“I know you’re not. I acted impetuously. But it can’t happen again.”
Constantine’s eyes walked over her body, and she could swear she saw the barest predatory gleam in them when he licked his lips and shrugged, then stood. His voice was no longer warm and cajoling. It was cold, the perfect match to hers, but there was genuine hurt and confusion, and she felt the pull, the need, the desire to be loved and to love, to connect.
“Suit yourself. It was nice knowing you, Justine Holliday.”
He started to walk away and she felt the shroud lift. What a dumb mistake she’d made, allowing her baser instincts to take over. Maybe when you’re settled here, maybe when you’ve made up your mind that this is permanent, then you can think about moving on for real.
She saw him disappear around the corner and squared her shoulders.
Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan.
And then she was up, on her feet, tossing bills on the table, running after him.
SECRETS AND MONSTERS
Then
They had to do something with the nursery.
Sutton couldn’t stand the idea of it sitting there like a shrine, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to dismantle it. It smelled good, and it smelled wrong. Baby powder and emptiness, the lavender-scented blankets still stacked up high on the table by the crib, vestiges of Just Jan and her tidy, almost architectural folding abilities. Sutton asked her once if she was into origami, and Just Jan had laughed and said no, she was just careful with her things, and her thick braids swung forward, two perfect, fat, winding snakes, and Sutton didn’t believe her.
OCD, maybe.
Was that safe for Dashiell, being around someone who was so precise?
And her inner voice reminded her she liked Jan, and Jan was good for Dashiell, good for her and for Ethan as well, and to stop being a jerk.
A week after Dashiell had died, Just Jan had offered to pack the nursery for her. Just Jan had thusly been sent packing herself, divested of her keys, the alarm codes changed, and a fat severance check in her back pocket. (Ethan’s doing. Sutton had tried to scratch her eyes out.)
There was no reason for Just Jan to exist for them anymore, anyway.
But now, Sutton was stuck, poor Sutton, all alone, in the doorway to her dead son’s room, having to make a decision. Close it down or keep it open?
Ethan, not surprisingly, had abdicated. He wouldn’t get near the nursery. He’d go down the back stairs to avoid having to step past the door, as if some unseen monster was going to reach out and grab him.
Sutton supposed there was a monster lurking inside their dead son’s nursery, jaws gaping, saliva dripping off sharp fangs. She wanted it to take her, to rip out her throat, leaving her unable to breathe on the floor, drowning in her own blood, and so she stepped inside, ready and willing.
Nothing happened. Just sadness, and emptiness. She didn’t die.
Isn’t that the problem with loss? You don’t get to go with death when it comes for your loves.
Suddenly industrious, she began putting things away, blankets into drawers, tiny blue onesies onto miniature hangers in the closet. They kept the diapers on the top shelf. With something so quickly used, so easily disposed of, she had never bothered unpacking them into the cute diaper box she’d received at her shower.
She reached for the cardboard. At the very least, she could donate the diapers to the shelter. Diapers weren’t part of her son’s life. They were generic, expendable, anonymous. She couldn’t get emotional about a fold of fake cotton meant for shit and piss.
She was tall, able to reach all but the last box. She grabbed the three-step stool from behind the closet door. Pulled the last one from the dark recess. Her knuckles brushed something hard. It fell over with a quiet clatter.
She dropped the diapers on the floor and climbed up one more step, so she could see. There was a bottle on its side, small, brown, a pink label. She picked it up and examined it. Children’s Allergy Relief. The bottle was nearly full, but not new. It had been opened.
Sutton’s heart began to race. She had not bought this medicine. So why was it here, in Dashiell’s closet, hidden deep in the closet, behind the diapers?
She clutched the bottle to her chest and snuck to her office. Ethan was around; she’d heard him banging on something earlier. He couldn’t see this. She needed to know. She needed to know, now.
The words on her computer screen, fractured because she was reading so fast. Not for use under 12 months. Excessive sedation. Overdose. Warning. Never give infants sedatives...
And because she had to torture herself, she typed in the words: infant overdose Benadryl symptoms. The results were immediate and overwhelming.
Death of Infant Attributed to Sedative Overdose
Babysitter Charged in Dosing Incident
A Mother’s Warning after Babysitter Murders Infant with Sedative
She clicked on the last story, scrambling now, heart in her throat. Read the piece. Saw the words that changed everything.
The babysitter claimed she put the infant down for a nap, and when she went to check on him, saw he was not breathing and called 9-1-1. The initial findings pointed to a SIDS death, but subsequent toxicology reports showed high levels of diphenhydramine in the infant’s blood. The babysitter was subsequently arrested on the charge of first-degree homicide. In her deposition, she admitted to giving the child the drug when he wouldn’t stop crying.
There was more, but that was all Sutton needed to see. The knowledge poured over her like freezing water. Her teeth began to chatter. She grabbed her arms to keep the shaking under control. She knew what had happened. Finally, she knew. She’d been right all along. The nagging suspicion that ate at her day and night and ruined her marriage, her life. The words that had been whispering through her brain for almost a year.
Ethan killed the baby.
Sutton didn’t know what to do. Should she go to the police, tell them her husband was a monster, that he’d killed their child? That he’d been abusing her? She had proof: she had the pictures of the bruises on her arm, the shots of her broken nose. All those times the police had come during their fights... She hadn’t called them, it was the neighbors who heard the yelling and tried to protect her from afar, something she’d always been livid about, but now, knowing she was living with a murderer, she was utterly grateful for their interference. What might have happened if they hadn’t called?
Ivy had warned her Ethan was volatile. That she should always have a plan, just in case. And now she understood why.
Ivy. Of course. She’d go to Ivy. She’d know what to do.
*
“I have something to tell you.”
Ivy poured the wine into Sutton’s glass, ruby liquid purling against the edges. Set the bottle on the table. Picked up her own glass and made a small salute. “Ching-ching. What is it?”
“It’s about Ethan.”
Ivy’s glass stopped moving, the wine tipped precariously. Then she took a long swallow. “What about Ethan?”