“Times up bc—the words written on the Range Rover.” Erika rounds her eyes like I’m a bit slow.
“Whytime’s up?” Clint barks. “Blast it, Erika. What is going on?”
“I don’t know!” Erika shouts.
Clint leans across the table. “It must mean something to you. Someone pressuring you. Some deadline for you to do something else stupid.”
“Clint!” I roar.
We stare at each other, my heart pounding. Clint scrubs his face with his hands, as Erika quietly sobs. Silence descends on our table.
I rollButtercuparound in my brain. Someone I had no idea existed is calling our daughter Buttercup? Who has Erika gotten herself mixed up with?
And is that even the truth?
32
“HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN HIM?”I again try to reach our daughter with my soft tone. Whether or notbcrefers to Buttercup, our daughter is mixed up with some guy we didn’t even know existed. Is he even her age?
“We just celebrated five weeks.” She waves her hand at us. “I know it doesn’t sound long, but we text all the time. He listens. I know all about him. Weeks for us is like months, or more.”
I smile and nod without glancing over at Clint. We just need to keep her talking.
“So, who is he?” I feel like a sagging balloon with a slow leak. “Does he go to your school?”
“He’s a freshman at Gatwich.”
Clint leans over his elbows on the table. “He’s in college. In Vermont?”
“Vermont?” I sputter. Not sure why it’s the Vermont part and not the college age that is pressing on my chest. Perhaps because we’re on thin ice focusing on the age difference.
“Only four hours away. He was getting a ride this weekend. He wanted to meet me in Poughkeepsie.”
Clint booms, “Meet you in Poughkeepsie. Have you lost your ever-loving mind? I don’t understand—”
I loop my arm around my husband’s taut bicep and tug. “I think we may be getting a bit off course.”
Clint sits back in his seat and nods, not at me, but I assume he appreciates me yanking him back from whatever edge he was about to careen over. Again.
“The police are coming back. We are still not sure ifbcrefers to you. Do you have any idea of the time being up? Your dad’s right. It sounds like a threat. Maybe this is about that terrible substitute?”
A banging at the door has all three of us jumping in our seats.
“Probably the police. I’ll check.” Clint wobbles up from his chair. This conversation has taken a toll. He looks every day of his sixty-one years.
Clint ushers the police into our formal sitting room, and we all take seats. Do I want to know what these men will say? They’re too early. We needed more time with our daughter. I feel unprepared for this conversation—a very queasy sensation. I run my hand down the plush arm of the sofa. We haven’t done much with the room since we moved in. My mother helped me pick the two conversation chairs that face the curved leather sofa. Our coffee table sits between. In its center a squat candle labeledSea Spray, which has never been lit, is surrounded by a stack of coasters on one side and dated magazines on the other.
Maybe if I keep noticing the room, they won’t bring it all down around us.
The taller officer, with a dramatically receding hairline, flips through his notebook. “I’m Officer Gary Komoroski.” He hands each one of us a card. “We’ve canvassed a few of your neighbors. No onenoticed a strange vehicle or anyone suspicious since last night around eleven when”—he traces his finger down the page—“when you, Mr. Hansel, said you were outside, and the garage doors were fine.”
Eleven? What was Clint doing out so late? I glance at him around Erika, but he’s trained on the officers. The three of us are spaced on the long sofa, with Clint and me hugging the arms, and Erika in the middle. Two of the throw pillows are pressed against her stomach.
The officer gives a few more details about the neighbors he spoke to and the surveillance film they will be getting, but based on the layout of the private driveways, most don’t have views of the road. “Any more thoughts on what was written on your vehicle?”
“We think it might be related to an incident Erika had at school with a substitute.” I go on to explain about Danny Doward and the video. Before they ask any questions, Clint interrupts.
“I think it’s related to someone else our daughter met at that party.” Clint flips the officer’s card back and forth in his fingers, almost ripping it. “He’s a student at Gatwich University. He, uh, he calls her Buttercup, sobccould be short for that.”
