Maybe just because it’s easier to lie about it.
Liv reaches for the card from Reeves that I dropped when the coughing started.
“Well, that’s interesting.”
I clear my throat as I back out of the parking slot. “What?”
“Based on the name Reeves gave us, her wife is another one of Fanning’s victims.”
Seven
Detective Olivia Newhouse
The house is quiet when I arrive. I breathe a little easier as I close the front door and disable the alarm. I couldn’t find my garage door opener, so I had to leave my Subaru out front. I think it’s against the HOA rules, but whatever.
It’s after seven. I can’t believe David is not home.
I flip on the light and lean against the closed door. The crystal chandelier sends sparkles over the shiny marble floor and along the polished wood banister that leads up to the second-floor landing.
How can I possibly ever feel like this is home? I should have realized this life was a pipe dream—something meant for a different kind of woman. One who adores the social life, and plans months in advance to ensure no one misses a single one of her parties.
I can’t be that person.
My boxes. Eight large moving boxes picked up from a U-Haul store close to the farm sit to the right of the front door, near the grand entrance to the dining room. There are dozens more of these same boxes at the farm—at the only home I’ve ever known, the only place I’ve ever felt comfortable—waiting to be filled. At the house I’m supposed to be packing up to sell. How do you pack up a lifetime of living? Not just my life but the lives of my parents? Myfather bought the farm right after I was born. He and Mom decided they didn’t want their only child growing up in the city. I never attended public school. I was homeschooled until I went to college, and even then I lived at home.
I push away from the door and approach the boxes. I packed each one myself. Brought them here jammed into Walt’s Tahoe and in my Subaru. David was pleased at first. Happy to see me taking steps toward our future, he professed.
I wonder now if that’s what I was doing. Or was I just trying to keep him happy? To be the woman he expected? Either way, I promised him I would deal with the boxes. Since they’re well taped, I’ll need a box cutter. I blink, inventory my level of exhaustion. Maybe not tonight, I decide. Tonight I’m too tired.
The distant ache in my skull has not evolved into another headache, and for that I am extremely grateful. But I know from experience that my luck won’t last. I can’t remember the last time I had clusters of migraines like this. The headaches usually came one at a time, with weeks or months in between. This is new and agonizing territory.
But then, I’ve never been pregnant before. Never been engaged or grieving the loss of the last of my family.
Slowly I climb the stairs. A long, hot shower will help, I hope. I would really love a couple of beers, but that’s not an option.
Shit. I forgot to pick up the prenatal vitamins.
I stall on the landing. So, I guess I’m really doing this?
Of course I am. I was raised Catholic. But am I capable of being a mother?
Somehow my feet continue moving toward the bedroom. As always, the bed is made even though I crawled out of the tangle of linens without looking back. The duvet is plump and blinding white, made of the finest cotton and filled with lush down. If I fell onto it now, I would sink into its lavish depths. Pillows, their white cases banded with gold, are arranged three deep against the rich wood headboard. Beneath allthose soft white mounds are luxury sheets. Sleeping in this bed is like staying in a five-star hotel.
There are two housekeepers who come in every day. My clothes—generally left in a wad in the hamper—are always laundered and hung in the closet. I walk through the room and into the bathroom, strip off my clothes, and climb into the shower. There is no waiting for the water to get hot; it’s instantaneous.
I stand beneath the spray, and the question haunts me again. Am I capable of being a mother?
Drugs have never been a part of my life. I drink too much beer sometimes, but not often. Don’t smoke. Though I attended church with my parents growing up, I haven’t been in years. Occasionally I swear like the proverbial sailor and am not known for my infinite patience. My housekeeping skills leave something to be desired. But I do eat reasonably healthy foods when I take the time to eat.
I stare at my flat belly. I should be eating regularly now.
However shocking and unexpected this reality, I have an obligation to do the right thing for me and for the baby.
Twenty minutes later, with my hair dried and my favorite T-shirt and lounge pants on, I head downstairs to see what’s for dinner. I glance at the clock. Almost eight. Where is David?
I have to admit, I’m enjoying the peace without him—how sad is that?
The sixty-inch built-in fridge is filled with offerings. Leftover pot roast looks good. I guess David had pot roast last night while I was lost to the migraine. That’s the other thing about living here. A cook comes most afternoons and prepares dinner, unless we’re scheduled to go out.
