Relief—the house is immaculate. The kitchen has been cleaned up, along with the blood and the broken glass. Like nothing ever happened.
My dad must have taken care of it or, more likely, paid someone to. It’s a little creepy, come to think of it. Like maybe he was so on top of it because he wanted to be sure any evidence of his guilt was washed away.
I sit on one of the stools at the island, smooth my hands over that porous marble, think of the place mat or coaster or newspaper my mom always insists goes under every plate or cup or bowl. Then I close my eyes and I’m seven or eight, watching her in the soft morning light as she races around making me eggs on toast, packing my lunch, and answering emails, all while smilingand chatting, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. That was the way she was most mornings. But I wonder now, knowing the sort of cases she was working on, the kinds of people she was dealing with, whether she was more stressed than I knew. She hid so much; maybe she was even afraid that something might happen to her.
But I never felt it. She never made me feel like anything less than the most important thing.
“Don’t go to work, Mommy,” I’d said that morning. “Stay with me. And then you can relax.”
And she’d smiled and said, “I’d love to, baby, but you have to go to school.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, Mommy has to go to work, baby.”
But I wasn’t angry at her or resentful about her work. Not on that morning. Not on any other back then. Because I never had a need that wasn’t fulfilled. When I was little like that, my mom was always where I needed her to be when it mattered. And I always, always knew that I was loved.
Where the hell are you, Mom?
I pull the complaint with the handwritten notes I found in Jules’s apartment out of my bag and begin to read. It’s the one document I didn’t hand over to Wilson, which seems a reasonable compromise.DRAFTis stamped in the upper right-hand corner. The first few paragraphs are all formalities: identifying the parties, the law allegedly violated (negligence, product liability), and a section on jurisdiction. The second page is a summary of the charges in question, where the summary of what allegedly happened to Jane Doe begins.
The summary continues onto the third page, though after a few lines the handwritten notes stop and computerized Track Changes start—all attributed to Jules Kovacis. Except it’s a document written by theplaintiffs’attorney, and Jules worked for Blair, Stevenson, so how could she be making changes to it? Wait,is this Jules’s story? Some of the details about her daughter sound familiar.She’sa plaintiff in this huge lawsuit? Because Blair, Stevenson couldn’t have been okay with that. Is the lawsuit why Jules got fired? Why she’s so scared? Did my mom do something to try to protect Jules and got hurt in the process?
I open my mom’s laptop and type in “Xytek and Jules Kovacis,” but nothing comes up. It’s her personal computer, though, so nothing would. I’m staring at the screen when a notification pops up from her messaging app—a missed dentist appointment. A text dated yesterday. I didn’t realize she had her texts linked to her laptop.Holy shit.
I hear the front door open and slam the laptop shut.Protect my mom—it’s instinct now.
“Yikes,” my dad says almost playfully as he steps into view. Because why not? This is all a game, right? “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“You scared me!” I shout. “What are you doing?”
“Meeting you!”
“I know that! I mean, why didn’t you knock?”
“It’s stillmyhouse, remember?” He puffs up his chest when he says it.
It was never your house. She paid for everything.
“If you say so.” I tuck the laptop into my tote bag.
“You still have that, huh?” he asks, gesturing to it. “Detective Wilson is not going to be happy.”
“You and Wilson are tight now, huh?”
“Whoa, Cleo.” I can tell he’s trying for a joking tone, but he sounds annoyed. “What’s with the hostility?”
“Nothing,” I say, then look away. I think of demanding an explanation for why he’s lied about so much. But what’s the point when I’m not going to believe him anyway?
“Detective Wilson actually just called.” I prepare myself for what’s next:How could you tell her those things about me, Cleo?But I’m ready to own it. I told her the truth, that’s all.
“Oh, yeah,” I say noncommittally.
“She said you told her something about Mom having some kind of special role at her law firm?”
I shrug, feeling like I dodged a bullet. “She’s some kind of fixer, apparently. I talked to one of the people she was helping … a client, or whatever you want to call it.”
“A client?”
