All the Dangerous Things(40)

“Suicide?”

I spear some pasta, twirl, my eyes on my plate. “Yeah, I guess. Or an accidental overdose, it was never quite determined. They didn’t find a note or anything.”

“What do you think happened?”

I drop my fork, the clatter of metal against glass making Roscoe jump from beneath the table, jolting my chair. I look up at Waylon, at his large eyes staring straight into mine.

“If you had to guess,” he adds.

“I don’t know.” I exhale, trying to steady my hands. They’re shaking, for some reason. A gentle tremor. Maybe it’s the talk of Allison, the unresolved guilt I’ve always felt over her death. Or maybe I’m just hungry; too much caffeine on too empty a stomach. “I guess, if I had to make an assumption, I would say accidental.”

I don’t really know if I believe that, but for some reason, it makes me feel better.

“What about Ben?”

“You know, he never actually told me what he thinks,” I say, realizing it for the first time. “We never talked about her much, and of course, I never wanted to ask. But he was torn up about it, obviously.”

“Huh,” Waylon says, looking back down at his plate. I glance up at him, notice the way he’s picking at his food, like he’s trying to dissect it.

“Anyway, I just wanted to bring it up,” I say. “Before you hear it from the neighbors. Or Detective Dozier.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, thanks. That’s good to know.”

“But there wasn’t any foul play suspected or anything like that. I want you to know that, too. It was an open-and-shut case.”

“It’s just…” He stops, seems to consider whether or not he should keep going, finish his thought. Finally, he spits it out. “Doesn’t any part of you think that her death was very … convenient?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, although I know what he means. I just want to hear him say it.

“Just, you know. It looks bad. He was having an affair—”

“It wasn’t an affair.”

“There was another woman. Then his wife dies under suspicious circumstances…”

“It wasn’t suspicious. It was an overdose.”

“… and now his son disappears under suspicious circumstances, and you two are no longer together…”

“Okay,” I say, placing my fork down with measured control. “Look, I understand it’s your job to ask questions, I do. But Allison had an overdose. It happens. And Ben and I separated because our world was ripped apart, okay? We were happy before Mason was taken from us. We were fine.”

I stare at Waylon, daring him to keep pushing it. I can see his lower lip quiver—the threat of retaliation, another question that I can’t answer—but instead, he clenches his jaw, like he has to physically restrain himself from speaking.

“It’s hard for a couple to survive something like this,” I continue, regurgitating the words from Dr. Harris. Like because he said them, it makes it fact. “It’s hard for a person to survive something like this.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. You’re right.”

We eat in silence, the clanking of silverware somehow amplifying the awkward stillness that has settled over the house.

“Tell me something about Mason,” Waylon says at last, changing the subject. It seems intentional, like he wants to pivot away from this sore subject and toward something better, lighter. “Something personal.”

I look down at the table, remembering just yesterday all the equipment that sat here blinking between us. It had reminded me of those first recorded interviews at the police station, the antiquated cassette player with spinning wheels like eyes. Of Detective Dozier on the other side of it, and the way he’d pace, trying to unnerve me.

“Let’s see,” I say, picking up my glass, twisting the stem between my fingers. “He loves dinosaurs. He’s obsessed with them, really. We have this one book—”

“Isabelle,” Waylon interrupts, leaning forward in his chair. “Something personal.”

I bite my tongue, feeling my heart pound in my chest. I’m so used to calculating my statements, trying so hard to please whoever is on the receiving end of them—saying only the right things, the good things—and how, still, it never seems to matter. Waylon appears to see through that, though. He somehow knows when I’m not being entirely truthful. When I have something more to say.

I look up at him again, at the kindness in his eyes, and wonder if this time really could be different.

“Honestly?” I say at last. “He was tough.” The admission feels like a sudden exhale after holding your breath for far too long.

“How so?” he asks.

“He was a colicky baby, always crying. I mean, nothing could soothe him. Nothing. I was home alone a lot, with Ben at work, and I remember there were times, during those first nights—”

I stop myself, deciding that it may not be in my best interest to be too honest. Not yet, at least. To describe the unusual way Mason came into this world or the panic of those early morning hours in too much detail. The desperation that started to creep into my chest when I found us alone in the dark, his writhing little body in my arms, limbs like twigs that could so easily snap. I can still remember those muddy, sleep-deprived musings; the kind that didn’t even feel real. The kind that no mother would ever admit to herself, let alone utter out loud. Mason would shriek in the night and they would flare up so suddenly, so violently: dark little fantasies of all the things I could do to finally make him stop. And I would let them in, if only for a second. I would let myself entertain them for a beat too long—but then, in the mornings, I would simply ignore them again, pretend they were never even there to begin with. I would feel my cheeks burn hot with shame as I lifted him out of his crib and smothered him in kisses, casting them back into the recesses of my mind where the other banished feelings lived: naughty and nocturnal, curled up in that dank cave of my subconscious, skulking around until the sun dipped below the horizon again and it was safe for them to crawl back out.