“It’s the biggest hurdle, getting funding. If they were having an affair—”
Barb’s phone rings, and she motions for me to hold on. I listen as Barb says, “Oh, hello,” followed by “That would be great,” and then “Right” and “Sure” several times. When she hangs up, she explains that it was Regina’s super, who can let us into Regina’s apartment tomorrow. She doesn’t have to ask if I’ll join her. We’re in this together.
At lunchtime, the freeways are surprisingly clear, even through downtown, where too many roads intersect at once.
“Dan Huntsman,” Barb says to the looming buildings as we snake through downtown. “Dan Huntsman.” She rolls the name over in her mouth, tumbling it until it’s familiar. Each time it makes me shiver. Each time it becomes more fact than suspicion.
I don’t need Dr. Avagyan to tell me that the baby is still breech. On the ultrasound, my daughter’s head floats upward, her legs suspended as they kick. Dr. Avagyan stares at me expectantly, wanting my answer on the ECV. She’s been trying to talk me out of it—Gabe, too, although he’s skeptical of her reasons, believing she prefers the efficient, more lucrative C-section. There are benefits to a scheduled C-section. It will be easier to plan around. It’s quicker, safer. The recovery is what preoccupies me. I don’t know when major abdominal surgery became both routine and stigmatized, as though by trading a vaginal delivery for having your midsection sliced open, you’re somehow cheating labor.
Seeing my baby on the sonogram, so comfortable, so playful, I know that even if Dr. Avagyan wrenches and twists my stomach, the little lady isn’t budging. I tell her to book the surgery.
She spreads my legs apart to feel inside me.
“Well.” Dr. Avagyan snaps off her gloves. “You aren’t dilated yet, so we can go until thirty-nine weeks. No later.” She wags a finger like I’m trying to get away with something. That gives me ten days.
Ten days is a vacation, a guest who’s overstayed their welcome. Ten days is all I have left as a mother of one. Ten days to prove that Dan Huntsman killed Regina. Ten days to discover what her death has to do with my son.
Chapter Eighteen
Barb
I’ve been following the wrong husband.
I google “Dan Huntsman” and find him listed as the head of development at Winsome Films, a production company that makes reality shows designed to bring out the worst in women and movies that turn them into victims. As soon as I see his picture, I recognize him. He’s the angry man who lives across the canal from Tessa, the one who screams at his wife for sport, who’s as thirsty for violence as his name implies.
This story is so much neater than the one I’ve failed to put together for Gabe Irons. This is how mysteries work—the ones that feel truest to life, anyway. The killer has been lurking in the background all along. Dan and Regina were having an affair. He was helping her make a movie about a victim before she became one herself. He drowned her outside his home. It still leaves the question of how Jasper knew Regina, why Dan bought Tessa’s earrings. Maybe the straightforward answers are right there too. Jasper must have met Regina through Dan. Tessa said she shared a nanny with the Huntsmans. And most men know nothing about jewelry. Dan had the good fortune to have a neighbor who was a jewelry designer.
I stand in the shadows of the old olive tree, a few doors down from the Huntsmans’, waiting for him to appear. Although it’s dark inside, I have a clear view of their open floor plan through the glass walls. Across the way, Gabe Irons slips out of his house and grabs his surfboard. When he walks by me, I say hello. He nods back, no recognition. No interest either. He’s still an arrogant ass, but his arrogance isn’t my problem anymore.
When I see movement inside the Huntsmans’ home, I head over to the bridge, where I have a clearer view into their living room. I lean against the wooden rail, scrolling on my phone for cover. Linda has texted me a series of question marks. I’ve been dutifully sending her a firework emoji each morning to let her know I’m still alive. I forgot to check in today. I text her that explosion now, and she responds immediately with a yellow thumbs-up.
The Huntsmans’ morning routine is similar to the Irons’. His wife cares for their child as he gets ready for work. He arrives downstairs in a slick gray suit. Unlike Gabe Irons, Dan Huntsman doesn’t toss his child into the air, doesn’t kiss his wife goodbye, just shouts at her as he throws his bag over his shoulder. Beads of sweat materialize on the back of my neck. Instinctively, I scan behind me, toward Tessa’s house, assuming she’s spotted me, not that I have anything to hide now that I’m spying on someone else’s husband. Only it isn’t Tessa. It’s that next-door neighbor, taking her morning constitutional. She’s paused midstep, does nothing to hide the way she sneers at me.
I quickly trot around to the alley where I’ve double-parked near the Huntsmans’ home, outside a house I’ve ascertained is currently unoccupied. Still, it’s a relief to see my car hasn’t been towed. I settle behind the wheel and wait until a Tesla backs out of the Huntsmans’ garage. Once he’s pulled onto the street that leads out of the canals, I follow him.
Since the audition, I’ve had a renewed sense of purpose, one I lean in to as I trail Dan Huntsman down a boulevard congested with traffic. I stay a few cars behind him. Not just purpose but confidence. At the audition, it felt good to have a crowd look to me, based on my age anddemeaner, as the leader. It feels good to be in charge now, clear eyed and focused. Traffic creeps forward. The contours of Dan’s white car are visible ahead. A pang hits me. I was good at my job. I’ll never get to do it again.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t notice the car in front of me switch lanes. Suddenly, I’m right behind Dan Huntsman’s white Tesla. I can’t be this close. Fear creeps into my chest as I flick on my signal to transition lanes. No one moves when the light changes to green ahead. Through his rearview mirror, Dan’s attention shifts to me. He squints as he takes me in. I angle the wheel toward the right, my fingernails nervously tapping on the steering wheel, my right leg jostling. He sees me. I need to get out of here.
I concentrate on the right lane, hungry for a gap to slip into, acutely aware that Dan Huntsman is now getting out of his car and approaching mine. Traffic in the right lane starts to move. No one’s letting me in. Dan’s car blocks the left lane ahead. Why won’t anyone let me in? I keep my attention on the right lane, keenly aware of the shadow his shoulders cast over my driver’s side window, that he’s stationed right outside my car. The driver behind me honks. Dan pounds on the glass. I’m too scared to look at him as he screams, “Roll down the window.” The pressure of his fist thuds on the car, making me flinch like he’s actually hitting me. He tries the door handle. I panic, relieved as we both discover it’s locked.
A man steps out of the car behind me. “Come on, man. You’re blocking the road.”
“Mind your fucking business,” Dan shouts at him. They get into it, barking back and forth. There’s a break in the right lane, and I floor the gas pedal and leap into it. A car skids to avoid hitting me. Its horn wails, but I’ve escaped. I can see Dan Huntsman in my rearview mirror, fists clenched at his sides as he watches me disappear around a corner. A few blocks ahead, I pull over, shut my eyes, and breathe. My instincts are raging. This man killed my daughter.
I wait outside Regina’s apartment building for Tessa, trying to calm my uneasy body. Every inch of me is tense, Dan Huntsman’s voice still rattling in my chest. Tessa waves as she nears, too far away to notice how anxious I am. If I squint, I can see Regina. Between their stature and coloring, I can pretend she’s my daughter. As she approaches, rocking between her feet to lug her middle down the block, I realize just how pregnant Tessa is. In her loose linen dresses, she carries it well. For a moment, I let myself believe she’s Regina, pregnant. It’s enough to make my knees buckle.
She stops a few feet from me, sensing something’s off. “What’s wrong?”
I knead my hands, gathering the courage to tell her, unsure how she’ll respond. It was stupid of me, following someone so unpredictable, so angry. More than stupid. Reckless. Fatal.
“Your neighbor, Dan Huntsman. I followed him this morning.” I relay the brief series of events, him pounding on my window, his gaze trailing me as I fled.
I wait for her to tell me how careless it was, how I could have jeopardized our entire investigation.
“Are you okay?” She steps toward me, comforting the air around my shoulders, and I go weak with gratitude. This is why I trust Tessa. She’s a mother even to someone twice her age.
The super is five minutes late. Tessa tells me not to worry. That’s still on time in LA. She shifts her weight, clearly uncomfortable, then wobbles back and forth until she’s low enough to drop onto the steps.
