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“I try,” I say, “but don’t always succeed. I can be quite the pessimist too. I’m this way.” I step past him for Broadway, anxious to leave him, to be alone, “I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow.”
But Mr. Beckett says, looking around, taking in the intersection before his eyes come back to mine. “I’ll walk with you awhile, I think. I know you’re a smart girl and chances are you’ll be fine, but I’d just feel more comfortable if I stayed with you a little while longer. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
My throat tightens. “Oh no,” I say. “I can’t ask you to do that. Really, I’m fine. I do this all the time. It’s so cold out. You should get home.”
“No, I insist,” he says. “And besides, as you can imagine, I’m not too eager to go home to an empty house. I like talking to you. I like your company. Amelia does too. I don’t know what we’d do if we didn’t have you.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Meghan. You’ve gone above and beyond.” We wait for the light to turn green, and when it does we cross the street, heading north on Broadway. “Do you live by yourself?” he asks and I’m made uneasy by his question. I search for words, which should be easy to find. Do I or do I not live alone? “Pardon me for being so blunt, but I’ve noticed you don’t wear a ring.”
“No,” I say, my voice diminished. “I don’t live alone. I live with my daughter.”
“Right, of course. I remember you said you had a daughter. Raising little girls is not for the faint of heart. You’re divorced then?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Almost a year.”
“What happened?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.”
Again I feel his eyes on me, gazing down from where he stands, at least six inches taller than me. “Of course. My apologies.” He changes tack. “Listen, Meghan. I’m glad I ran into you like this. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Amelia. I don’t know who else to talk to about this. I’m worried about her.”
“That’s understandable,” I say.
“She’s not doing well.”
“No. She’s not. I can see she’s having a hard time with this, as any mother would. But the hospital has counselors and chaplains available. It might be good for her to talk with someone, if you think she would, if you think it might help.”
“Maybe,” he says, nodding, “though Amelia is a private person. I don’t know how she would feel about speaking to a counselor. We’re all quite private in fact, which is why I appreciate you using discretion when speaking to others about us. The police have an investigation to do, but we don’t need too many people probing into our personal lives.”
“I... I wouldn’t.”
“No?” he asks. He knows it’s not true. He did see me speaking to Caitlin’s roommate earlier. He knows who she is. I shake my head, but it’s weak and in my silence, he says, “I received a call from that detective this morning. He had something interesting to say.”
“What’s that?” I ask, feeling my heart rhythm change.
“He said that the other day, when you were looking at mug shots together, you told them something about Jackson.” My jaw clenches, my throat narrows, making it harder to swallow, harder to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling caught and also stupid for thinking the police would be more discreet with where they got their information.
“I don’t blame you, Meghan. I appreciate you looking out for Caitlin like that. I spoke to Jackson. I asked him if what the police said was true, and it is. He wasn’t in London like he said. He was here, in Chicago,” he says. “Turns out he’s been in Chicago many times this year and we haven’t known. He’s kept it from us and from his wife, telling us that he was in Toronto or Detroit or some other place for work. I haven’t told Amelia yet. She has enough on her mind for now and shouldn’t have to worry about this too, but Jackson has been seeing a woman here in the city. He’s been having an affair. Being in London for work was only a cover story.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes. I am too. It caught me off guard. I thought Jackson and his wife were happily married. They’ve been married five years and, lately, Amelia has been nudging him for grandchildren, which I don’t think will happen now.” He’s quiet for a minute. “I didn’t expect him to go and do something like this. I thought I raised him to be better but, he fell in love, he says.”
I say again that I’m sorry. “We can only know so much about the people in our lives.”
“That’s true. That’s very perceptive.” He pauses. “The reason I asked you not to talk about our family with others, Meghan, is because people tell stories. They tell lies,” he says, going on. “For example, Amelia used to teach fifth grade. She loved teaching. She had a real passion for and a knack for it—it was what she was born to do. It was what she dreamed of doing, ever since she was a child. She taught in the public schools for years, until something terrible happened.”
I turn to face him, my attention piqued. “What?”
“A student of hers lied. She told her parents that Amelia hurt her. There was no truth to it,” he’s quick to say, lest I think otherwise, which I do. My mind immediately goes there, to Mrs. Beckett hurting a student of hers, but Mr. Beckett goes on, explaining. “What happened was that this student had gotten in trouble for misbehaving in class and it just so happened that this same student had fallen and bruised her arm at recess that day. When her parents asked about the bruise, she said Mrs. Beckett did it, that Amelia had grabbed her by the arm when she was yelling at her, fastening down on it, squeezing hard. Amelia never touched the girl.”
