“One second, sweetie. First, can you tell me who this is?”
“Gigi,” he says, then continues to ask for a snack.
I glance over at Claire, who has the terrified expression I expected from Gabe at this revelation. “You heard that, right?”
“You need to tell the police,” Claire says.
“Tell them what? ‘This might sound crazy, but I’m pretty sure my preverbal son knew the woman who died. You’ll have to take my word for it, though, since he can’t tell you himself.’”
“Don’t do that,” Claire chides. “If you show the police what you just showed me, they’ll hear it. They’ll understand.”
“Did you tell the police that you saw her?”
“I did.” She takes a well-timed sip of coffee. “They wrote it down. Who knows if it’ll make a difference, but it’s on file. This is bigger, though. Jasp recognized her.”
Claire’s phone lights up with an image of Summer stirring in her crib. She stands and reaches for my mug. “See you at one?”
We don’t have a set schedule for when Marisol is at each of our houses, instead trading off as needed. Now that I’m home, avoiding my workshop and all the equipment I can’t use, the kids are usually at the Huntsmans’, where Claire can remain hidden in her studio behind the main house. In our home, there’s no place for me to retreat where Jasper can’t find me. These days, while Marisol tends to my child across the canal, I’m usually watching TV or scrolling through Instagram, hoping she can’t see me. It feels decadent to have a nanny when I’m not working, irresponsible both fiscally and maternally. I remind myself that rest is work. Once this baby is out and my body is healed, I will begin the upward battle of reclaiming my career, the identity I wore most prominently before I had children.
Claire looms above me, waiting for me to look up at her.
“You should go to the police.” She stares at me until I nod in agreement, but I’m still unsure if I’ll actually follow through with her advice.
Claire unlatches the gate and steps through. “Trust your instincts.”
Chapter Eight
Barb
I stare at the brick facade of the Pacific Community Police Station, gathering the strength to walk inside. I thought the canals, the site of her death, would embolden me. Instead, I’m left feeling more alone in this ugly city. The only thing that scares me more than walking through these doors is never learning what happened to my daughter. I take a deep breath, give myself a pep talk, and press the buzzer to be let inside.
Behind bulletproof glass, the receptionist picks her teeth as she completes a crossword. When I approach, she holds up a hand, signaling for me to wait.
“Etui.” She scribbles the letters onto the grid. “Yes?” Her voice is indifferent, her attention wavering as I fumble through an explanation for why I’m here.
Once I’ve managed to communicate who I am, her demeanor changes. She flips closed her crossword book and inches her hands toward mine, thwarted by the glass.
“Let me find out who the first responder was.” She types, scans the monitor, then picks up the phone and dials. “I have a Mrs. Geller. Her daughter was—” The person on the line must recognize my name, because the receptionist doesn’t finish her sentence. She hangs up andtells me that Officer Gonzales will be out, then apologizes as she asks me for my ID.
I wait on the plasticky faux-leather couch in the lobby, unable to get comfortable. It’s a few minutes before a capable-looking Hispanic man enters the waiting room.
“Mrs. Geller,” he says, “I’m Officer Gonzales. I’m so sorry about your daughter.” From his tone, I believe him. “Do you want to come back? My partner’s waiting in the conference room.”
He leads me through the locked door into a large room with several desks, some occupied, others not. He offers me coffee, which I decline. Water, which I also decline. I follow him into an understated conference room, where a young man is waiting for us. From his freckles and red hair, he appears Irish, a nationality confirmed when he introduces himself as Officer Mahoney.
“I’m glad you came to see us,” Officer Gonzales says as he holds out a chair for me. “I’m sure you have lots of questions. We’ll do our best to answer them. Sometimes, though, we think we want more information than we really do.”
It takes me a moment to decipher what he’s really saying. I can’t unlearn details. Anything he tells me, I’ll never forget.
“I’m having trouble believing Regina accidentally drowned.” The words catch in my throat. I wish I’d accepted the water. It feels too late to ask for it now. “I know how this sounds, but I also know my Regina. She was a lifeguard. And sober for seven years.”
“We won’t know what was in her system until the toxicology report comes back,” Officer Mahoney says.
“And how long will that take?”
Mahoney frowns, clearly not wanting to tell me that it will take longer than I’d like. Before he has a chance to speak, Officer Gonzales interjects, “About four to six weeks. I don’t want you holding out for that. The medical examiner has already ruled it an accidental drowning.”
“Is it possible someone hurt her? Held her down?” I can barely get the words out.
