CM:
That I’m the one who thinks there’s a problem with Will?
EB:
I think, Cleo, that is a distinct possibility.
Cleo
TWENTY-EIGHT HOURS GONE
I’m painfully aware of the weight of my mom’s laptop in my bag as I get out of the car and say good-bye to Detective Wilson. After she tells meagainnot to interfere and also to be careful, “about everything else I’ve got going on.” Whatever that means. I’m not about to stick around and ask.
I want out of the car before the guilt overwhelms me. I had plenty of time to tell her about the laptop as she drove me home to Park Slope. But it feels like the very last thread connecting me to my mom, and if I give it away, I worry that I’ll be handing away the last of my hope. There’s no way I’m letting go of my mom. Not when I feel like I’m finally seeing her for the first time.
I pause at the bottom of our steps, filled with dread again. The way I had been when I came home to see my mom.
My dad might be inside already. I texted and asked for him to meet me at the house. It’s one thing to tell Detective Wilson about the money and his affairs; it’s another thing not to admit that I have. Then I’d be a liar, no better than he is.
“Oh, there you are,” a voice calls out as I start up our brownstone steps. When I turn, George is standing at his gate next door, an old Yankees hat pulled low over his eyes. There’s something accusatory about his tone. Like he feels put out.
He must have seen the commotion, the police cars. I know thatWilson interviewed him. George has a soft spot for my mom, but he’s also … George.
“Sorry about all the … fuss,” I say, though I feel annoyed.
“That’s one way of putting it,” he says, gesturing behind him to his front stoop, where he so often sits. I wonder if he’s under the impression that he’s now some kind of official neighborhood watch. As with his obsession with making sure everyone’s trash cans are brought in right away after the garbage collection, it’s a responsibility he does not seem at all happy about.
“Um, okay?” I say, because he’s still glaring at me.
“Kids,” he mutters, then charges away toward Seventh Avenue, newspaper tucked under his arm.
Inside the dark house, I lock our front door and lean back against it, eyes closed. Bracing myself. The smell, the blood, the screech of the fire alarm, the terrible details rush back. Luckily, when I finally do take a deep breath, it smells, so sweetly, of home—that gardenia scent my mom loved,loves.
I open my eyes slowly, squinting at first, still a little afraid of what I might see.
