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“I’ve been here with you for over an hour.”
Yes, she has. I can’t seem to get her to leave, but I will be billing her.
“What about your boyfriend?”
“He’s at a mindfulness retreat. This lawsuit has caused a regression in his spiritual development. Just yesterday, he suggested we open a Roth IRA account.”
“Not a bad idea.”
She lifts her chin. “It was beneath him.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I say.
“Neither do I,” she says. “This wasn’t a coincidence. I knew something was going to happen today. Didn’t I tell you that you’d be meeting Damien?”
I give her a look that’s probably as annoyed as I feel, because I’m not inclined to try for a filter at the moment. “Yes, and that’s precisely why I’m suspicious.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t waste time having the police look into me. I only break the law when it’s stupid, or when it directly benefits me. What benefit would I get from destroying your wife’s van?”
My wife. My wife needs me.
“I have to go.”
“Of course you do,” she says, waving me off. “I’ll just pop around and talk to Mr. Freeman. He needs to know that Mercury’s in retrograde.”
And she needs to ensure she tightens her hold on him prior to the trial. Fine. Right now I couldn’t give a shit. I’ll mention my interview with her to the police and the private investigators, but I can’t deny she has a point. Why would she do something guaranteed to piss me off when she’s relying on me to get her out of a bind?
I don’t know. At the moment, I don’t care. I need to get to Ruthie.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ruthie
Ican’t stop crying.
Tank wanted to throw a couple of sheets over Vanny so I couldn’t see the damage, but Danny wouldn’t let him in case it disturbs the scene. I’ll never forget what it looks like—disemboweled books everywhere, along with debris from the destroyed book-making kits, assembled with such care and stored here because there was no room in the apartment. The mural painted on Vanny destroyed by random bursts of spray paint, like ugly fireworks. The sides keyed and scraped. The tires popped. The shelves broken.
There’s an ache inside of me that won’t ease, as if someone destroyed me and not my van. I want Shane. Something deep inside of me needs him. It’s alarming, how quickly I’ve come to rely on his support.
He’s coming. Danny called him.
I’d asked my brother to meet me here this morning so I could show him the updates I’d made to the “Vanny experience.” I’d hoped he’d soften after seeing how much Shane has been helping me prepare for the party this weekend.
I’ve tried to talk to Danny about Shane a few times this week, but the conversation always hits a brick wall.
He knows what I need from him, Danny will say—and then he’ll clam up. No one knows how to be stubborn like my brother, except for me I suppose. And Shane.
He’s coming, I repeat in my head. And then, because I’m a fool, I remind myself, Josie said it was all going to be okay. The police will take care of this. They’ll figure it out in no time.
Two officers do show up, but they don’t seem particularly interested in processing the scene. They take several photos, ask Danny and me a few questions. And then they ask Tank to come down to the station for further questioning.
“Why?” I ask, pissed and still crying, tears coursing down my cheeks.
Danny, Tank, and I are sitting in the garage on a few folding chairs—the guts of Vanny exposed and raw next to us. Tank brought out a couple of chairs for the officers, too, but they’ve ignored them and turned down the offer of coffee.
The more talkative officer, Officer Loomis, rolls on his feet. “That’s classified, ma’am.” His partner stands beside him chewing something. It’s probably gum but looks like one of those Hi-Chew candies. She hasn’t said a single thing, so I’ve nicknamed her Officer Gumshoe in my head.
“Because it’s my shop, and I’m the one with the keys,” Tank says with a huff of air. He’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt, but even though it’s freezing in here, he’s rolled up the sleeves. Then again, Tank always has run hot, ever since we were kids. “They think I did it.”
