It sounds good, and I don’t doubt he’s capable, but we’re dealing with a madman.
“That photo was in a box, in the closet,” I tell Buck. “The trident pin was in a jewelry box within the larger box. Someone broke in here while T.J. and I were sleeping, dug through Tyler’s things, and then destroyed them.”
A vein in Buck’s forehead pulses, and even though he’s wearing a mask, I can tell he’s gritting his teeth. “We’re going to make sure it never happens again. Security devices will be in place before you move back in here, and we’ll be keeping watch on you. Are you going to stay at Mae’s?”
“She’s offered. I guess so.” Kira would probably welcome us at their place, but it’s a ways out of town, especially when the roads are bad. “How long until we can live here again?” I ask.
“A week, if restoration moves fast, but that will depend on insurance and what company comes in. Could be longer. Could happen sooner if they seal off the den.”
“Can I take some of our clothes and personalthings today?”
“Nothing from this room, but items from the bedrooms should be okay. I did a quick pass, but let’s walk through together to make sure nothing appears to be disturbed on that side of the house.”
I shudder at the thought of whoever did this being in our bedrooms, and am thankful when everything there looks as I remember, aside from some soot. Weston comes in and helps me pack clothes into plastic bags while Buck gets back to work in the den, and when I’m ready, Calder drives me back to Mae’s.
T.J.’s napping in the chair, the TV volume low. I wash all our clothes in Mae’s washing machine to get the smoke out, then, when T.J. wakes up, I help him work on a LEGO set I brought over for him. It’s an older one from his closet, because the one he was currently working on is in the living room, covered in grime, but he’s happy with it nonetheless. I find momentary peace building something that makes sense, where all the pieces fit.
Later, I insist on helping Mae make dinner. After we eat, T.J. watches more cartoons, and I make lists. Things we need from the house, things I need for work Monday, things T.J. needs for school. It’s daunting, but at least I feel like I’m doing something, moving toward some sense of normalcy.
When it’s time to go to bed, T.J. surprises me by heading into the room Mae designated as his. I’m happy to see that he’s feeling secure enough to be on his own for the night. It’s a small victory that’s bittersweet. My little boy is getting more independent every day.
I check on him later, before I go to bed, and watch his chest rise and fall as I wait for my own breathing to even out.
My mind keeps returning to the den. To what was ruined and what was left behind on purpose. Whoever did it wants me scared.
I press my hand to my chest and inhale slowly, with control.
They picked the wrong woman.
CHAPTER 9
WESTON
How is it that an elementary school lunchroom in the snowy mountains looks and smells exactly the same as one in the scorching desert?
Moon Ridge is so different from the Phoenix suburb where I grew up, yet the complex aroma of pizza, spilled milk, bleach, and damp mops hits exactly the same as it did a few days ago, and exactly the same as I remember from twenty-five years ago.
God, has it really been a quarter of a century since I was an elementary school student? It’s hard to believe, even though sometimes it seems like much longer.
The kids seem the same, too, except they’re smaller than I ever remember being.
The floors are the same polished tile, and the buzz of conversation is the same controlled chaos. It’s nice to see that some things never change.
I take up my post near the side doors where I have the best sightlines and the best options if something goes wrong.
A line of students files in, following a teacher whose hair is pulled so tightly into a bun it looks painful. The kids grab trays, jostle one another, drop milk cartons, and laugh like nothing in the world can touch them.
A few kids who are sitting at tables, already eating, wave at me. Fire safety week earns you celebrity status around here.
T.J. comes in with his class a few minutes later, spots me immediately, and pauses for a split second. It’s a small hitch, almost nothing, but I’m trained to see almost nothings.
His shoulders are pinched, like he’s bracing. His eyes go to the doors, then back to me. When he gets his food, he goes to the same table he was at last week.
His friend is talking, and T.J. nods along, but he keeps looking around the room like he’s expecting danger, and I get a low burn of anger in my chest that has nowhere to go.
A kid shouldn’t have to do that, especially Tyler’s kid.
I step away from the doors and move through the lunchroom at a casual pace. When I reach T.J.’s table, I stop like I’m checking on table manners.
