“Some rich asshole who lives on the canals.” I fall backward on the couch. The canals.The canals.“A few weeks ago, I followed her there. I always thought she hated men. I guess you don’t have to like them to fuck them.” I startle at this vulgarity, waiting for Maisy to apologize.She laugh-cries again and downs the rest of her wine. I need to get out of here.
“Do you think—” I can’t believe the words are able to form in my mouth. “Do you think he killed her?”
There’s no way Maisy can answer this, and given her state, I have no reason to trust her. Still, I need her to make this real. Someone murdered my daughter. And not just anyone. A man living along the canals.
Maisy shrugs. “Fuck if I know.”
“Well ...” I rock my torso a few times until I have enough momentum to catapult off the couch. “I appreciate you talking to me.”
I search the room for paper. When I don’t see any, I rip off a piece of the take-out bag that she threw on the floor and find a marker on the windowsill. I write down my number and hand it to her.
“If you need anything or want to talk.” She nods coolly, but I can tell she’s grateful. “You don’t have a key to Regina’s apartment, do you?”
She shakes her head. “I have some of her stuff, though.”
Maisy disappears into her bedroom, returning with a small cardboard box and a leather jacket. She hands me the box, packed haphazardly with travel-size shampoo bottles, a hardcover book—Being You: The Art of Embracing Yourself—and a plastic baggie with a jumble of necklaces and several slim, colorful rings I saw Regina wear when we chatted over FaceTime. The sight of those little shampoo bottles overwhelms me, that Maisy saved them, that Regina kept miniatures at her girlfriend’s apartment, knowing they wouldn’t be together long enough for her to finish a normal-size bottle.
Maisy plays with one of the metal snaps on the leather jacket, not quite ready to relinquish it. When she finally thrusts it at me, the leather is surprisingly soft, obviously expensive. I hug it against me, inhaling. It smells of tannins and fire, no traces of my daughter.
Outside, the sun’s exposed for the first time today, making the afternoon bright in the way I’ve always imagined Southern California to be. Despite the creeping temperatures, I slip on Regina’s leather jacket as I walk down her steps. The coat pulls across the shouldersand hugs my upper arms. Forget about trying to button it. I lodge the small cardboard box under my arm and tuck my hands into the jacket pockets, where I find a cough drop and something sharp. It’s the post of an earring, three-tiered with diamonds. Nothing my daughter would wear. The sight of it makes me uneasy. The jewelry in the baggie is all plastic and cheap metal. Colorful.
My phone buzzes, and I slip the earring back into Regina’s pocket before answering. It’s Linda, checking on me.
Did you meet her?Linda texts.
This is too much for my thumbs to communicate, too much I haven’t sorted out for myself. And besides, I’m late. I text her back yes, that I’ll call later, after I’ve met up with Tessa again.
Don’t forget!Linda says, adding a googly-eyed emoji I don’t understand.
I turn right and head toward that charmless café with the box of Regina’s belongings tucked against my side. Regina was acting weird before she died. Secretive. She hadn’t relapsed. She was having an affair. An affair with a man who lived along the canals.
TheVenice Beachsign materializes in the distance. When I’m close enough to read the letters, a panic paralyzes me. There’s only one man along the canals whose son knew my daughter, whose wife is searching for answers. Could it be—am I going to meet the wife of my daughter’s murderer?
Chapter Thirteen
Barb
When I arrive at the café, Tessa is waiting in the back corner, her face turned down, her finger worrying a spot on the table. I study her, trying to determine whether she’s harboring any suspicions about her husband. Sensing she’s being watched, she peers up, then smiles when she finds me by the door. If Tessa had any inclination her husband was having an affair with Regina, that he might have murdered her, she never would have befriended me.
Befriend.Is that what we’re doing? I barely know Tessa, yet I feel a gravitational pull to protect her. I can’t tell her about the affair, not until I have proof. If I try to explain now, she’ll blame me instead of her husband. I refuse to be her husband’s scapegoat.
I drape Regina’s leather jacket across the back of the chair beside mine and hold the box on my lap as I slip into the seat across from Tessa. She hands me a disposable coffee cup. “I got you an oat milk latte. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, even though it’s a little too California for my taste. “Where’s Jasper?”
“With his nanny.” I hear what she doesn’t say. Jasper won’t be a part of this anymore. “How was your morning?”
“Weird? I met Regina’s girlfriend. Ex.” I tell her about Maisy, how broken she was, not just over Regina but in every way a person can be broken. My story has too much detail. I’m hoping if I get lost in the minutiae, I won’t have to tell Tessa the only part that will matter to her.
“When did they break up?” Tessa asks, twisting the coffee cup in her hands.
“It seemed fresh. Regina was cheating.” I won’t tell Tessa about her husband. I won’t lie either. She’ll have to tease it out of me, to decide how close we’ll inch toward the truth.
Tessa perks up. “At the Brig, they said she was there with a woman. Maybe she was seeing someone new?”
Of course Tessa assumes it’s another woman. Of course her mind doesn’t tilt toward her husband. Tessa had said that her husband thought she was making something out of nothing, which had sounded patronizing. Sexist, not sinister. What kind of father isn’t terrified that his son may have known the woman who died right outside their home?
“Did you learn anything else at the bar?” I ask.
