But I didn’t imagine any of it. It happened. Christian was there when I answered the phone. He knows—and maybe Key West PD will assure Detective Guidry—that I couldn’t have generated that call.
Emily and Andrea sit on the floor opposite me, trading glances. If twin telepathy exists, I’m sure they’re sending each other messages about me. Maybe they’ll take their uncle aside and urge him to sever all ties with me. It might be good advice.
The officer stationed in the room with us asks questions: Any idea who might’ve called? Did you recognize the voice? Has anything like this happened before?
In the interest of furthering the investigation, I answer the questions, but I know my answers will only serve to put more suspicion on me. No one can help me. History keeps repeating itself.
I have no doubt Detective Guidry will find a way to trace the call—just like the one before—back to me. Because everything leads back to me. Just like after Mama died.
My prints were on the knife.
Her blood was all over my body.
The mix of emotions I experienced back then stirs in my heart now. Never had I known I could love someone and fear for her, fear because of her, worry for her, and despise her all at the same time.
It’s the same way I now feel about my husband.
Between horrific scenes of my past, I tune into the present, hear the police inquiry and my answers, as if I’m watching the whole thing on the nightly news:
Yes, we’d been drinking.
No, not so much that I could have hallucinated.
Yes, I’d told Christian about Micah.
Yes, I’d originally told him my husband had died.
Christian’s going to think I lied to him because it’s apparent now that Micah’s death is not confirmed. I should have updated him. I should have told him sooner. He’s going to think I’m hiding something—especially after I just spilled my guts about my mother.
I knew there was a reason I shouldn’t have told him about my mother. But I can’t help that now. It’s probably just as well. Let it end between us before it really begins.
I tighten my grip on my daughter. She’s the only one who matters.
“Veronica.”
I shift Bella on my lap, but I can’t stop looking at her even long enough to acknowledge whoever is speaking to me.
“Veronica?”
I glance up when I feel a hand on my shoulder and see an officer standing over me. The twins are gone. I assume their uncle left with them. I didn’t have a chance to thank him or to pay the girls for their time.
“We’ve looked through the house, made sure everything’s safe,” the officer says.
I nod.
“Call us if you need anything else.”
I take the cue and, with some minor struggle to shift my daughter in my arms, manage to stand and lead the police force to the door.
I thank them.
I lock the door behind them.
I take a deep breath and start to climb the stairs when I see Christian, very much still here, lingering in the hallway with Papa Hemingway in his arms.
“You’ve been through enough today,” he says, lowering the cat to the floor. “You want me to carry her?”
Just as I’m about to refuse the offer, Bella reaches for him. The moment he unburdens me, a strange dichotomy settles into my skin. It feels good to accept the help; relief relaxes my shoulders, my lower back, and I feel as if I might fall into a deep, deep sleep at any moment. But at the same time, I feel inadequate, as if I should be able to do it all alone but again have failed to prove I can.
All along the walk up the stairs, I keep my gaze pinned to Bella’s cheek, resting naturally on Christian’s shoulder. If I squint just right or if I let my mind play tricks, I can convince myself I’m seeing Micah on that last night before he disappeared, carrying our daughter up to bed.
I’ve watched the scene a million times in my mind since then. There has to have been a clue, a hint, as to what his plan had been. When he said goodbye, was there anything in his voice, in his embrace, in his eyes, that said that particular goodbye meant forever?
I direct Christian to Bella’s room, where he transfers her to her bed.
“You okay?” he asks.
I shrug. “Sure.” What else does he expect me to say?
For what feels like an eternity, we’re staring eye to eye.
“You feel alone,” Christian says. “Like you’ve been doing it all on your own, with no one to help you.”
Accurate.
“I’ll make you a deal. If ever you feel that frustrated again, and you start breaking things again . . .”
I feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck, still sheepish that I lost control and destroyed every picture frame lining the shelves.
“I’ll come help. And not because you kissed me tonight, but because that’s what friends do.”
“I’m not crazy, right?” I finally say. “I mean, you heard the phone ring, too.”
“Yeah.” He leans against the wall and massages the scar on his hand. Another awkward silence fills the hallway for the space of a few seconds. “But, Veronica, you’ve been through a lot the past few weeks. You must be exhausted.”
“You think I imagined it.”
“No.”
“You do! You think I heard a whisper when really it was just static. You think my imagination is getting the best of me.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. I just feel like the whole world is out to prove I’m off my rocker.”
“I don’t think that,” he says. “You don’t know me too well yet, but when you do, you’ll know that you should never presume to know what I think. That’s when communication fails: when people start making assumptions. Don’t infer I feel something based on something I never said.”
“Well, the police are inferring it, too.”
What if all of this has been in my head? What if none of it’s happening at all?
What if Micah’s out there, while I dare to cross a line with Christian Renwick on beaches and in bars?
There are too many parallels hanging between the known and unknown.
Twin boys. She gave birth to them; I miscarried them.
My name is on the deed of this house; her things are in this house.
Bella talks about Nini.
Christian remembers a Mimi.
It’s almost as if I’ve been sharing a life with this woman because she was sharing a life with my husband.
And the kiln in the studio . . . I keep wondering if it’s there to invite me to tap into an artistic side—creativity runs in families, Dr. Russo said—and lately, I’ve been creating.
Is there any chance Gabrielle is part of me? Is my sense of self, my soul, splintering into pieces? Have I been seeing things, imagining things, hearing things for a terrifying, yet wholly explainable reason?
Would I know if I weren’t listening to my conscience but to voices no one else could hear?
The need to see the pictures of the children, to hold the boys’ birth certificates in my hands, comes on like a monsoon.
“Sometimes cops don’t think about what you’re going through,” Christian says. “It’s their job to push to find answers, but that doesn’t mean they think you’re crazy.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“I am.” He presses a kiss to the crown of my head. “Get some sleep, pretty lady. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
I don’t want him to go. I know he can’t stay, but . . .
“If you need me, just call.”
I watch him walk out the door. I lock it behind him.
Chapter 45
December 5
For the first few hours, it wasn’t too much of a trick to stay awake. My heart didn’t cease pounding with adrenaline until long after the police left with a full report of things I know happened tonight but can’t prove.
But now that the numbers on the clock are gradually morphing their way from two to three, my eyes are growing heavy.
I can’t imagine how I’m going to function tomorrow, but I fear that if I sleep, something terrible will happen. Something irreversible.
Another cup of coffee, another glass of water.
It’s impossible to sleep when the urge to pee is ever present.
But I can’t drink anymore. My stomach is starting to gurgle and churn.