But as she approaches, I realize it’s the same woman from the canals this morning. She wrangles her son into a horizontal position as she lumbers toward the door. Everyone says parenthood gets easier as your children get older. Those early days are the easy ones. The days where love comes naturally and willingly, where you’re the center of their world. The days where it seems possible to keep them safe.
As if she can hear my thoughts, she glances my way. Through the fatigue, the struggle, I see a flash of recognition across her face. Is she here because of Regina? Does she know something?
Chapter Nine
Tessa
I wasn’t planning on taking Claire’s advice about going to the police. It felt reactionary, dramatic. I could imagine how I’d seem to a couple of overworked officers, barreling in with my water about to break, insistent that my child who cannot speak has something vital to contribute to their investigation.
As I prepped lunch for Jasper, as I watched his tickled expression at the leftover buttered carrots and noodles, her words drummed in my head.Trust your instincts.
When Jasper was born, Gabe and I had no idea what we were doing, no family to guide us, no models from our youths on how to be responsible, loving parents. Sure, I’d read books and blogs, suffered through well-intentioned lectures of unsolicited counsel. At the end of the day, though, our instincts drove our choices. When we decided to move him into his own room. When we introduced him to his first food—bananas, despite the advice that we should start with something savory. My instincts wake me a moment before Jasper cries. They make my arms reach for him as he falls. Now, they tell me that he knew the woman who drowned outside our home. And this is when I would opt to ignore my instincts?
I texted Marisol that I’d be keeping Jasper with me this afternoon and grabbed my keys from the bowl by the door. When she texted back a thumbs-up sign, I had an inkling. I sent her a picture of Regina.
Do you know her? Is she another nanny?I wrote, hoping more than expecting Marisol to say she and the kids saw her on their afternoon trips to the park, that this could be over that quickly.
I don’t think so. I’ve never seen her before.I waited for her to ask why.
See you tomorrow, Miss Tessa,she added instead. I grabbed my keys and followed my gut out the door.
I just wish, now that I’ve followed my instincts and am at the police station, my key witness weren’t screaming, flailing as I clutch him against my side and plow toward the door. On the short drive to Culver Boulevard, I’d loaded Jasper with enough dried fruit and puffs to last the week, but it was no match for the lull of the car. He was asleep for all of five minutes. Now he’s furious at being woken, prepared to show me just how difficult he can be.
I haven’t been to a police station since I was a teenager, to collect my mother after one of her benders had gotten her into trouble with a guy, or a bartender, or the hood of a stranger’s car. Back in Burlington, those stations were suburban, idyllic, clean. Then, it was police officers who knew my name, knew I was a good kid. This building has the ’70s brick-and-stucco exterior of a DMV, sadness emanating from it like steam off a sidewalk.
“Jasper, come on.” I struggle to keep hold of him.
An older woman is stopped on the walkway ahead, trying to get my attention. I don’t want to hear from another stranger that these days go by too fast. That hindsight must be nice. Anyone who gazes longingly at a mom struggling to contain her toddler is completely full of shit. These moments can’t be over fast enough.
She asks me something about where I live, but Jasper has managed to extricate himself from my grip and is scampering toward the door. I chase after him, my uterus pounding with every step.
“Wait—” she calls, and I wave to appease her.
Jasper tugs at the door handle, trying to break in. When a police officer walks out, he darts inside. I race after him.
I let Jasper watch CoComelon until Officer Gonzales appears from the back. His expression reveals just how enthusiastic he is to have us here. He leads us into a sterile white room that makes me feel like a criminal. We wait as Officer Gonzales gets me a glass of water and collects his partner. Jasper wanders around the room, tracing the mortar between the bricks on the wall, tear streaks drying down his cheeks.
Officer Gonzales returns with a Styrofoam cup for me, some computer paper and pens for Jasper. His partner files in behind him, a pale, freckled man who barely seems old enough to grow facial hair, let alone solve crimes.
“Couldn’t find any crayons,” Gonzales says as he lays out the paper and pens for Jasper.
“Oh, these are more dangerous, so he’ll like them better,” I tease.
Gonzales stiffens, misinterpreting my joke as a reprimand. We’re starting off on the wrong foot, like last time.
“What can we do for you, Mrs. Irons?” he asks too formally.
Trust your instincts.
I scoop Jasper into my lap, and he dives for the pen.
“You said to reach out if there was anything I thought might be important.” He nods, waiting for me to continue. “I didn’t realize until we saw her picture on the news. My son knew Regina Geller.”
Officer Gonzales remains neutral, while his partner sits a little taller. I wish he were my contact, not Gonzales. I talk to the partner, who nods along as I detail my brief story about Café Collage, about Gigi, even though it’s Gonzales who takes notes and asks, “Gigi? Is that some sort of nickname?”
And there it is, the first kernel of doubt. I keep my gaze fixed on his partner, who appears conflicted about my story. He’s second chair. This isn’t his case. It’s not even a case.
“Look.” I take out my phone, and suddenly the pen Jasper is jabbing into the paper becomes a distant memory. He lunges for my phone. I hold it away as I open a picture of Regina. “I’ll give it to you in a sec,buddy. First, I want you to tell the officers what you told me.” I hold out the picture of Regina the articles use, and ask Jasper, “Who’s this?”
