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Which reminded her—she needed to order one of those post-birth corsets. And as much as Julia was going to yell at her for it, there was no way she was going to breastfeed. Formula all the way, and hopefully her milk would dry up quickly. Because pregnancy alone was going to do a huge number on her breasts, let alone if she spent months and months breastfeeding. Julia had tried to convince her that breastfeeding didn’t change your breasts beyond pregnancy itself, but that was just ridiculous. No thank you—not worth the risk.
The point was, things weren’t going the way she’d planned. Even Madison’s and Naomie’s deaths didn’t seem to be making a difference, and she was worse off than at the start.
She had to adjust her plan.
* * *
Julia held herself up using her Formica counter, staring sightlessly out the duplex’s kitchen window as her new single-serving Keurig spat coffee into her mug. When it finished, she grabbed it out of the machine and gulped without even adding milk. Once she’d drained the mug she pushed it back into the maker with a shaking hand, inserted a second pod, and started another cup brewing. Then she sagged into a chair at her kitchen table and dropped her head into her hands.
She needed to pull herself together.
The excuse to leave with the detectives before had been a godsend, but talking to Cecile and Fred had been the worst experience of her life. Naomie, their only daughter, had been their alpha and their omega, and their pain was absolute. The normally unflappable Cecile had collapsed into a pile, screaming and literally scratching at the floor, so upset Julia was worried Cecile would have some sort of cardiac event. She’d had to give Cecile a pethidine injection in the hopes of calming her down. By the time Julia got home, it’d been almost five in the morning, and she had nothing left. But despite her emotional and physical exhaustion, she hadn’t been able to sleep, and just slipped into a strange gray zone where Naomie’s face loomed in front of her, begging for help, leaving Julia tossing in a pile of sweat-soaked blankets.
Now, after carefully monitoring her responses the night before, she finally had a moment to sit and allow her emotions to be what they were. But her brain wouldn’t kick in and she sat numb, like she was the one who’d been given a sedative and it wouldn’t wear off.
Everything was spiraling out of control. She couldn’t let it.
Her burner phone, still in her purse where she’d dumped it, buzzed. A tiny hint of emotion cracked through her fatigued haze as she scrabbled for it, desperately needing the salve of Rick’s text. He hadn’t been happy when she’d had to cancel their plan the night before, but had understood why. She couldn’t tell him everything, of course, because he’d never understand and she couldn’t risk losing him. She needed him to be there for her more than she’d needed anything in this life.
She closed her eyes and paused for a moment. These racing thoughts weren’t like her. She couldn’t afford to fall apart.
She groped in the bag and her fingers hit smooth, cold metal. She pulled out the phone with a gush of relief.
I need to see you.
It wasn’t from Rick.
Son of a fucking bitch. Adrenaline rushed through her, and she resisted the urge to hurl the phone across the room, clenching it so hard she was surprised it didn’t crack under her fingers.Take a fucking hint, you delusional piece of shit, she typed in, relishing every letter.Fuck all the way off.
She forced herself to delete it. The upside was the adrenaline spurt had done what the coffee couldn’t, and now she just needed a moment to think.
Nothing had changed with respect to this—pissing him off wasn’t going to help. Her previous decision on how to handle him was the right one, and she needed to just stay the course.
Too much going on right now. I’ll call when I can.
A minute later, the phone rang.
She refused the call, and quickly sent another text.
Can’t answer now. With a client.
She waited a minute, then two, sipping her remaining coffee, eyes pinned to the screen.
After five minutes, he still hadn’t responded. She took a deep, slow breath, and slipped the phone back into her purse. Thank goodness he’d let it go, at least for now. She had other fires she had to put out.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX
Beautiful Bouncing Babies was located just off downtown Oakhurst, far enough away from the main streets to be circumspect without being difficult to find. The half red-brick, half peach-stucco building was bright and appealing, with high, welcoming arches and a warm, joyful strip of mural of babies playing together. The inside was just as cheery, with banana-yellow walls accented with dashes of mint and splashes of mother-and-baby artwork. Jo could see how, especially to women with fewer resources, Triple-B would make them feel pampered, cared for, and in good hands.
At least, on days when the staff members weren’t wiping away tears and struggling to speak.
Sandra, Naomie’s administrative assistant, turned out to be a white woman in her mid-fifties with ditchwater-brown hair. She continually tugged at her generic work pants and top; Jo couldn’t decide if it was a sign of poor fit or emotional distress. Sandra’s pale-blue eyes were red and swollen, and her expression was grim and frightened.
She walked them through a hall, past cubicles and a multi-purpose room containing office equipment, then unlocked a door. “This was Naomie’s office. I thought you’d want to see it.”
“Thank you. Has anyone been in here since she last was?” Jo asked.
“The janitorial staff comes in after hours. Other than that, I left when Naomie did, so I don’t know if anybody besides that went in.”
