Wish You Were Gone(82)

Now, Lizzie acted casual, as if this were any other breaching of her daughter’s space for mundane straightening up. She plucked up the socks, flattened them out, and went to the closet to toss them in the hamper. When she opened the door, a jumble of crap came tumbling out—clothes and books and a lacrosse stick and a makeup kit, which exploded and spewed a million half-used products across her feet.

“Well. That explains the cleanliness.”

Lizzie blew out a sigh, then laughed. At least her daughter had tried. She knelt and scooped the cosmetics back into the bag, then tossed it on the hastily made bed. After a quick sort through the clothes, trying and failing to figure out what was clean and what wasn’t, she decided to dump it all in the hamper. It was as she stood that she saw the boxes from the corner of her eye. There were three of them, brown, cardboard, roughly the same size, stacked just inside the closet. Probably, before she opened the door, they’d been hidden by the pile of clothes. Next to the boxes was a roll of packing tape, a black Sharpie, and a tangle of bubble wrap.

Lizzie experienced a sixth-sense shiver down her neck. She shoved the clothes into the hamper and glanced at the top box, hoping to see the colorful label favored by Willow’s favorite internet shop for magic supplies, but she knew that wasn’t what this was. Those boxes were usually black and green. This was something else.

The box hadn’t been sealed, but there was an address label affixed to the top:

Lionel Miller

43 Violet Lane

Tallman, Kansas

Who the hell was Lionel Miller in Tallman, Kansas? Mouth tacky, Lizzie reached a finger over and lifted the flap on the box.





EMMA


She woke up so early it was still dark out, and when she rolled over she expected to see James sleeping next to her. Then she remembered. Her eyes welled so fast, it was as if someone had turned on a fire hose inside her body and she was on her back, gasping for air.

James is dead. James is dead. James is dead.

Emma was never going to see her husband again. She pressed her hands to her forehead. What was wrong with her? Where was this coming from? Was this going to be her life now? Never knowing when she was going to start hyperventilating? She sat up, forced her breath into a more normal rhythm, grabbed a tissue, and blew her nose.

Okay, stop. Think. Calm down.

It had been just over a month. Where was James now? She looked up at the ceiling, trying to imagine a heaven. Trying to imagine James’s heaven. Could he see her right now? No. God. She had to stop thinking like that. Even if heaven was real, James wouldn’t be spending his time there watching her. He’d be stadium-hopping from Barcelona to Sydney to Los Angeles—there was probably some sort of game happening somewhere in the world at every moment of the day. Getting to see soccer and baseball and cricket and tennis and golf all in one day would be his bliss. The only way he’d be watching her would be if he was pissed off at her. If he wanted vengeance for something. Or if he wanted to catch her in the act of doing something wrong—something he suspected while alive, but could never prove. Like eating all his granola bars or shrinking his favorite underwear.

Maybe he was watching Willow.

Emma grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. She wished she could talk to him. She wished she could ask him why? When? How? Why? He was the only one who could tell her what had really happened. How he’d gotten home safely, but been drunk enough to die that way. Whether Willow had been there with him, in the driveway. Or Darnell. Or anyone. Had he met with Willow that afternoon? If so, when had this big fight with Darnell happened—before that meeting or after? She wanted a timeline. She needed answers.

She pulled her knees close to her chest and stared across the hazy room. That last day. What had been different? Answer: nothing. It had been just like any other day after a big blowout. She’d slept late. Felt guilty. Wondered if the kids were okay. Felt the crushing defeat of having failed her children. Again. The only difference in that day was the decision she had made to tell him that she was divorcing him, but he couldn’t know about that. She hadn’t told anyone. And then he was dead.

Nothing was ever going to be the same again. Holidays, birthdays, family vacations. Those moments when James had been at his best. Thoughtful. Funny. Loving, even. They would never get a chance to see that James again. The kids… would they miss that part of their dad?

The kids. Hunter didn’t know about Willow, did he? Or Kelsey. Would Willow have told them? No. She was eccentric, but she couldn’t be that dense.

Emma glanced at the clock: 5:13. There was no chance of her going back to sleep. She threw the covers aside and got out of bed. She would make a big breakfast. Cooking always distracted her brain from heavier thoughts. And right now, she needed out of her brain in a major way. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard a clatter.

Her heart, that ridiculous thing, completely stopped. James? “Hello?” she said.

“Mom?”

Exhale. “Hunter?”

He appeared at the bottom of the stairs, half a protein bar in one hand. He was dressed for running—shorts, sneakers, sweatshirt, earbuds.

“Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“No. No, of course not.”

She patted his shoulder and walked into the kitchen, beelining it for the coffeemaker. “I hope you’re going to wear something reflective.”

He rolled his eyes. “My sneakers practically glow.”