“I know I said some things, and I just wanted to apologize.”
Maybe, if I hadn’t been so tired and discouraged, I might have found a way to be more diplomatic.
I might not have said, “Kate, this isn’t working out. We’re done. It’s over.” And I certainly wouldn’t have finished with “Life’s too short.”
But that was what I said.
Kate waited a few seconds before coming back with “You’re a total asshole, you know that? You’re a goddamn fucking asshole. I knew it the first time I met you. And you know something else? There’s something not right with you, you know that? Something just not—”
I ended the call, turned the phone off, and slipped it into my pocket.
I’M NOT NORMALLY ABLE TO NOD OFF ON A PLANE, but this overnight flight was an exception. Exhaustion overwhelmed me and I spent almost the entire trip asleep. I was more than bone weary. I was depressed, crushed, burdened by despair. I’d traveled clear across the country thinking I was going to bring my daughter home with me.
And I was coming home alone.
We landed on time, but the pilot had to wait for a gate to clear, so it was nearly seven before I got off the plane, and what with several traffic jams, a couple of pit stops and everything else, it was shortly before noon before I pulled into my driveway on Hill Street back in Milford.
A defeated soldier coming home from war, I trudged up to the door, bag slung over my shoulder. I put my key into the lock and swung open the door.
The house had been trashed.
FOURTEEN
“SO RUN THROUGH IT AGAIN FOR ME,” Kip Jennings said.
“I got home, I opened the door, it’s like somebody tossed a grenade in here,” I said.
“When was this?”
I glanced at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, one of the few things still in its place. “About an hour and a half ago.”
“Have you touched anything since then?”
“I put that clock back on the mantel,” I said. “It was my father’s.” The gesture was akin to straightening your cap after you’ve been run over by an eighteen-wheeler.
There were a couple of uniformed cops wandering around the house, taking pictures, muttering among themselves. They’d found a basement window that had been kicked in.
“You’d been gone how long?”
“About forty-eight hours. I left here early two days ago. After nine. So two days and four hours, give or take.”
“Seattle,” Jennings said.
“That’s right,” I said.
“And your daughter?”
“I didn’t find her,” I said.
Jennings’s eyes softened for a moment. “So you got home, you opened the door,” she said. “Did you see anyone? Was anyone running away from the house when you pulled into the driveway?”
“No,” I said.
I told her what I’d found. In the living room, cushions tossed from the furniture, then cut open, the foam scattered about in chunks. Every shelf cleared, every cabinet emptied. Books thrown about, CDs all over the place. Audio equipment pulled from the shelves, some components still hanging from them by their wires, hanging precariously like a truck on a cliff in an Indiana Jones movie.
In the kitchen, every cupboard emptied. And then, the boxes that were in the cupboard, emptied. Cornflakes all over the floor. Things pulled out of the fridge, the door hanging open.
It was the same story everywhere. All the drawers in my bedroom dresser pulled out and turned over. So many clothes on the floor you couldn’t see the carpet. Socks, underwear, shirts. Items ripped off hangers in the closet, thrown here and there.
Syd’s room was no different, although she didn’t have quite as much stuff to trash as I did, since most of her clothes were still at her mother’s house. The dresser had been emptied. Unlike my bed, which didn’t appear to have been touched, Syd’s mattress had been cut open. The contents of the closet were on the bedroom floor.
In my computer room, all the desk drawers had been opened, the shelves cleared off.
The basement damage was minimal. The washer and dryer had been opened, and a box of Tide detergent had been emptied onto the floor. The toolbox on my workbench had been dumped out.
Our boxes of stuff—those things you accumulate through life that you don’t know what to do with but haven’t the nerve to pitch, like your children’s kindergarten drawings, photos, books you’ll never read again, old files and business papers from your parents’ house—had been opened and rummaged through, but only a couple had been dumped out.
Standing amid the wreckage in the living room, I asked Jennings, “What kind of little bastards would do this?”
“You think it was kids?” Jennings asked.
“You don’t?”
We went through the house slowly, our shoes crunching on cornflakes as we went through the kitchen. She walked and talked. “Have you noticed whether anything was stolen?”
“How could you tell?” I said, surveying the wreckage. “I really haven’t had a chance to go through the place and check.”
“Your computer missing?”