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“Someone else from the hospital, then? An administrator? A nurse?”
The girls look at one another and shrug. “We didn’t know much about his life at work.”
I only recall Kit telling me about one nurse on Greg’s staff: that woman who came to the funeral with her baby. Laura... something. A thought pings in my mind.Laura Apatrea.Perhaps she knew Greg well?
I hold a finger up for the girls to tell them to bear with me for a moment, then pick up my phone. The first thing I see on the screen is a news alert for a few more posts from some girls who have made references to assaults at Aldrich frat parties. I feel a knot in my stomach, guilty that I’m swiping past these testimonies. Reluctantly, I navigate to the hack site and dig up Laura’s folder.
Turns out I was right: Greg and Laura e-mailed quite a bit, though it was mostly scheduling stuff, or sometimes a funny GIF. There certainly aren’t Lolita-esque missives between them. But I donotice something strange: Laura wrote something cryptic to Greg just days before he died.I’ve received your research. Definitely taking into consideration. But I have all I need for now—thanks.
Curious, I flip all the way back to a year and a few months before, around the time of the January snowstorm. Laura had written Greg a non-work-related note that day, too:Thanks for being there for me.
Three minutes later, Greg shot back,Always.
A frisson goes through me.
I stare at Laura’s message again.Thanks for being there for me.Was this a response to a friendly conversation they’d had in the break room... or was Greg with Laura that night of the snowstorm? Were they just friendly colleagues... or something more?
It would be too easy if Laura had just written in her calendar,January 10: Drinks with Greg.And when I flip through Laura’s e-mails from February and then March, I can’t find another e-mail to him besides bland administrative stuff. In fact, the only other e-mails Laura has saved from that time are a few notes from her mom, a few messages from her husband, Ollie—who mentions the police station, so thisisthe same person from the funeral—and a whole bunch from a site called BabyCenter.Congratulations, you’re pregnant!says the first one.
I click on it to find a lot ofWhat to Expect When You’re Expectingnonsense. After that, BabyCenter sent her an e-mail once a week, updating her on her developing fetus’s progress. Each week, the fetus graduates to the size of a new fruit:Today, your baby is a blueberry! This week, your baby is a cantaloupe!I scroll all the way forward to late September, when the baby is the size of a watermelon.Happy due date!bleats an e-mail on October 3.According to your calculations, you are forty weeks pregnant today!
I frown. Calculations? Do most women know the exact day they conceived? I don’t recall Kit knowing, but then, I didn’t pay much attention.
I open a window in the Internet browser and typedue datecalculatorinto Google.A site appears that predicts when a woman will give birth. It seems you can calculate your due date from your last menstrual period, an IVF transfer, or an exact date of conception. On a hunch, I typeJanuary 10into the search field. The night of the snowstorm.
The little wheel spins, and the results come up. I can’t even say I’m surprised when I see that Laura’s projected due date is October 3. But what does thismean? Laura’s married. It’s very possible Laura didn’t go out with Greg the night of the snowstorm but instead went home to her husband, lit some candles, and did whatever else people do to get in the baby-making mood. It’s possible I’ve got this all wrong.
But it doesn’tfeelwrong. I can’t say why, exactly. Something nudges me at the edge of my consciousness.
I click to Laura’s sent messages, searching around October of last year. Bingo: Laura, sent out an e-mail to her friends shortly after her baby was born.Frederick Thomas Apatrea, eight pounds, six ounces, twenty inches long,it reads. A picture is attached. When the wrinkly, squinty-eyed newborn appears on my screen, I study him hard, suddenly understanding what has been nudging me. The baby has Greg’s same sloped nose and cleft chin.
But how to get more information? Should I call Laura? I’m a reporter, after all. I can lie about my motives. I can figure out what to ask her without giving too much away.
I click back to her received e-mails. Some Amazon purchases show that she lives on Armandale Street, which isn’t that far from here. From there, it isn’t difficult to find her phone number. I stab in the digits, then press the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” says a gruff, impatient voice on the other end. It must be her husband.
I straighten up. “May I speak to Laura, please?”
There’s a long, crackling pause. “She’s not here.”
“Any idea when she’ll be back?” I ask, my voice pleasant enough.
“Who is this?”
I frown, startled by his rancorous tone. “It’s Willa Manning. I’m—”
“I know who you are.” And then, almost imperceptibly, I hear him mutter under his breath.
Next thing I know, the line is dead.
I call back, hoping it’s a mistake. There’s the same gruff, annoyedhello—I say, “Sir, is there another number I can reach your wife at?”
“No,” he growls. In the background, I hear the faint sounds of running water, maybe a TV, and then a baby’s cry. “I don’t want you calling here,ever. Got it?”
He disconnects us once more. I stare at my phone as though it’s just given me an electric shock. I can understand Laura being unwilling to talk to me, but her husband? What stake does he have in this? Unless he’s covering up for Laura. And then a cold rush cascades down my back. No, that’s not it. Maybe he’s covering up something abouthimself.
I think of Laura’s husband’s towering height. His thick arms, his catcher’s-mitt hands. This kind of über-masculine man brings up old wounds for me. He’s the kind of guy who might not be able to handle the news of another man fathering his wife’s baby.
