“I may have to live here now,” she jokes, trying to lighten the mood. The moment is too heavy, fog-laden with the dark clouds of Dan Huntsman. She pulls up her skirt to massage her ankles, so swollen they have no definition along the bones.
“For me it was spider veins.” I sit down beside her. My veins burned like they were filled with mercury. It’s easy to forget how different pregnancy is for everyone, the only constant being the discomfort. I stretch out my legs, my knee cracking. “I may have to live here now too.”
We continue to wait in silence for the super, whose lateness is bordering on rudeness. Tessa checks her phone. Puts it down. Checks it again.
“Everything all right?”
“Just checking on Jasper. I’m sure it’s fine,” she says unconvincingly. She puts her phone in her bag, presses both hands against it, willing herself not to open it again. I’m tempted to tell her that it’s good for him to have time away from her, to recognize that she exists as a person separate from him, but I know better than to offer unsolicited advice to another mother.
“Do you think we should tell Officer Gonzales about Dan Huntsman?” I ask Tessa.
“Since he’s been so helpful this far? We need proof. That’s why we’re here.”
Fifteen minutes later, the super swaggers up, unapologetic. Instead, he’s annoyed.
“Who’s this?” He points to Tessa.
“Regina’s sister.” I can’t bring myself to call Tessa my daughter, even if that’s the more natural way I would refer to her if it were true. He studies Tessa and must be convinced by their similarities because he motions to us to follow him inside. Either that or he didn’t know Regina. She was too independent to have called the super every time the faucet dripped.
We follow him up the single flight of stairs to Regina’s apartment. Every few steps, Tessa stops to catch her breath, and I’m relieved for the breaks. There’s no fighting it. I’m going to need knee surgery when I get home. The ache is too constant. And it’s a pain I can fix.
When we finally arrive at Regina’s apartment, the super unlocks the door and hands me the key.
“She’s paid through the month, so I’ll need it cleared out by then. Either that or next month’s rent.” He sneers, revealing small, crowded teeth.
I expect Regina’s apartment to be torn up the way it is in novels—cut cushions, down feathers aloft, bookshelves overturned. Instead, her apartment is pristine, the pillows on her emerald velvet couch fluffed. The art deco lamps on the end tables still upright, the white patterned rug shoeprint-free. The beechwood coffee table remains perfectly aligned with the front of the couch, a notebook splayed open at its center to a sketch of Maisy, her face visible beneath a curtain of hair. The portrait captures Maisy beyond her beauty, exposing her vulnerability, her magnetism, too, something I hadn’t seen on my own. It’s obvious that Regina loved her. The notebook contains several more sketches of Maisy, a list of what seem to be usernames and passwords, the grocery list of someone who does not cook despite the fancy copper pans hanging above the stove. I flip through, searching for drawings of Dan Huntsman to match the ones of Maisy. I recognize the barista with ropelike dreadlocks among sketches of people unfamiliar to me, some mere outlines, their faces unknown to Regina too. I put the journal in my purse, knowing I’ll want to pore over it later. These images are the closest I’ll get to seeing the world with my daughter again.
I survey the spotless room, wondering where to begin. The decor is not only too nice for this space but also for what I expect Regina could afford. In fact, it looks more like Tessa’s style than Regina’s. The bookshelf is decorated with as many knickknacks as books. Without thinking, I open a vintage box resting on the top shelf, relieved when it holds a set of tarot cards rather than a pipe and marijuana or something else that would have confirmed Officer Gonzales’s assessment of Regina. The tarot cards are a surprise, one that hits me with regret rather than disbelief. There are so many things I don’t know about my daughter. Things I might never know, if we can’t uncover what happened to her.
Chapter Nineteen
Tessa
I’m used to the feeling of being watched, the lightheadedness of it, the out-of-body experience. I’m used to the way it makes you react and perform simultaneously, the way it forces you to be too aware of your skin, your bones, your breath. This isn’t being watched. It’s something more intrusive, something I don’t understand.
Regina has my couch. She has my coffee table, my end tables to match. Even the candle on the windowsill is the same brand and scent I have in each of our bathrooms. The copper pans. The Japanese knives. My belongings read differently in her space, more bougie minimalist than maternal chic, a pared-down version of my life.
I stumble to the couch—my couch—and try to breathe. Has she been inside my house? Did the cleaning service send her? Or she worked for our contractor? Bartended at one of the parties we hosted before Covid? Is that how she met Dan, at my home? Was she obsessed with me, as some weird way of being closer to her lover across the canal?
Barb fusses with a deck of tarot cards, her face contorted with worry. Worry, not fear. Something about this apartment unsettles her. Only it doesn’t terrify her the way it does me.
I try to quell the dizziness. My ankles are throbbing. The baby hiccups, sending jolts through my stomach that alarm me each time.Regina can’t follow me anymore. Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel safe.
Barb notices my measured breathing. “You okay?”
“Just low blood pressure.” I elevate my throbbing ankles.
As Barb walks by, she rubs my shoulder, her fingers warm against my bare skin.
“Take your time,” she says before disappearing into the bedroom.
I try to relax, only each time my breath settles and the couch grows comfortable, I remember it’s my couch, my coffee table, my vase. The cycle starts anew. Why was she copying my life? Shouldn’t she be coveting Claire’s? The same thought loops, growing more menacing each time:Why me? Why me? Whyme?And then,Why Jasper?
I need to get out of this apartment. I feel it as profoundly as I’ve felt everything else about her. Regina’s a threat to me. Even in death. Especially in death, where I can’t confront her, can’t caution her to leave me and my family alone.
I find my phone and text Marisol to tell her I’ll be home early. Pins and needles shoot through my calves as I head toward the bedroom to tell Barb I’m leaving. At least the bedroom looks entirely foreign. The headboard and dresser, although clearly expensive, are farmhouse chic rather than modern like mine. Barb sits on the bed, an iPad resting in her lap.
“It was on her dresser,” Barb says distantly. “The police didn’t even take it.” And I can hear what she’s really saying, how little they investigated, their utter disregard for her daughter’s death.
