set of hazel eyes. She wants to demand she go home and scrub her face. She’s too young and pretty for makeup. She doesn’t need it.
“I’m sorry. I think I’m just going to go rest for a bit. Is that okay?”
“Of course.” Pam’s face remains kind, open, but she can tell she wants to say something more. Crystal realizes her mistake. Pam has now seen her at her worst. She has lost a bit of her power as the employer, but she can’t think about that now.
Crystal steps across the hall to her room and shuts the door. She silences her phone, flips on her fan, and crawls under the covers, fully clothed. Pam fusses in the next room then heads down the hall and says something to Savi, probably some nicer version of “Don’t bother your mother for a while.”
She waits for sleep. Finally, the whirring of the fan takes her away, but in the back of her mind, a warning scratches:
The truth is closing in.
27
BEC
Night has fallen.
I find myself at the local precinct for the second time. They don’t have a suspect. They don’t have the make or model of a getaway car. They don’t have a true physical description of the supposed kidnapper.
Women are called like cattle into the interrogation room. Not women. My close friends: Jess and Beth. Acquaintances: Ramona, Lanie, Barbara, Sandra. I wonder why Crystal isn’t here and then remember it’s all the women from the park they want to talk to first. They huddle and wait their turns, entering and exiting the sterile room wordlessly. I can tell they don’t know what to say. Neither do I. I’m normally so conditioned to fill silences to make others feel comfortable.
Not today.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The last police station I’d visited was in Chicago after Chris died. I’d come in to collect his belongings and to decide if I would press charges against the man who hit him. I wanted to, but I didn’t. The man hadn’t been drunk, as I’d suspected. He was texting, and by the time he looked up, it was too late. His life was already ruined—he’d killed a man. I didn’t want his money or for him to suffer a worse fate. I just wanted my husband back.
“Jessica Peters?”
“Be right back.” Jess heads into the interrogation room, which makes space for another woman to sit and wait her turn. These women will decide Jackson’s fate. How many have been back? Three? Four? I review my own behavior over the past months, weeks, days, hours. Would I believe me?
The baby relaxes against my chest, content. He’s not mine. I remind myself that he will be given back, taken, or worse. I cup the back of his head. A few of the women whisper. I drop my hand.
“Rebecca?” The bench groans beneath the weight of a new person. It’s Beth. “Can I see him?”
I twist his warm body toward her. Her inspection is quiet, thoughtful. “Are you sure…” Her sentence fades and with it, her certainty. “Bec, he looks exactly like Jackson.” Her voice is smug, like her.
“But it’s not Jackson.” The words crack too loudly into the overrun station. It’s as if the phones, conversation, and rampant dialogue in my head ceases with my son’s name. No one will say his name but me.
It’s not Jackson. Not my son. Not him.
“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to upset you,” Beth explains.
“You’re not.” I pat the baby’s back. “I don’t expect anyone to get it … but I’m telling the truth. I am.”
If I say it enough, they will believe me.
A few minutes later, the door opens. Jess files out and sinks into the chair.
“Beth?” Officer Toby is official, detached.
“How’d it go?” My voice is neutral as I turn toward Jess.
“You know how it goes. They ask stupid fucking questions, try to trip you up.”
“Does it look…” Good? Bad? Am I going to jail?
“Not good, no.”
My jaw settles. If my mother were here, she’d flip a damn table. If Chris were here … Chris makes me think of Jake. I haven’t heard from him in hours. I sigh. I know Rob called in this favor, gathered all these women after word spread and the flyers were distributed, but it seems fruitless. None of these women saw anything. None of them believe me. Is Jake right? Is all of this doing more harm than good?
“Do you want me to stay with you tonight?”
I think of walking into my mother’s house, alone. I think