Chương 4
“Done.”
“Mom’s house is still half packed.”
“I know.”
“I left everything.”
“I know.”
“I feel like I abandoned her.”
Claire went quiet.
“She’s dead, Rachel.”
The words were blunt enough to hurt.
Then she added, “Liam isn’t.”
I pressed my lips together.
“I know.”
“So take care of the person who still needs you.”
She arrived before twelve-thirty carrying a backpack and wearing yesterday’s jeans.
Liam ran to her, and Claire crouched so quickly that one knee cracked loudly.
“Ow.”
Liam laughed.
It was the first time I heard him laugh since I got home.
Claire grimaced and pointed at him.
“You’re eight.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not supposed to enjoy the suffering of the elderly.”
“You’re not elderly.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re just kind of old.”
Mrs. Patel laughed from the kitchen.
For thirty seconds, the room felt normal.
Then Claire saw the folded note on the coffee table.
Her face changed.
She read it twice.
“Did he write this?”
“Liam did.”
“I mean the instructions.”
“Liam wrote down what Brandon told him.”
Claire looked toward the hallway to make sure he was out of earshot.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Six days?”
“I know.”
“And he told him not to call you?”
“Yes.”
Claire paced to the window and back.
She was angrier than I was, which somehow made me calmer.
“I always knew he was an ass.”
“You never said that.”
“You were married to him.”
“That has never stopped you from saying anything else.”
“Fair.”
She handed the note back.
“But this is different.”
I tucked it into my purse beside the airline screenshot I had printed at Mrs. Patel’s house.
I had also printed Brandon’s message telling me not to accuse him of crimes in writing.
It felt strange to turn five years of marriage into sheets of paper.
At the police station, Detective Harris met me in a small interview room that smelled faintly of old coffee.
He was in his forties, with rimless glasses and a tie that had been loosened before lunchtime.
A woman from children’s services sat beside him.
She introduced herself as Denise Walker.
That frightened me more than the detective did.
“Why is children’s services here?”
Denise answered gently.
“Because your son was found without adult supervision for an extended period.”
“I wasn’t here.”
“We understand that.”
“I was in Wisconsin because my mother died.”
“We understand that too.”
I hated how defensive I sounded.
“I left him with my husband.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
Detective Harris asked me to describe the trip from the beginning.
I told him about the reservation, my mother’s death, the daily messages, and the phone call from the supermarket.
He stopped me several times to ask for dates.
I was embarrassed by how many I could not remember exactly.
Grief had turned the previous two weeks into a smear.
“Was June fourth the day he sent the pancake photo?”
“I think so.”
“Could it have been June third?”
“Maybe.”
He nodded without judgment.
“We’ll confirm through the message timestamps.”
Then he asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Did you speak directly to Liam during those six days?”
I looked at the table.
“Through messages.”
“Any phone calls?”
“No.”
“Video calls?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The answer sounded terrible before I said it.
“I was busy.”
Denise shifted slightly.
I rushed on.
“My mother died unexpectedly, and there was no will that anyone could find at first, and the funeral home needed things, and her landlord kept calling, and I was trying to deal with her bank and her insurance, and every time I asked Brandon how Liam was, he said he was fine.”
Detective Harris did not interrupt.
“I believed him.”
My voice became smaller.
“I believed my husband.”
Denise said, “Trusting the adult you left your child with is not unusual.”
I looked at her.
It was not forgiveness.
I was grateful she did not offer that.
Detective Harris slid a printed page across the table.
“Do you recognize this number?”
I did.
It was Tyler’s.
My stomach tightened.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He says Brandon asked him to check the house.”
Relief hit me so fast it almost made me dizzy.
Then Harris continued.
“Once.”
I stared at him.
“Once?”
“According to Mr. Benson, Brandon told him he had a package arriving and asked if he could stop by Tuesday evening to bring it inside.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s what he says.”
“Did Brandon mention Liam?”
“No.”
I sat back.
The room seemed to tilt slightly.
Detective Harris watched me.
“There’s more.”
Of course there was.
There always seemed to be more.
“Mr. Benson went to the house Tuesday at approximately seven-fifteen.”
“Was Liam there?”
“He says he knocked and nobody answered.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“Liam was told not to answer the door.”
Harris nodded.
“Mr. Benson used the garage keypad code Brandon had given him.”
My fingers tightened around the strap of my purse.
“He went inside?”
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t see Liam?”
“He heard the television.”
“What happened?”
“He called out.”
I knew before Harris finished.
“Liam hid.”
The detective nodded again.
“Mr. Benson assumed someone had left the television on.”
I pictured my son somewhere upstairs, silent while a grown man walked through the house.
My mouth went dry.
“Where did he hide?”
“We haven’t interviewed Liam formally yet.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I want to know.”
Denise leaned forward.
“He can tell us when he’s ready, and preferably with a child interviewer.”
I hated the phrase child interviewer.
It made Liam sound like evidence.
“What was Tyler picking up?”
Harris looked at his notes.
“A cardboard box delivered to Brandon.”
“Where is it?”
“Mr. Benson says he put it in Brandon’s office.”
Something about the answer bothered me.
“What was in the box?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did you search the house?”
“Not without consent or a warrant.”
“It’s my house too.”
May you like
“Yes.”
I reached for my phone.
