Barb
At the pharmacy, I wait behind five other customers. The line is moving quickly. The pharmacist rings up each customer with militant speed before beckoning the next, until I’m first in line. I check my watch. I’ve been gone thirteen minutes. I’m not superstitious, but the unlucky number irks me, making me anxious to return, even though the children are asleep and Tessa needs to rest. It’s instinctual, this need to get back to them, this urgency that I never should have left.
In front of me, the customer is unhappy with the higher cost of her medication.
“I get this filled every week,” she insists to the no-nonsense pharmacist, who keeps saying, “I don’t set the price.”
“But it’s not right,” the woman argues.
“You need to take it up with your insurance.” She angles around the woman, signaling to me to approach. The customer isn’t budging. Behind me, the line has multiplied. A dozen people file up the aisle. Still, the customer stands her ground. Although I agree that she should not acquiesce to the cruel whims of the insurance industry, she stands between me and getting back to Tessa, the children.
Finally, the woman grabs her prescription and huffs off. The pharmacist motions me up with an index finger like I’m in trouble. I give her Tessa’s name and scroll to her contact to read off her number.
“Is this for someone else?” the pharmacist asks.
“For my daughter. She just had a C-section.” I don’t falter when I say this, and it astounds me, how natural it feels to call her family.
The pharmacist squints, like she’s trying to peer through my flesh to see the blood inside and know if I’m lying. I act annoyed, impatient. Because I am annoyed, impatient—and fearful she will tell me what I already know. I have no legitimate claim to Tessa, to any of them.
The pharmacist sighs and stands, returning moments later with a white paper bag. “Next time have your daughter put it in writing,” she says as she hands me the bag.
From her SUV, I text Tessa to tell her I’m headed back. Cars crawl along Pacific Avenue. I angle my head to peer out the driver’s side window, hoping to see around the endless traffic. Every inch feels like an eternity. I don’t even hit the gas pedal, just release the brake, then engage it again. At this rate, I won’t be there until dinner. Maybe I should pick up food while I’m out. I discount this idea. I want to be back as quickly as possible.
At last, I enter the canal neighborhood, barrel up and down a bridge on Dell Avenue. I roll down their alley, then slam the brakes when I see it. The bike. The one with the orange child seat. It’s resting against Tessa’s garage.
I fumble to unbuckle the seat belt and jump out of the car, ignoring the spasm in my knee as my feet hit the pavement, and plow toward the front door. When I try the door, it’s locked. The keys are in my purse on the passenger seat. I debate grabbing them, but I pound on the door instead. I need to make sure Tessa and the kids are okay.
“Tessa? You there?” I put my ear to the door and hear the murmurs of two voices: one male, the other Tessa’s. I pound harder.
Her voice grows clear through the closed door. “Barb, can you come back later?”
Her voice is eerily calm. In it, I hear her plea for help.
“Sure, I’ll come back later?” I say, equally steady.
“That’d be great,” she says.
They might be watching me through the Ring camera, so I turn slowly, calmly, toward the car, fighting the instinct to sprint. One steady step, then another. When I get to the car, I’ll drive a few feet down the alley, out of sight, then dial 9-1-1. Another step. Right, then left. I’ve made it five steps when the door opens behind me and an arm reaches out to yank me inside.
My head hits hard against the wall as he throws me aside to slam the door shut. He grabs my bicep and pushes me toward the living room, where Tessa sits. The light glints off something he’s clutching in his other hand. When he shoves me onto the couch and hovers above us, I see it. A chef’s knife, its edge gleaming.
My head spins as I try to piece together what’s going on. Where are the children? Has he hurt them? Tessa motions with her eyes to Opal’s bassinet in the corner, then toward the ceiling. Both children are still asleep. I don’t want to think what might happen if they wake up.
I should have called the police the moment I saw his bike. I shouldn’t have run to the door, shouldn’t have acted on impulse instead of using common sense. Tessa’s car is double-parked in the middle of the alley, the driver’s side door still open. Someone will notice it, investigate, maybe even call the police. Someone will come for us. For now, I need to keep him from using that knife.
“Your issues are with my husband. Not us,” Tessa says. “You don’t want to do this.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” He looms over us, his back to the French doors and the walkway beyond. The tourists can’t see the knife, only three people engaged in a private moment. “I want the police to do their job. I want to be at home.” He punctuates each desire with a jabof the knife. Each stab causes me to jump. Tessa reaches for my hand, presses her palm firmly into mine. “With my boy and my wife. But I can’t. Your husband took all of that from me.”
He starts pacing aggressively enough that it attracts the people walking by. They glance sheepishly as they breeze past. Prying is only fun when you won’t get caught.
My boy.Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have known the tone, the cadence of a childless parent. It’s almost enough to make me ache for him, his misdirected grief, until I remember he’s my daughter’s murderer.
“Was your wife a patient of Dr. Irons?” The man looks at me as if he’s forgotten I’m here. “Sorry, I’m a little behind here. Can you tell me what happened?”
Through human resources training, I’ve prepped for a lot of scenarios. Sexual harassment. Racism. Ageism. Ableism. Mental health crises. Never this. Never appeasing the man who killed your daughter. But I know how to reason with people who are upset, incensed. The main thing is to get them talking. More often than not, more than they want lawsuits, raises—revenge, even—people just want to be heard. The way he seethes, the way he isn’t in control of his anger, it communicates that he has a story to tell and no one to listen. I’ll listen. Even as my mind ragesThis man killed your daughter, I’ll let him tell me his story.
“Who’s this?” he asks Tessa, motioning toward me with the knife.
