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“And who from that list signed him out?” I demanded to know, teeth gritted in annoyance with him, but my heart spasming in my chest at the idea that there was the kind of danger that would require my child being taken out of school that I hadn’t heard of yet.
The principal produced the clipboard, turning it to me.
And as my eyes scanned for my son’s name, a part of me already knew.
Then my gaze met a familiar signature.
And then, yeah, I was pissed.
“Jenny, honey, angel,” he said, moving into the living room, giving me his signature carefree smile. “Why so tense?”
“Give. Me. My. Son.”
“Do you want some wine? Chocolate? A massage?”
“I want my son that you signed out of school without permission.”
“I had permission,” he insisted. “You made me sign a form about it and everything.”
“For emergencies,” I reminded him, losing a bit of the anger.
My son was safe.
That was what mattered.
And when it came to Bellamy, sometimes he needed to be reminded of things that other, normal people just knew without it being explained to them.
It wasn’t his fault.
He was from a different world.
His own one, to be exact.
He did what he wanted, when he wanted. No matter where he was, who he was around, what the possible consequences.
I mean this was a man who routinely drugged and kidnapped his friends. Without seeing anything wrong with it.
I had thought we had covered all the basics when we’d had the kids.
No, they can’t have a sip of your beer, wine, whiskey.
No, you can’t take them on a rollercoaster.
No, it’s not okay if they fingerpaint with actual wall paint.
The list was endless.
But we’d never thought to say that, hey, kidnapping one of our offspring and scaring the life out of us was inappropriate.
“Why did you take Cal out of school?”
“That new talking dog movie hit theaters today,” he told me, brows drawing together like I was an idiot for not knowing this information offhand.
“Okay… and…”
“And Calvin wanted to see it.”
Alright, so I was vaguely aware of that fact. Kids wanted to see everything. And wanted to buy everything. And eat everything. Sometimes, it became a bit like background noise.
“Okay. But the theater is open after school. And on weekends.”
“Yeah, but if we went at one on a school day, we would have the place to ourselves. He loved it.”
I bet he did.
And Cal had a great attendance record, so it wasn’t even a big deal if he missed half a day.
But still…
“Bellamy, you have to run this by one of us before you do it.”
“We were supposed to be back,” he told me. “Meet you at the pick-up and tell you all about our adventure.”
“What happened?”
“Well…” Bellamy trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
“Bellamy,” I tried, voice getting firmer.
“Jenny, honey, it’s not my fault you have a terrible child,” he said, barely able to hold back his smile.
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” he said, holding up his hands.
“Where is he?”
“The bathroom.”
I brushed past him, going into the bathroom to find my son.
Covered.
Arms.
Legs.
Neck.
Face.
In black permanent marker.
“Where did he get a black marker?”
“Now, see, that is a great question. But someone seems to have stolen your son’s voice. Because he can’t seem to answer that one.”
“Soap and water isn’t going to work for this,” I told him. The where didn’t matter so much. As if you would ever get a straight answer even if he was willing to talk about it. “Do you have rubbing alcohol? Acetone? Hand sanitizer.”
Half an hour later, I had a clean son, and Bellamy had bopped my daughter to sleep.
“I’ll take that wine now,” I told him, dropping down onto a stool in his kitchen.
Smith – 10 years
There were a lot of ways to measure time.
One marriage.
The third addition to the house.
The fifth vacation to Cape May to go in the water, build sand castles, go to the arcade, get ice cream.
Four children.
Calvin.
Maisie.
Fielder.
Aviva.
Nine.
Five.
Three.
Two.
All I knew was no matter how it was measured, it went fast.
One day, I was walking into a murder scene, helping a woman I didn’t know make it look like something other than what it was. It seemed like the next I was falling madly in love with her.
Then I blinked.
And we had a house three times its original size in the woods with four extra and full bedrooms, one office for Jenny, a workshop for me, a giant, sprawling treehouse connecting five trees in the yard.
We had Thanksgiving dinners with the entire, ever-growing crew from work, their husbands and wives, their children.
We had soccer practices and Girl Scouts and karate classes.
We had sleepless nights.
And hundreds of interrupted sex sessions.
And love.
So much fucking love.
“Cal, stop sticking your finger in her ear,” Jenny called in that half-defeated mom-voice. You know the one. The one that said she knew her words would have no impact, but she had to say something.
