Page 36 of Love Always

“I’m here. Don’t worry. She’s in good hands.”

It’s about six thirty now, and Laurel’s phone went off four times. There was one text from Kevin Barr while she was in the bath. Why the hell doesn’t she just block him. Cory is sitting at the counter pulling apart the frittata so that all the potatoes are piled up on one side, to be smashed later he assures me, and the other pile is a jumble of eggs.

“Hey,” she says coming out into the living area. A blue terrycloth bathrobe is tied around her, but her feet are bare. The floor is drafty.

I stand from my place at the counter. “You got any slippers?”

Cory hops down and runs to the back bedroom, hers I suppose, and within seconds he’s come out with a pair of ankle high moccasins in one hand and some grey wool socks in the other.

She smiles. “Thanks, sweetie, that was very nice of you.”

Cory is concerned. “Are you sick, Mommy?”

“No, I’m not. Don’t worry,” she says and leans over to kiss him. A lock of damp hair falls forward and brushes his cheek.

“You’re wet!”

Over the next hour, I watch her parent. Talking with her son, dealing with him, her patience when he got angry and threw his fork to the floor or started to kick the counter. An hour later when it was bedtime, I saw how she sang to him a little tune about brushing his teeth and washing his hands and going to the bathroom. It worked. Though dinner may have been a small struggle his bedtime routine, outlined in a song, let him ease into bed almost effortlessly. Almost.

She hasn’t eaten anything yet though. I’m the one who joined Cory at the counter. Listening to her voice as she reads a picture book about dinosaurs and birds and fish makes my heart ache. It is in these small moments I miss my family, and my mother even more.

“Night light,” he says. “Don’t forget.”

“Night light,” she repeats. “And what makes the light?”

“Fairy wings!” he shouts and there’s a flurry of covers.

She makes her way back to the living area. I’ve just finished up the dishes and wiped the island counter where we three sat.

“Thank you so much, Mateus. This was really helpful.”

“Laurel, I’m so sorry for what happened. I’m sorry for her and for you.”

Laurel waves a hand, but her face is tight. “It’s fine,” she says. “I mean it’s shocking and I feel awful for her, but I didn’t really know her all that well. You warned me to stay away. You told me she was trouble. I didn’t. None of it seems real.”

“I didn’t say she was trouble. I want to be clear. I don’t believe anyone is really trouble. I think people have challenges and they don’t know how to deal with them sometimes. I said she was in trouble.”

My phone goes off. It’s Detective Carlson.

“Mateus Gutiérrez.”

“This is Detective Carlson. I have some bad news. We have to impound the car.”

I lower my voice and grip the edge of the counter. “You found physical evidence?”

“The murder weapon was under the passenger seat.” My heart catches then starts to pound and everything in my vision warps everything in the room—except her. “You can’t think—”

“I don’t. Rest assured, I don’t believe Laurel Russo had anything to do with this.” He pauses. “What it does mean, however, is there’s a very likely scenario where the killer knows Ms. Russo and planted that weapon on purpose.”

“You don’t think it was just an opportunistic moment?”

“No. Why not throw it into the water? It’s clearly a very poor attempt to frame her.” This time his pause is more malignant. “It also means the person who did it was there, after she parked the car.”

The hair on the back of my neck rises before he finishes the sentence.

“The car is impounded, so tell those Russo sisters to sit tight and I’ll let them know when they can retrieve it.”

The call ends. I stare at the phone in my hand. The killer was there. Laurel was within a bullet’s reach. It’s her voice that brings me back.