It's One of Us(27)

My children, he’d started to say. Was there the tiniest bit of a boast in his tone?

She rolls away, facing the window, letting the sun pour onto her face. “Then call and let’s get it over with.”

This time, Olivia is prepared for the cops. She has dressed carefully, an oyster shell under a dark gray blazer, wide-legged gray pants with an alligator belt cinching her waist, gray suede pumps. She has done her hair and put on makeup. Her armor is on. She is ready for the stares, the questions, the insinuations.

There will be no tears. There will be no drama. She will sit quietly by as Park exposes his transgressions, and then she will go to work.

The doorbell rings. Park comes thundering down the stairs. He looks ragged, his hair uncombed, yesterday’s jeans. “Clean yourself up,” she snaps as she enters the kitchen. “I will get them settled.”

She is the general now. She is in control. She is the Martha fucking Stewart of this chaos.

The cops are much as she left them, though she notices Moore watches her closely as if waiting for her to crack. Not happening.

“Detective Osley. Detective Moore. Please come in.”

She ignores the stare of the gossipy neighbor across the street, a woman named Terrie Lavender, who despite seeing the police has shockingly not intruded on them yet. At least, as far as Olivia knows; she’s been avoiding everyone, so it’s possible Terrie did come over, looking for news to spread to the rest of their neighbors. The odds of not getting a knock today are slim to none.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bender,” Osley says with a tip of his hat. His boots today are brown ostrich. Moore wears the same tonal outfit as before. A capsule wardrobe, most likely. She seems the type. Olivia is especially glad she looks so very put together and stylish, she of the warrior wardrobe, not one of convenience and boredom.

Judgy judgy, Olivia. You know nothing about this woman. Stop making assumptions.

The kitchen is sparkling clean. She’s made an extra pot of coffee, laid out the cups and the special biscotti she gets from the bakery in Green Hills, brought out the dessert plates from their wedding china. The gold-rimmed edges glow in their tidy stack.

Park enters the kitchen from the back stairs. Hair combed, a freshly ironed shirt, lace-up brogues. They are put together. They are cool, calm, and collected. They are innocent.

“Officers,” he says, helping himself to a cup and biscotti. He, too, seems more in control, and Olivia can tell it puts the police on edge. Their show of strength and unity has not gone unnoticed.

Coffee all around this morning. The ballerina pulls out a notebook.

Olivia speaks first. “We have some information we’d like to share with you.”

“And we have some to share with you,” Moore says. “Maybe we should go first.”

“By all means,” Olivia says, scooting deeper in the chair. She doesn’t have any idea what is going on, but the ballerina and the cowboy both seem about to burst with some sort of news.

“We find ourselves in an interesting moment in time in criminal investigation. Many new resources have presented themselves in the past few years. Resources we didn’t have access to before. Databases are better linked, which is obviously how we were able to tie the DNA from the Cooke crime scene to you, Mr. Bender, from the case in Chapel Hill. But a few days ago, we received an interesting tip, and because of it, our lab has rerun the data. We’ve been waiting for confirmation because this is an extremely delicate matter.”

Park nods. “I assume you’re talking about Winterborn. That’s why we asked you to come over this morning.”

“Winterborn?” Osley asks, innocence personified.

Park sounds like he’s teaching in front of his class, not sitting in his kitchen. Smug. She’s never liked it when he does that, condescending to protect his fragile ego. “Yes. I was caught off guard when we first spoke, and with everything we’ve been going through...this is obviously a very personal line of questioning, but in the spirit of full disclosure, we’ve been struggling with infertility. Olivia’s lost several babies—”

“Park!” Olivia slaps a hand down on the table. They don’t talk about this. Not with anyone. This is their own crucible.

He glances over, seeking approval to continue. She shakes her head, teeth gritted. How dare you?

If they weren’t broken before, this...this is the last straw. She did not agree to reveal their problems. He’s supposed to be sticking with his past, damn him, not dragging her into it.

Park ducks his head in false apology.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Osley says with such compassion that she blinks back sudden tears.

“Thank you,” she forces out. “But this is irrelevant to the situation we are discussing.”

“It is, and it isn’t,” Moore says. “The thing is, we’ve identified a number of individuals who share significant DNA markers with our suspect. All with paternal matches to you, Mr. Bender. I’m sorry to be the bearer of complicated news, but you are the father of multiple children. And you’re without question the father of the suspect we’re seeking.”

Moore sips gently from her coffee, watching Park’s reaction over the edge of the cup.

Park fiddles with his napkin, and nods. “I figured that was the case. That’s what we wanted to tell you. That I donated sperm, years ago. To Winterborn Life Sciences. How many are there?”