“That’s insulting.” I jerked my shirt on, then pushed myself off the floor. “You’re talking about me like I’m—like I have some sort of permanent affliction. I was depressed, Justin. And for good reason, I might add. I’m not anymore. End of story.”
“I’m asking you not to do this one story, Molly,” Justin said, angry now, too, as he tugged on his own shirt. “Haven’t I earned the right to ask for that much?”
“Earned the right because you took care of me?” My chest felt raw as I moved away from the spot where we’d been lying. “Are you seriously going to use that as a bargaining chip? You think that’s fair?”
Justin pressed his lips together as he stood. “You know what’s really not fair, Molly?” His voice was calm and deliberate. He knew better than to forfeit his credibility by losing his patience. “You trying to turn my caring about you into me being an asshole.”
“Well, I’m sorry if our dead baby didn’t roll right off my back the way it did yours.” My voice was too shrill and too loud. But I wanted to hurt him. “That actually doesn’t make you a better person, you know. It just makes you lucky.”
Justin stared at the floor, frowning, shaking his head. “I’ll see you upstairs,” he said. He didn’t look at me again as he stepped toward the door. “But first I’ll put Ella to bed.”
After he was gone, I stood there alone in the kitchen in my T-shirt and underwear, furious and filled with regret. Wanting to apologize and go after him and fight some more. I was saved from having to choose when my phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize. I hoped it wasn’t Deckler again.
“Hello?” I barked.
“This is Chief of Police Steve Carlson, Ms. Sanderson. Sorry to disturb you so late.”
“That’s okay.” I tried to soften my voice. “What is it?”
“You were at the hospital this afternoon?”
Ugh. I did not like where this was starting, much less where I knew it was headed. “Um, yeah, my friend’s cleaning woman was in a car accident. She wanted moral support.” Why had I said it that way? That made Stella sound involved. “Or company, that’s a better way of putting it. My friend can be a little dramatic, even in situations that don’t involve her.”
Oh, great. Dramatic? What was wrong with me? Just because it was true didn’t mean it was something I should be saying to the police. And not saying Stella’s name didn’t make it any better, no matter what I was trying to tell myself.
“What time did you leave the hospital?”
“Probably around one p.m.,” I said. “I went to the university for an interview.”
“Okay. Could you please call me if you hear from Stella?”
No, I will not. That was what I wanted to say. And why should I go around reporting on the whereabouts of a friend? But refusing seemed awfully confrontational under the circumstances.
“Sure,” I said hesitantly. “Can you tell me why?”
“Rose Gowan is gone,” Steve said. “And so, it seems, is your friend Stella.”
I dreamed of babies. Dead ones. One of them was mine. But I didn’t know which, in a roomful of little caskets. I startled awake, bolting upright in the darkness. I could see the outline of Justin, sleeping on his side next to me. I put a hand on him to check that he was breathing, then curled up tight behind him, pretending we hadn’t argued earlier. It seemed such a silly waste now. And with those kinds of dreams, it was hard to maintain that the story wasn’t having an effect on me.
When I awoke again, it was almost seven a.m., and Justin was already gone. He’d left a note: Conference at Columbia; back late. There was another one of his little notes, too. I felt a pang of guilt about our fight the night before.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers—That perches in the soul—Emily Dickinson
I rolled over and picked up my cell phone off my nightstand and sent Justin a text: I know you’re just trying to help. Sorry about last night. xo.
I didn’t expect him to answer, but he did. Right away. I’m sorry, too. And I do believe in you, Molly. More than you’ll ever know. xo.
I felt relieved as I headed downstairs. Glad that Justin and I were no longer technically in a fight. Glad also that there’d been no overnight text from Stella, angry that I’d talked to Steve. Ella had even slept later than usual, leaving me time for a quiet cup of coffee before we got swept into the morning routine.
But as soon as I stepped into the living room, I was unnerved by something out of place. There was a small cardboard file box sitting a few feet inside our front door. Some kind of gift from Justin? Except the closer I got, the more it seemed an odd box for a present. Also, Molly Sanderson was written in large black letters across the top, and it didn’t look like Justin’s handwriting.
I pulled my phone out of my sweatshirt pocket and sent Justin another text, hoping to catch him before he lost a signal when the train went into Penn Station. Is the box a peace offering?
What box?
Come on. The box by the front door?
I’m all 4 peace offerings. But I don’t know anything about a box.
I took the stairs two at a time. Someone had been in our house. Someone could still be in our house. Maybe Ella wasn’t asleep. Maybe something had been done to her. I threw open her bedroom door so hard that it banged against the wall.
Ella jerked up from a dead sleep. “Mommy!” she shouted, bursting into terrified tears.
But she was okay. She was fine. That was the most important thing. I sucked in a mouthful of air—okay, Ella was fine. Now I had to pull myself together and get the two of us out of the house, just in case whoever had been in the house was still there.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said, trying to stay calm as I pulled Ella out of bed and into my arms. I sounded out of breath. I probably looked scared to death, too. Luckily, Ella was still half asleep. “I thought we could go out for pancakes. You know, a special treat.”
“But I’m tired,” Ella whined, rubbing her eyes as she wrapped her legs around my waist. “I don’t want breakfast. I want to go back to sleep.”