“I know, Peanut, I know.” I rubbed her back as I headed down the steps.
I paused only long enough to grab my car keys and purse. Not long enough to notice it was pouring outside, much less to grab an umbrella. I rushed down the front walkway toward the car, with Ella in her Hello Kitty pajamas, trying to shield her from the deluge, relieved to see that I was at least in yoga pants and a sweatshirt and not naked.
Getting soaked, I buckled Ella into the car seat smoothly and slowly, smiling the whole time as though that might convince her she’d imagined all of our racing around. Once I’d climbed in the driver’s seat and locked the doors tight, I wiped the rain off my face, grinning at her in the rearview. But she just turned her sleepy, grumpy face to the side as I backed slowly out of the driveway. It wasn’t until I’d driven three streets away that it felt safe to pull over. I turned off the wipers, and the drumming rain quickly blurred out the windshield.
When I looked up at Ella in the rearview again, she was clutching her blanket and sucking her thumb, sound asleep.
“Steve Carlson,” he answered on the first ring. He sounded like I’d woken him. In bed with Barbara, surely. And yet it was so hard to picture.
“This is Molly Sanderson. I’m sorry to bother you so early,” I began. “But I—I had your number in my phone from last night. And I wasn’t sure who else to call. I think someone was in my house.”
“Are you inside your house now?” he asked, serious, official, cop-like.
My heart picked up speed again. I’d been so prepared to be dismissed out of hand. “No, I’m in my car a few blocks away with my daughter. Someone left a box in my living room while we were asleep. I’m sure I’m overreacting, but—”
“Stay where you are for now,” Steve said. “Give me your address and I’ll check it out.”
By the time Steve had called me to return home, it was barely misting.
He was leaning against an unmarked car—maybe just his car—when I arrived, looking much younger in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I parked behind him, quietly unbuckling my seat belt and leaving the car running as I got out, hoping Ella would stay asleep.
“Morning,” he said, nodding at me, then flicking his eyes disapprovingly in the direction of my humming car.
“I was hoping Ella would stay asleep in there,” I explained.
Steve nodded, but his brow stayed furrowed. “Well, there’s no one in your house.”
“That’s a relief,” I said. “I was home with Ella alone; my husband left early. And when I woke up, there was this strange box sitting inside our living room. I guess I kind of panicked.”
“Did your husband leave the door unlocked when he left?”
“Maybe,” I said. Because entering without breaking in wasn’t a big a deal? Except someone had still invited him-or herself into my home and left God knows what. A baby, my crazy brain jumped there. A dead baby in a box. I was lucky Justin couldn’t read my mind. “We lock the door at night. And when we go out. But when we’re home during the day . . .”
No one in the suburbs ever locks their door, I wanted to say. That’s the whole point of living here.
“In the future, I’d keep it locked, always. Ridgedale isn’t a big city, but reasonable precautions make sense anywhere.” He nodded toward my car. “I also wouldn’t leave a sleeping child unattended in a running car.”
“Right, of course,” I said, fully mortified. “Did you, um, check what was inside the box?”
“Just enough to see that it’s some kind of papers.” He held up his hands. “Didn’t read what’s on them. Don’t want to be accused of interfering with the press. My guess is someone put them inside to keep them out of the rain.”
We didn’t have any overhang, and it had been pouring. The box would have gotten soaked. And so the person just went ahead and opened our door? Steve was presenting it like a normal thing to do. But it wasn’t normal. Not even in Ridgedale.
“What happens now?”
“That’s up to you. Happy to open an investigation. But you should know we’ll need to keep the box, mark it as evidence.”
“That hadn’t occurred to me.”
“That’s why I mention it. I’m not trying to discourage you from pursuing this. That’s entirely up to you. But this kind of thing happens. Years ago, during some mayoral campaign, somebody put a dead rat in Jim McManus’s mailbox—he was the Reader’s editor in chief at the time.” Steve shook his head. “Man, was his wife bent out of shape. Anyway, my guess is this has something to do with your articles. Isn’t that what you people want? A reaction?”
Steve was aggravated about something I’d written. That was obvious. “‘You people’?”
“Meaning your editors.” He rubbed his forehead. He still looked aggravated. But also like he didn’t want to be. “Nothing personal, but they must like that you’re willing to stir the pot. That’s all I meant. It must sell papers or get you clicks or whatever it is you all want these days.”
But my articles had been far from controversial.
“Is there something specific I’ve written that you’re taking issue with?”
“Just pointing out the facts. And the fact is, you’ve riled people up. This ‘find him, he’s out there, another Ridgedale murder’ nonsense. People are going crazy in the comments to your articles.”
I felt a queasy twist in my stomach. I didn’t even want to know those comments existed. Between that and the files and the pressure from Justin, I might beat a hasty retreat from journalism after all.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” I said, and I didn’t like the feeling that Steve did. “I don’t read the comments on my articles.”
Steve frowned and looked uncomfortable. He wasn’t frustrated with me, I was realizing. He was just frustrated.