yes, they think that SUV could have been involved in the carjacking,” she said excitedly, agreeing with me.
I felt a tiny bubble of optimism forming, but it popped just as quickly. “Aren’t those tapes time-stamped? Surely they can figure out that he was on I-279 much earlier in the evening.”
“If that’s true, then wouldn’t they mention that?” She made a sound; was that a hiccup? “Maybe there was no time on the recording.”
“Or maybe the police haven’t released that information. Anyway, even if they don’t know the time, once the other drivers come forward, they’ll figure it out.”
“If the other drivers come forward. That’s a big if. The cameras don’t pick up the license plates, so the police can’t find them that way. And it doesn’t mean anything even if they do come forward—Viktor still could have been carjacked by someone else.” She paused, and I thought I heard her swallowing something, before she laughed again. “Releasing that video means that they believe it—they think he was carjacked.”
“Mommy!” Matthew yelled from the bathroom. “I’m done!”
“I’ve got to go, Sarah.”
“Sure, but cheer up, okay? You’re the one who came up with the carjacking idea—and you were right, they believe it. You should be happy.”
“I am,” I said, though “happiness” didn’t really describe it. It was more like a knot being loosened, this slight lessening of the constant tension that had plagued me since that late-night call from Heather.
chapter twenty-one
JULIE
The funeral two days later was mobbed. The viewing had been crowded, but because the service was also being held in Ambridge, ten miles down the Ohio River from Sewickley, I hadn’t anticipated the standing-room-only crowd. St. Michael’s was a huge old Ukrainian Catholic church, the stone still black in spots from the soot left by long-closed mills that had once blanketed the region. That soot couldn’t be simply washed away; it had to be sandblasted off, a costly procedure that often left remnants, black lace etched into the fa?ade. As if to compensate for the stone that wouldn’t come clean, there were gold and gleaming onion domes perched on top of the building, like headlamps on coal miners.
The inside was lit almost solely by candles, waxy pillars on iron stands flickering at the end of every pew and rows of votives glowing like little suns beneath flat-faced, sloe-eyed portraits of Jesus with his apostles or Mary and her infant son. The stained-glass windows were a riot of jewel-toned colors, and at the front of the church, surrounding a gilt-draped altar, were screens covered with life-size icons of Jesus, discernible from the other pale and bearded men because of the nail wounds.
The sight was quite a lot for people used to the spare décor and simple spires of the Presbyterian Church. Brian and I were as dumbstruck as the kids, staring at everything with the openmouthed awe of tourists.
We’d come early and gotten a pew toward the front, which might have been a mistake, I thought as I put a hand once more on Aubrey’s leg, quietly urging her to stop kicking the pew in front of us. We’d decided to bring the children because Heather was bringing Daniel and we thought it would be good for him to see his friends. Other people had the same idea; despite the distance, all around the church were familiar faces from the elementary school. Of course, Sarah and Alison were there with their families. I’d seen Sarah and Eric when we walked in, but when Brian started in their direction I hesitated and then led the way toward a pew across the aisle instead.