Catcher came loping down the stairs, exuberance lost. He padded into the kitchen where he stood whining at his empty bowl. I couldn’t even look at him, so clear was his disappointment. He thought she was here.
On the refrigerator hung my math test; I’d earned an A—a big deal for me in math. On the whiteboard were scribbled Mom’s notes about milk and the book she needed to get for her book club, the date of my upcoming English test—a test I never took. I didn’t know when I was going back to school.
Aborted. Our lives had come to an abrupt and brutal end. I was the only unlucky one still breathing.
I made my way upstairs to my bedroom. It was full of things—cards, stuffed animals—things that came to the hospital that I didn’t remember receiving and which must have been moved home. Paul had retrieved my clothes, some books, my stuffed unicorn Mr. Emma that I’d been sleeping with since I was little. I’d been dragging the poor thing around everywhere since the beginning of time. It was practically a rag, ripped, sewed and sewed again, chewed on by Catcher, limp from lost stuffing.
I drifted from room to room. My mother’s purse sat on her dresser, keys beside it, like she was getting ready to head out to the store. The bed was unmade. They’d been woken in the night, never returned to this room. There was a glass of water by my father’s bed. Half-empty.
My parents didn’t have anything. That’s what was weird. My mom had some jewelry from her mother—a pair of small diamond earrings, a strand of pearls. They sat unworn in the black velvet box in a drawer. I took out the box and sat on the bed with it, opened it, and took those pieces out.
“She’d want you to keep those, of course,” Paul said, coming into the room. There was a hundred dollars in the box, too.
“Take it,” he said. I shoved it in my pocket. It felt like stealing.
“Are you okay?” he said.
My throat was swollen with sadness; my stomach ached with despair through my center.
“Yeah,” I said.
The jewelry, the cash, our photo albums, a framed picture of the three of us at Disney, a red cashmere scarf, the rest of my clothes, other stuff from my room—yearbooks, my laptop, my diaries. The things I wanted from the house filled about four boxes. When we loaded it in the Suburban, it looked like a sad collection of junk.
“That’s it?” asked Paul. “You’re sure that’s everything you want?”
“What else?” I asked.
He shrugged, shook his head, and looked back at the house.
“What happens to the rest of it?” I wanted to know.
“I’ll come out next weekend. Some of the guys are going to help me do an estate sale.”
I had no idea what that was, but I didn’t ask.
“We’ll sell what we can,” he said. “Those earnings will go into your college fund. Everything we can’t sell, we’ll donate. Mr. Bishop said we can store whatever else until after probate. He said he won’t even try to rent the place for a while.”
“What about the money?”
He blinked at me. We hadn’t talked at all about that night, though he’d been present for all my police interviews. So he knew everything that happened.
“What about it?”
“Is it here?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“He didn’t steal it, like they’re saying, and hide it here? He wasn’t dirty?”
That’s the thing, well, one of the things, that had really been eating at me. My dad was a hard-ass, but I always knew he was a good man, someone I could trust, rely upon to be there. He told me the truth about things. He’d never missed a day of work, was never sick. He was upright and strong. If he wasn’t? If he wasn’t, then the very foundation of my world was made of sand.
Paul came in close and put strong, heavy hands on my shoulders, looked at me deep and long.
“Your dad didn’t do that, Zoey. Don’t believe it for one second. He would never do that to you, to your mom. If he knew where that money was, he’d have given it up in a heartbeat to save you.”
“Maybe he thought once he told them, that they’d kill us anyway. Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell.”
“No,” said Paul. “Your dad was not a dirty cop. I know he was hard, kid, and that you two had your problems. But I swear to God, he’d have lain down his life for you. He loved you and your mom. Believe that.”
His eyes filled with tears and then they spilled over. He bowed his head so I wouldn’t have to look, but to be honest I was relieved to see him cry. If it was bad enough for him to cry, then it was okay that I did little else.
I wanted, in that moment, to tell him what I hadn’t told anyone. That one night, a couple of weeks before the murders, I’d seen my dad leave the house after 1:00 a.m. It wasn’t unusual. I hadn’t heard the phone, but I didn’t always hear his cell. He came back just after 3:00. I watched him heave a bag out of the car, listened as he came in and headed down to the basement. I drifted off again while he was still down there.
I had forgotten all about it—until the night when the men came. That’s why I thought to say that it was in the basement. I wanted to tell Paul, but something stopped me. Because what did it mean? That my dad was dirty, that he had stolen the money, that he let my mom and me be tortured rather than give it up? No. It just didn’t make sense. Anyway, maybe it never happened. Maybe it was a dream. Everything was so jumbled and confused in my mind, time was so twisted and weird.
We were about to get in the car when Seth came out from the trees. Catcher ran to greet him, nearly knocking him over.
He knelt down to pet the big dog, to hug him.
“Hey,” I said, approaching. He rose, looked at me. He looked so tired, so sad. I already knew what he’d done, how he called the police and probably saved my life. But I couldn’t bring myself to thank him. He seemed like a stranger. I tried to remember that I had been a girl who had a crush on him, who wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Those two kids seemed like other people. He pulled me into an awkward hug, which I couldn’t return.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I was late to meet you. I couldn’t get out of the house. If I had . . .”
It was weird to me that he thought he had anything to do with it. It still is, how he allowed the event to define him, drive the rest of his life. Even now, he thought this mystery was his to solve.
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “You called the police. If not, I don’t know.”
Above us, some crows circled, calling out. The house looked like a gray shell, something that could crumble and fall. Seth was a ghost. I don’t remember how that encountered ended. I think I just got in the car and let Paul drive me away.
? ? ?
NOW, I SAT IN THE Suburban—the very same vehicle. I tried to coax it to life in the parking garage, the attendant giving me a skeptical look as the ancient gas guzzler coughed and groaned. Paul had mentioned that there was a problem with the car. I thought he should sell it, but he wouldn’t let it go. He hadn’t driven it in a year, and I rarely drove it unless I was running errands for him out of the city—usually food errands.