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“Mark is the same,” I deadpan. “Nothing ever changes with him.”
“What did he say about my assessment of Connor this morning?”
“Ulch,” I sink back in the seat. “Nothing. He said freaking nothing, Emma.”
“I’m so sorry. What an ass. He didn’t have any insight or thoughts about it?”
“No.” I take a deep breath. “Oh, and by the way, I called the clinic you referred us to take Connor to. It’s a four-month wait to even make an appointment for an autism assessment.”
Emma’s jaw drops. “Unbelievable.”
“I know. But I did speak with his pediatrician and, considering the autism stuff is going to take so long, I asked if she would put in a rush order for genetic testing. They just called and we were able to snag a cancellation spot for tomorrow morning.”
“That’s fantastic. Information is power.” Emma pauses. “Connor had a good day today. He was calm, focused, and he participated in class. Oh, and I sent in the request for the testing at the school. Hoping to get that scheduled for some time next week.”
“Good.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s with Gladys.”
Gladys is Mark’s mother, Connor’s grandmother, a four-foot-nine seventy-two-year-old widow with zero filter. Literally, the woman will vocalize whatever comes into her head at any given moment. She lives two doors down from us, and has a terrible habit of stopping by unannounced. But the bright side is that she’s willing to babysit Connor when Mark can’t, until either Mark or I get home from work. I have no idea what the two do together, but it’s free childcare.
“Anyway,” I say around a salty sip. “I really don’t want to talk about Connor—or Mark—anymore.”
“Good because I don’t want to talk about kids and emotionally unavailable men either.”
We laugh and I feel the tension begin to slip from my shoulders.
Emma’s phone beeps and as she checks the message, my attention is pulled to the table next to us. A table of twenty-somethings, sharing a bucket of beer and a vape pen.
“…dead body was found.”
“Where?”
“Mirror Lakes—you know that really rich neighborhood on the east side of town?”
“Yeah. Dead, as in, died of natural causes or was, like, murdered?”
“Murdered. The cop my buddy talked to said it was pretty bad. She was like, strangled and tortured…”
Emma is eavesdropping now too, both of us wide-eyed, staring at each other.
“Did you know about this?” I whisper.
“No.” She glances over at the table, debating on asking the strangers for more details—Emma is the social butterfly of this duo—but she decides against it. Instead, she sips and shakes her head. “So creepy. This town has changed so much. It’s not small and safe anymore.”
“Yeah.” I make a mental note to check the news on my phone later, then say, “You know what else is creepy?”
“What?”
“I found a notebook in the cushions of the couch I used to have in my office at my old counseling clinic.”
“Oh, that’s right—you’re doing the garage sale soon, right?”
“Yep. Next weekend.”
“What kind of notebook? Like a journal or diary?”
