Where They Found Her (16 page)

“Sure,” I said hesitantly. “Can you tell me why?”

“Rose Gowan is gone,” Steve said. “And so, it seems, is your friend Stella.”

I dreamed of babies. Dead ones. One of them was mine. But I didn’t know which, in a roomful of little caskets. I startled awake, bolting upright in the darkness. I could see the outline of Justin, sleeping on his side next to me. I put a hand on him to check that he was breathing, then curled up tight behind him, pretending we hadn’t argued earlier. It seemed such a silly waste now. And with those kinds of dreams, it was hard to maintain that the story wasn’t having an effect on me.

When I awoke again, it was almost seven a.m., and Justin was already gone. He’d left a note:
Conference at Columbia; back late
. There was another one of his little notes, too. I felt a pang of guilt about our fight the night before.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers—That perches in the soul—Emily Dickinson

I rolled over and picked up my cell phone off my nightstand and sent Justin a text:
I know you’re just trying to help. Sorry about last night. xo.

I didn’t expect him to answer, but he did. Right away.
I’m sorry, too. And I do believe in you, Molly. More than you’ll ever know. xo.

I felt relieved as I headed downstairs. Glad that Justin and I were no longer technically in a fight. Glad also that there’d been no overnight text from Stella, angry that I’d talked to Steve. Ella had even slept later than usual, leaving me time for a quiet cup of coffee before we got swept into the morning routine.

But as soon as I stepped into the living room, I was unnerved by something out of place. There was a small cardboard file box sitting a few feet inside our front door. Some kind of gift from Justin? Except the closer I got, the more it seemed an odd box for a present. Also,
Molly Sanderson
was written in large black letters across the top, and it didn’t look like Justin’s handwriting.

I pulled my phone out of my sweatshirt pocket and sent Justin another text, hoping to catch him before he lost a signal when the train went into Penn Station.
Is the box a peace offering?

What box?

Come on. The box by the front door?

I’m all 4 peace offerings. But I don’t know anything about a box.

I took the stairs two at a time.
Someone had been in our house. Someone could still be in our house.
Maybe Ella wasn’t asleep. Maybe something had been done to her. I threw open her bedroom door so hard that it banged against the wall.

Ella jerked up from a dead sleep. “Mommy!” she shouted, bursting into terrified tears.

But she was okay. She was fine. That was the most important thing. I sucked in a mouthful of air—okay, Ella was fine. Now I had to pull myself together and get the two of us out of the house, just in case whoever had been in the house was still there.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said, trying to stay calm as I pulled Ella out of bed and into my arms. I sounded out of breath. I probably looked scared to death, too. Luckily, Ella was still half asleep. “I thought we could go out for pancakes. You know, a special treat.”

“But I’m tired,” Ella whined, rubbing her eyes as she wrapped her legs around my waist. “I don’t want breakfast. I want to go back to sleep.”

“I know, Peanut, I know.” I rubbed her back as I headed down the steps.

I paused only long enough to grab my car keys and purse. Not long enough to notice it was pouring outside, much less to grab an umbrella. I rushed down the front walkway toward the car, with Ella in her Hello Kitty pajamas, trying to shield her from the deluge, relieved to see that I was at least in yoga pants and a sweatshirt and not naked.

Getting soaked, I buckled Ella into the car seat smoothly and slowly, smiling the whole time as though that might convince her she’d imagined all of our racing around. Once I’d climbed in the driver’s seat and locked the doors tight, I wiped the rain off my face, grinning at her in the rearview. But she just turned her sleepy, grumpy face to the side as I backed slowly out of the driveway. It wasn’t until I’d driven three streets away that it felt safe to pull over. I turned off the wipers, and the drumming rain quickly blurred out the windshield.

When I looked up at Ella in the rearview again, she was clutching her blanket and sucking her thumb, sound asleep.

“Steve Carlson,” he answered on the first ring. He sounded like I’d woken him. In bed with Barbara, surely. And yet it was so hard to picture.

“This is Molly Sanderson. I’m sorry to bother you so early,” I began. “But I—I had your number in my phone from last night. And I wasn’t sure who else to call. I think someone was in my house.”

“Are you inside your house now?” he asked, serious, official, cop-like.

My heart picked up speed again. I’d been so prepared to be dismissed out of hand. “No, I’m in my car a few blocks away with my daughter. Someone left a box in my living room while we were asleep. I’m sure I’m overreacting, but—”

“Stay where you are for now,” Steve said. “Give me your address and I’ll check it out.”

By the time Steve had called me to return home, it was barely misting.

He was leaning against an unmarked car—maybe just his car—when I arrived, looking much younger in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I parked behind him, quietly unbuckling my seat belt and leaving the car running as I got out, hoping Ella would stay asleep.

“Morning,” he said, nodding at me, then flicking his eyes disapprovingly in the direction of my humming car.

“I was hoping Ella would stay asleep in there,” I explained.

Steve nodded, but his brow stayed furrowed. “Well, there’s no one in your house.”

“That’s a relief,” I said. “I was home with Ella alone; my husband left early. And when I woke up, there was this strange box sitting inside our living room. I guess I kind of panicked.”

“Did your husband leave the door unlocked when he left?”

“Maybe,” I said. Because entering without breaking in wasn’t a big a deal? Except someone had still invited him- or herself into my
home
and left God knows what.
A baby
, my crazy brain jumped there.
A dead baby in a box.
I was lucky Justin couldn’t read my mind. “We lock the door at night. And when we go out. But when we’re home during the day . . .”

No one in the suburbs ever locks their door
, I wanted to say.
That’s the whole point of living here.

“In the future, I’d keep it locked, always. Ridgedale isn’t a big city, but reasonable precautions make sense anywhere.” He nodded toward my car. “I also wouldn’t leave a sleeping child unattended in a running car.”

“Right, of course,” I said, fully mortified. “Did you, um, check what was inside the box?”

“Just enough to see that it’s some kind of papers.” He held up his hands. “Didn’t read what’s on them. Don’t want to be accused of interfering with the press. My guess is someone put them inside to keep them out of the rain.”

We didn’t have any overhang, and it had been pouring. The box would have gotten soaked. And so the person just went ahead and opened our door? Steve was presenting it like a normal thing to do. But it wasn’t normal. Not even in Ridgedale.

“What happens now?”

“That’s up to you. Happy to open an investigation. But you should know we’ll need to keep the box, mark it as evidence.”

“That hadn’t occurred to me.”

“That’s why I mention it. I’m not trying to discourage you from pursuing this. That’s entirely up to you. But this kind of thing happens. Years ago, during some mayoral campaign, somebody put a dead rat in Jim McManus’s mailbox—he was the
Reader
’s editor in chief at the time.” Steve shook his head. “Man, was his wife bent out of shape. Anyway, my guess is this has something to do with your articles. Isn’t that what you people want? A reaction?”

Steve was aggravated about something I’d written. That was obvious. “‘You people’?”

“Meaning your editors.” He rubbed his forehead. He still looked aggravated. But also like he didn’t want to be. “Nothing personal, but they must like that you’re willing to stir the pot. That’s all I meant. It must sell papers or get you clicks or whatever it is you all want these days.”

But my articles had been far from controversial.

“Is there something specific I’ve written that you’re taking issue with?”

“Just pointing out the facts. And the fact is, you’ve riled people up. This ‘find him, he’s out there, another Ridgedale murder’ nonsense. People are going crazy in the comments to your articles.”

I felt a queasy twist in my stomach. I didn’t even want to know those comments existed. Between that and the files and the pressure from Justin, I might beat a hasty retreat from journalism after all.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” I said, and I didn’t like the feeling that Steve did. “I don’t read the comments on my articles.”

Steve frowned and looked uncomfortable. He wasn’t frustrated with me, I was realizing. He was just frustrated.

“So what’ll it be with the situation here?” he asked, looking at his watch.

I didn’t much want to see what was in the box, but I couldn’t imagine letting the police take it without looking through it first. What if it was something important?

“I don’t think I’ll pursue investigating. But thank you so much for coming.” I did appreciate the way Steve had rushed over, no questions asked.

He nodded, pushed himself off his car, and turned toward the driver’s door. “Not a problem. Call me if anything else comes up.”

“Before you go, is there any news about the baby?” I asked.

“You’re interviewing me
now
?” Steve raised an eyebrow as he stood in his open car door. “Seriously?”

“You’re here.” I shrugged. “And you did say I could follow up.”

He shook his head and exhaled. “You don’t give up, do you?”

The old me did not. It was good being reminded of her. Justin was wrong about this story. It was exactly what I needed. “No, I don’t.”

“ME says it’ll be another couple days before we have an official cause of death.”

“Does that mean he’s still having a hard time determining it?”

Steve’s face tightened. “It means it’s going to take another couple days.”

“But it could still be a homicide?”

“It hasn’t been ruled out. All the more reason we need someone to come forward. And
that
I hope you do write: Someone out there knows who this baby belongs to, and we need to hear from them.”

My phone vibrated with a text. I pulled it out, thinking it was Justin needing further reassurance that Ella and I were okay after my first cryptic text about some anonymous box.

Coffee after drop-off?

Stella. Shit. Did she seriously have to text me with Steve standing right here, staring at me? He’d specifically asked me to contact him if I heard from her. I’d have to say something. I couldn’t lie for her, not that much. I’d just say as little as I could.

“Stella.” I held up my phone. “I guess she’s back.” Why had I made it sound like she was on the run? “Or here. I don’t know that she ever left.”

“Yes, I spoke with Stella late last night,” Steve said. “She claims she doesn’t know where Rose is. Was surprised as anyone to hear that she had disappeared.”

“You don’t sound like you believe her.”

Steve had a hand on the door and one leg in the car. He looked back at me. “Would you?”

Print Edition

March 18, 2015

Body of Deceased Female Infant Discovered Near Essex Bridge

BY MOLLY SANDERSON

The body of a female infant was discovered early yesterday morning by Ridgedale University Campus Safety in a wooded area near the Essex Bridge. The cause of death and exact age of the infant remain unknown, pending the release of official findings by the medical examiner.

The grim discovery of the baby’s body has come as a shock to many in the community.

“I can’t believe something like this happened here,” said Stephanie Kelsor, a mother of two who has lived in Ridgedale for seven years. “What a tragedy.”

Others saw the situation differently.

“People here like to pretend they’re perfect,” says Patrick Walker, owner of Pat’s Pancakes. “But they’ve got the same problems as anywhere else. They’ve just got more money to cover it up.”

Historically, crime rates in Ridgedale have been very low, with minor property crimes the most common offense. Serious crime is all but nonexistent in town. In the past two decades, there have been only two murders and six reported rapes.

However, these numbers may not reflect all crime that occurs on the university’s campus. While there are federal reporting requirements, offenses involving students will often be handled exclusively as a violation of the university’s disciplinary code.

The Ridgedale Police Department has asked that anyone with information relating to the infant’s identity or cause of death contact them as soon as possible at 888-526-1899.

MAY 20, 1994

We hung out after school today in the woods near the Captain’s parents’ house. He got some beers and I was going to say no thanks, so he didn’t think I was some drunk loser, but then I thought if he was drinking, too . . .

He asked me about my parents and told me about his. They sound kind of uptight and whatever, but he said that they would really like me.

Did you hear that? HIS PARENTS WOULD REALLY LIKE ME??!! What guy talks about you meeting his parents unless he’s seriously into you?

He asked me about Tex, too. “That dude would ditch his girlfriend in a second for you,” that’s what the Captain said. And it sounded like they’re not even that good of friends, which is strange, because I thought they were. But who knows? Guys are weird.

I told the Captain the truth: I like Tex as a friend, but just a friend.

And what’s not to like? Tex is always saying how amazing I am because I’m a spitfire instead of a wack job inappropriate nutso, like my parents think. Too crazy, too loud, too wild—my voice, my clothes, my friends, my thoughts. I embarrass them. That’s the bottom line. Always have. Always will.

And so, yeah, I like that Tex gets me and that he’s sweet and nice and tries to watch out for me (even when he’s getting in the way). But he doesn’t DO anything for me (even if I sometimes kind of wish he did). Not in that way, not at all. And you can’t make a fire by pretending there’s a spark.

And you know what the Captain said when I told him that Tex and I are just friends? He said: “Good.” And then he kissed me soft and sweet and slow. And so you know what I did?

Gave him a BJ! Best one of my fucking life.