It's One of Us(15)

“You tell Park I said hi, won’t you?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. Thank you.”

She manages to get to the car, throw the bag on the seat, and drive away, all without looking at the smug-as-shit face of the pregnant little bitch by the door. The fact that her key may have slid oh so surreptitiously along the door of the BMW the young couple pulled up in as she went to her own car, well, that was just poor placement of her hand, right?

Olivia blows out a breath, slowly.

These urges of hers. She knows it’s the hormones they’re pumping through her body, first the shots and pills to get pregnant, then the natural accumulation of estrogen and progesterone that nourishes her small, broken womb, but oh, these urges. She has some PTSD, at least that’s what her therapist says. Olivia thinks that’s nonsense, it’s not like she’s been to war or was abused or anything.

Only last week: “I’m so angry, Dr. Benedict. All the time. I feel this rage pulsing inside me anytime I see a pregnant woman.”

“Olivia. You’ve gotten pregnant six times in the past two years. You’ve lost five of those pregnancies. They have what you so desperately want. It’s normal to feel upset when you see a woman who’s carrying a child. It’s okay to be angry that you haven’t been able to carry a child to term. It’s unfair, and it’s sad. But you’re farther along than you’ve been before. I have a good feeling about this one.”

Olivia casts her thoughts back to her bathroom, the scene of the crime. So much for your good feeling, Doc.

Home belongs to a stranger. She sees it from a new perspective. Not the graceful lines of the pitched roof and the gable with its cedar posts anchoring the front porch, nor the French country charm of the white brick and graphite shingles, the front elevation bedecked with boxwood and laurel. Maybe it’s something in the water. Or there’s lead paint. Or radon. Maybe they should move. She’s probably ingesting or breathing some sort of poison, and that’s why she keeps killing her babies.

Sitting in the drive, she pulls up her shopping app and orders a new water filter, a lead paint test kit, and emails her inspector to drop off a meter for a radon check. Small things, but they make her feel better.

You can do this. You’re strong, Olivia. You can face him.

She’s not supposed to feel revulsion when she thinks of her husband’s handsome face. Is this what he’s done to them? Or is this the betrayal of her body?

She knocks her door closed with her hip and carries the food inside. The kitchen, with its cheery white cabinets and leathered marble and black-framed windows, no different than it was this morning, feels alien. Like she’s never seen it before. Maybe she’s coming down with something. Maybe she’s caught some sort of virus and that’s why she lost the baby.

She busies herself with plating the food and throwing the bags in the trash, then sets the plates in the oven and puts it on Warm.

Park hasn’t shown himself.

She opens the door to the garage; his car is inside.

In his office, then.

The phone rings, startling her.

“Hello?”

“Is Park Bender available?”

The voice, female, young, a hint of flirt.

“Who is this?” Olivia asks, not caring about being abrupt. Is this the sainted mother of the creep who killed Beverly? She’s worked fast, discovering how to reach out to her child’s father.

“Ma’am, this is Erica Pearl from Channel Four. I’d like to speak to Mr. Bender, please.”

Oh.

“About what?”

“Are you Mrs. Bender? I’d love to sit down with you both and talk about the Cooke case. There’s—”

Olivia smashes End with her thumb.

Didn’t take them long. How did the news get out? Damn those cops.

The phone rings again, and she ignores it, fury driving away her worry. She trails through the house to the back door, out onto the porch, through the garden, and pushes open Park’s office door.

“A reporter from Channel Four just called.”

“Huh?” Park looks up, unseeing for a moment, until his brain clears of whatever he’s writing, and he is able to focus on her again.

“Honey. You’re home,” he says, leaning back so quickly that the chair tips precariously.

“A reporter just called.”

He pushes away from the desk and stands as if to hug her, but she steps back, and his arms hang empty in the air, a parenthesis of confusion, before dropping to his side.

“They’ve been trying my cell, too. I haven’t answered. I don’t know what they want me to say. And I thought you and I should talk first, before I discuss anything with anyone outside the family.”

She crosses her arms on her chest. “All right. Talk. Who is this mysterious mother who’s had your child?”

“I honestly have no idea. I swear. Please, will you just sit down for a minute? You’re making me nervous.”

She blows out a breath and sinks into the chair across from his desk. It is dark brown leather, cracked in multiple places, missing nails along its border, and needs to be replaced. She hates it. He loves it.

Welcome to marriage.

“I need to tell you something,” Park says.

He looks as nervous as he did the night she confronted him about screwing Alison damn Banks the summer after their senior year.