bitch that called herself his mother. I think his ties to me just helped him find his own emotions, which the abuse damaged.”
“Then Nicky is not like me, Anita. I have no emotions hiding inside me for you to find.”
“If you didn’t have more than you think you do, then you wouldn’t be trying to date Anita,” Nicky said.
Olaf startled visibly, hands tightening on the steering wheel so hard that it made protesting noises as if he might break it. He took his hands off the wheel. “I am not capable of love.”
“Are you sure?” Nicky asked.
Olaf looked at him, his face unreadable around his sunglasses. We waited to see if he’d answer Nicky’s question. He didn’t. He just got out of the car and left us to follow.
“That was interesting,” Nicky said.
I wanted to argue but said the truth since he could feel it anyway. “It was weird, disturbing, but interesting.”
“I think you just described Olaf.”
Again, I couldn’t argue, so I got out of the car and Nicky followed me, because he had to and because he wanted to. I was dating one sociopath; surely that was my limit. I’d never intended to date Olaf for real, so what were we going to do with each other? Even for my dating history, this was a weird one.
53
BRIANNA GIBSON OPENED the door to the one-story ranch house wearing a purple sports bra and leggings, with lavender-and-white cross-trainers on her feet. She was at least five-eight, maybe a smidge taller, and was lean enough to look good in the exercise clothes. Her nearly black hair was back in a short ponytail as neat and smooth as her body, so the fact that she was wearing full makeup that seemed more weekend clubbing than afternoon gym was a little startling, like she wasn’t sure if she was going to work out or head to the city for an evening out.
We introduced ourselves and asked if we could ask her a few questions. She opened the door farther and ushered us inside. “Of course. I was wondering if any of you would need to talk to me about what happened to Jocelyn’s dad.”
I nearly tripped over toys as I walked into the living room. Brianna Gibson was clean, neat, and ready to greet the world. The same could not be said of her home. There were toys and baby things everywhere, so it was like tiptoeing through a biological-clock minefield. A baby started crying from farther inside the house, and then a second cry joined the first, so there was a chorus of unhappy infants.
“Damn, they’re up from their naps. I’m sorry, but I have to go check on them. Clear off a space and have a seat,” the woman said, and then walked down a hallway that led directly off the living room.
There was also a door on the wall, which probably led to the kitchen, but who knew? And honestly, until someone cleared the debris away, the door wasn’t going to open anyway.
We stared around at the couch and the two overstuffed chairs, which sat like islands that were in danger of being engulfed in the toys and bits of baby clothes. There were two of those baby chairs with trays and wheels that helped babies practice walking while having snacks or playing with small toys. The mess on the floor was so thick, the chairs weren’t going to move. The babies could practice standing, but walking wasn’t happening until someone picked up a little.
Olaf started moving things off the couch, so Nicky and I joined him. We each had an armful of toys and other baby debris, but now where to put it? Did we dump it on the floor with all the rest, or did we try to straighten some of it? I’m not the neatest person in the world, but I was overwhelmed with the mess in the room. It made me want to start shoveling things against the wall so at least the floor would be clear.
I whispered, “Where do we put it?”
Olaf put his armload in the corner to one side of the couch so at least it wasn’t making it harder to walk. I didn’t have a better idea, so I added my armload to his. The pile began to slide down like ice cream melting, and I couldn’t stand it. I went down on one knee to push at it and place things until there was some stability to the heap and it didn’t