We made eye contact, and I smiled. She smiled back. The kind of smile moms give each other.
For a moment, we just watched. Kids climbing the rocket tower, sliding down, hanging from the monkey bars. Laughter drifting through the air.
A million ways to do this ran through my head, but my mouth moved before my brain caught up.
“I can’t do this,” I said.
She turned, confused.
“What was that?” Her voice was soft. Careful.
“I said …” I sucked in a breath and exhaled. “I said I can’t do this.”
Her eyebrows pulled together as I scooted closer.
“I mean, pretend like I’m just some grandma making small talk.” I sighed. “Do you remember a detective stopping by your house not too long ago?”
The shift was instant. Her blue eyes narrowed. But for some strange reason she didn’t ask who I was. Didn’t question why I knew.
“Um … yes. I remember,” she said.
“Well,” I continued, “I don’t know if you overheard the conversation, but Detective Nolan came to ask your husbandabout a friend of his. Someone who borrows his truck sometimes. His name is John Myers.”
Her gaze flicked to the baby in her arms. Then back to me.
“I think I have to go,” she said, already grabbing her bag.
But before she could get up, I placed my hand on her knee. Light. Careful. “Please,” I said. “I’m a mom too. My daughter is about to die in jail for something thisMyersdid.”
She hesitated.
“You’re a mother. Can you imagine watching your child die in jail for something someone else did?”
Her eyes met mine. Worried. Sad. And also scared.
It hit me all at once. What if she wasn’t safe at home? What if talking to me could cost her everything?
“Do you feel safe at home?” I asked quickly. “Does your husband hurt you?”
She glanced over her shoulder. Then at her son, too far to hear us.
She sat there, staring at him as he climbed onto a plastic spaceship. A thousand thoughts must have been racing through her head. Her fingers tightened around the baby’s blanket.
“I’m sorry,” I said, standing. “I didn’t mean to put you in danger. I’ll talk to your husband directly. You don’t have to worry. Just don’t tell him I was here. I won’t say a word either, I swear.”
I had taken two steps when she spoke.
“That’s kind of you,” she said. “Worrying about me and the kids when you have so much to lose by walking away.”
I sat back down.
“Billy is mostly harmless,” she said in a dismissive tone. “A sweet idiot. Most of the time.” She exhaled loudly. “But John. That guy.” Her mouth tightened. “He’s something else—I’ll tell you that. He scares me. Scares the kids. Every time he leaves, I pray it’s the last time we see him. But he always comes back.Sometimes it’s months; sometimes years. It doesn’t matter. He always comes back.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
Her eyes scanned me. Thinking.
“You’re the mom of that mute woman on TV, aren’t you? That woman who was found with the rich dead guy in the woods.”
