“Way to be a hero,” the detective said, a smile in her voice. Out of the harsh bun, her hair was wavy and full, and along with her street clothes had transformed her like a chameleon into an ordinary mother. Or an undercover one.
“Next time, he’s on his own,” Clara groaned, blinking back tears, trying to regain her composure. A brief but intense ringing filled her ears as she pulled her hands away from her forehead, and she willed it to stop. This wasn’t the time to not be clearheaded.
“Oh, shit.” The detective’s smile was gone. “I didn’t realize you’re really hurt.” Clara looked down at her fingertips and saw blood. “We should get you looked at. You might have a concussion.”
Clara squeezed her eyes shut again—everything seemed so bright. She was fine. She didn’t have time for this. She had her own kids to look after.
Her own kids. Clara’s eyes flew open, and she turned to see Thomas yanking Maddie through her stroller harness in a sort of bear hug as Pup-Pup strained against his leash, which Clara had looped around the handle. The dog was pulling the wheels out from under them as Maddie kicked, half in and half out of her seat.
“Careful!” Clara screeched, stumbling toward them. After a few uncertain steps the pain dulled and she found her land legs again. Thomas looked nonplussed as she untangled Maddie and deposited her on the pavement.
“I was helping.” Seeing her face, his defiance switched to wide-eyed alarm. “Mommy, you need a Band-Aid.”
“I’ll get one once we’re home,” she said as breezily as she could. If she acted as if everything were fine, then everything would be—just as soon as this pounding in her head subsided. “Go ahead, go play!”
She ushered him toward the swings, got hold of the dog’s leash, and took Maddie by the hand. Her daughter smiled adoringly up at her as if she was not at all the incompetent mother she felt, and Clara focused on the grounding feeling of the little hand in hers as they made their way back toward the playset.
Detective Marks emerged at the bottom of the corkscrew slide, her son on her lap. “Thank you for trying to help,” she said. “I feel like a dolt for that hero comment.”
“I feel ridiculous,” Clara said. “I’m just glad he didn’t fall.”
“I don’t know why I always think it’s going to be this relaxing little outing to stop by the playground when I get off work.”
“I don’t know why I think any outing will be relaxing. Or little,” Clara added, then remembered who she was talking to. “Although if anyone needs relief from the craziness of her workday, I’m guessing it’s you.”
“I’d take a felon over a cranky toddler,” the detective said. She had out a pocket pack of tissues, and Clara took one gratefully, holding it to her forehead. Thomas was pumping his legs rhythmically on a creaky swing now, and Clara steeled herself against the grating noise.
Detective Marks had her phone out, typing out a harried text. “It’s just a goose egg with some broken skin,” she said, “but you should get it looked at, to be safe.” The boy slid out of her lap and began digging through the mulch with his fingers.
“That’s not necessary,” she said automatically. What mom had time to get looked at when she was most likely fine? “I know the concussion symptoms—I’ll monitor myself.”
The detective looked up, considering her. “You do seem to have pretty good instincts,” she said, sounding suspiciously like a cop again.
Clara peered at her through her daze, wondering whether the words were as deliberate as they seemed. A thousand questions she didn’t dare ask spun through her head. It had been over two weeks since The Color-Blind Gazette incident, and she’d heard little from the police since, aside from a few “routine” check-in calls from Detective Bryant. She’d felt too sheepish to ask anything in return, and he never volunteered information. Kristin was more than three weeks gone now, and she couldn’t help but wonder how hard they were still looking. Or how long they might try. Or whether they had any new clues as to where she might be, or why.
“Anything interesting going on in the neighborhood these days?” the detective asked casually. Her son was seated in the mulch now, coming up with handfuls of wood shards and watching them fall to the ground, and Maddie stood monitoring his behavior with fascination.
Clara thought with longing of the abandoned I Can Do It! book cover. But she’d made her decision. Having not mentioned it before, she certainly couldn’t bring it up now. She shrugged. “I was trying not to ask you the same thing.”
“Why not ask?”
She was surprised by the question. Because she wasn’t sure if she was allowed? Because she desperately wanted to but was afraid to know the answers?
“Has the good doctor been around more?” The levity in the detective’s voice did not match the question. “Have you noticed him directing any anger toward you, or anyone else?”
Clara shook her head, wincing as a fresh jolt of pain cascaded through her temple.
Detective Marks nodded. “No cause for alarm. But since I bumped into you, I’ll casually mention that Dr. Kirkland’s partners have not reacted kindly to Hallie’s little bulletin. They asked him to hang back, let them cover his appointments until it blows over.”
Clara’s eyes widened. She could guess at his reaction.
“Seems he has a knack for bargaining. They landed on a compromise where his patients can opt for an easy switch if they feel uncomfortable or have reservations. But he’s still none too happy.”
“Are they opting out?”
“Most have not. But his partners came to me because they felt his grudge against those who have seemed disproportionate, all things considered. Just be aware, in case that grudge were to extend to you. Can’t help but notice he’s quick to divert blame.”
Bored of the mulch show, Maddie fixed her eyes on Thomas and began yanking Clara toward the swings, while Pup-Pup tried to follow. Clara felt torn between jumping at the excuse to slink away and staying to prod for more. But the detective was on her knees now, bemoaning the condition of her filthy toddler. Game over.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Clara said carefully. “I’m glad I ran into you. Not so much the bar…” Detective Marks laughed, and Clara bent and offered a high five to the mulch-covered boy, who instead gleefully handed her a handful.
She’d been peripherally aware of a siren in the distance, but it was growing closer, and to her horror an ambulance appeared, lights flashing. She shot a look at the detective, who held her hands up. “He’s a friend. He’s just going to look, as a favor to me. If you’re okay, he’ll go.”
The kids whooped in excitement, but all Clara could think about was the way the passing motorists were slowing to gawk at her standing here bleeding with her neighbor’s investigator. Whether speculation cast her as victim or suspect, it was looking less like anyone was going to buy her in the role of bystander—the only part she wanted to play.
*
Clara peered through the curtains of Maddie’s room and across the street toward Izzy’s dark house. Behind her, her daughter was sleeping heavily, her breaths deep and rhythmic, both tiny fists curled up by her chin in an irresistibly photogenic fashion. On the other side of the hundred-year-old wall, Thomas was sprawled unapologetically on his back, a stuffed jungle animal under each arm, his face slack-jawed and utterly vulnerable. Benny’s soft snores came from down the hall, where the sheets were askew and the TV was still tuned to the sports report. Even when so much had gone wrong in Clara’s world, the most important things were still right with it.