Chương 4
An officer came forty minutes later.
Her name was Officer Reyes, and she looked younger than I expected, although everyone in uniform had started looking younger to me around the time I turned forty.
She photographed the box, watched the doorbell footage, and asked whether anyone had threatened me.
“Not exactly.”
“That means maybe.”
“My family is angry with me.”
Reyes waited.
It was a surprisingly effective technique.
I told her about Easter.
I hated how childish it sounded once reduced to facts.
My mother insulted my son.
I left.
Now broken gifts were on my porch.
Reyes did not laugh.
“Any reason to think they’d come back?”
“No.”
Then I thought about the dark SUV.
“I don’t know.”
“Any weapons in the home?”
I shook my head.
“Anybody else living here besides the two kids?”
“No.”
She wrote something down.
“If you know who delivered it, don’t contact them tonight.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
She gave me a case number.
Nothing about the visit felt dramatic.
No fingerprints were dusted.
No detective arrived.
Nobody declared that justice was underway.
She told me the vandalized items might qualify as damaged property depending on ownership and value, but identifying who destroyed them would be harder than identifying who delivered the box.
The distinction made sense and still irritated me.
After she left, I checked every window twice.
At two thirty, I found Marlo asleep on the upstairs hallway floor outside Theo’s bedroom.
Her phone was still in her hand.
I covered her with the blanket from the linen closet and sat beside her for a while.
The next morning, Theo discovered the police officer’s business card on the counter.
“Did somebody get arrested?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Marlo?”
“Why would Marlo get arrested?”
He shrugged.
“She says bad words.”
From the stove, Marlo said, “I say educational words.”
“You told Uncle Rob he had the personality of a clogged toilet.”
“That was observational.”
I turned away so they would not see me smile.
Theo poured too much syrup onto his waffle.
For ten minutes, our kitchen was almost normal.
Then my phone rang.
It was Lydia.
I nearly let it go.
Something made me answer.
“Hi.”
She spoke fast.
“Before you hang up, I didn’t know about the box.”
I leaned against the counter.
“Good morning to you too.”
“I’m serious, Claire.”
“I didn’t accuse you.”
“Denise called me at six thirty and said you called the cops.”
Marlo stopped chewing.
I walked into the laundry room and closed the door.
“Why would Denise know that?”
Silence.
“Lydia.”
“She said somebody saw the cruiser.”
“At one in the morning?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re saying that a mysterious person happened to see a police car outside my house after midnight and immediately informed Denise?”
“I’m telling you what she said.”
I looked at the box on top of the dryer.
“Was it her?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Lydia exhaled.
“Claire, please don’t do that thing where you make me responsible for everybody else.”
I stared at the detergent bottle.
A familiar anger rose, followed by an equally familiar guilt.
“You’re right.”
That stopped her.
“What?”
“You’re right.”
“Oh.”
“I’m asking what you know.”
Another pause.
“I know your mother was furious about the property tax.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“I know Denise went over there Tuesday night.”
“To Mom’s?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“Rob.”
My brother.
Of course.
“What did they do?”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Lydia.”
“I wasn’t.”
Her voice cracked.
“I left.”
I pulled out the folding chair we kept beside the dryer and sat down.
“You were there.”
“For maybe twenty minutes.”
“What happened?”
“Your mother had put a bunch of things on the dining table.”
“What things?”
“Stuff you gave them.”
I closed my eyes.
“Were they already broken?”
“No.”
That answer came immediately.
I opened my eyes again.
“When you left, everything was intact?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave?”
Lydia made a small sound.
“Because Rob had a hammer.”
For a moment, the laundry room seemed too quiet.
Even the dryer had stopped ticking.
“What?”
“He brought it in from the garage.”
“And you left?”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Tell them not to smash things my children made.”
“I did.”
“Then what?”
“Your mom told me if I was going to take your side, I should leave.”
“And you did.”
“Yes.”
Her defensiveness arrived instantly.
“I have two kids, Claire.”
“So do I.”
“I know that.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
She started crying.
Not loudly.
That made it worse.
“I am not Denise.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re talking to me like I did it.”
“You watched them prepare to do it.”
“I left before they did anything.”
“Exactly.”
We sat with that.
Years ago, after Lydia’s divorce, she had slept in my guest room for eleven weeks with her youngest son in a portable crib beside the bed.
She had cried into my robe because she did not own one of her own.
I had taken three days off work to help her find an apartment.
Until that morning, I had considered her the closest thing I had to a sister.
“Why are you calling me now?”
I asked.
She sniffed.
“Because Denise said nobody should talk to you.”
“And?”
“And I’m tired of everybody deciding what everybody is allowed to do.”
It was not an apology.
Maybe it was the closest thing Lydia had.
“Did Mom write the note?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Denise take the box?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was Dad there Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“What did he do?”
“Mostly nothing.”
That was somehow the least surprising answer.
After we hung up, I wrote down everything Lydia had said.
Then I took a picture of the page and emailed it to myself.
Marlo was waiting outside the laundry room.
“You were listening.”
“I was standing near a door.”
“That is called listening.”
May you like
She crossed her arms.
“Uncle Rob broke the stuff.”
